Interview: David Morley
by and published in Edition Four of Pomegranate
David Morley is the author of nine books of poetry and the editor of six anthologies of new fiction and poetry. He writes criticism, essays and reviews for The Guardian, PN Review and Poetry Review as well as international journals.
He recently published a new book of Romany poems The Invisible Kings, a Poetry Book Society Recommendation, and The Cambridge Introduction to Creative Writing. David is Director of the Warwick Writing Programme at The University of Warwick where he is Professor of Writing.
- It’s Friday. How’s life, David?
‘The rhythm of the weekend, with its birth, its planned gaieties, and its announced end, followed the rhythm of life and is a substitute for it’, F. Scott Fitzgerald half-said.
- David’s a popular name. Have you ever been mistaken for anyone else?
My Brother. My Mother. My Other.
- You are at a speed dating evening, and Poetry comes to sit down next to you. What about her do you find attractive?
The enjambs. The enjambs
every time.
- Fast forward ten years; you and Poetry are married. Congratulations! Tell us the weirdest thing you did in order to win her love.
Murdered her darlings.
- Tell us about your experiences teaching poetry. Have you ever learnt anything from your teaching experiences? Ever? Or do you at least have any interesting anecdotes…?
http://blogs.warwick.ac.uk/morleyd
- Do you think younger writers can compete with older writers? Do you think you have to start young? Say, six months?
A violent childhood, a dead parent, and imagination generally does the trick.
- You’re in a parallel universe/university called Wickwar. Nobody can read except for you. Also, they’re deaf. Also, unable to appreciate anything to do with art. Also, strangely, have no ankles. Do you still write? Which do you miss most – your audience or your ankles?
I miss words: closest friends, closest enemies.
- The head of the Warwick Writing Programme is coming round at 3pm to collect 8,000 words of your poetry. So far you’ve written 12. The head of the Writing Programme can walk through walls and is unstoppable. Also, you’re a bad liar, and have run out of teabags. The only solution is to find a cure for writer’s block. What is it?
Write Write Write Walk Walk Walk Read Read Read. Begin over.
- You’re in the same situation as above, except this time your imagination is wild with ideas, but you’re terribly ill and can’t really see the keyboard in front of you. What’s your cure for generally feeling eurgh?
As above plus single malt.
- You’re stuck in a time machine with Einstein, Tolstoy and Darwin. You can’t get out because it’s raining and you don’t have an umbrella. Einstein is dominating the conversation. Quickly, share your greatest accomplishment in order to bring the discussion back round to you.
Energy equals the mass of readers multiplied by the speed of lines of poems entering their minds and hearts, squared. ‘Energy is eternal delight’ – Blake
- You’re in court. You can only tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help you God. Do you believe in formal poetry?
If the face fits
- You’re back in Wickwar. You’ve miraculously taught them to read, write, hear, grow ankles and high jump. Now they want to take a type of formal poem and make it their god. They’ve elected you high priest, and thus the mouthpiece of their new religion. What form do you choose to worship?
The pantoum
- You’re in purgatory (just visiting – the time machine broke down and you’re waiting for Einstein to fix it, but he’s still sulking because you’re more accomplished than he is). You can only take one book with you into purgatory. It must be poetry – but not an anthology, and certainly not Dante. St Peter is pressuring you for an answer. What do you pick?
Certainly Dante
- You’ve booked a table for six (including yourself) in a plush restaurant in Coventry. All of your friends have stood you up, and your only option is to speed dial five poets to take their place. Bearing in mind that the restaurant only serves seafood, and you must attend in fancy dress, what are you wearing, and who do you invite?
I dress as a Spinner Dolphin. I summon
the shade of W.S. Graham,
who will drunkenly recite ‘Nightfishing’ from heart;
the shade of Emily Dickinson – that party girl!
The shade of Elizabeth Bishop – who will sing
‘The Fish’ and ‘At The Seahouses’ during
the main course; I invite the sliding
shades of The Gawain Poet and Homer – the latter being a party of poets – and because I need to know. I
really need to know who we are.
- Finally, what do you think of pomegranates as a fruit, concept, and way of life?
‘Physical pleasure is a sensual experience no different from pure seeing or the pure sensation with which a fine fruit fills the tongue; it is a great unending experience, which is given us, a knowing of the world, the fullness and the glory of all knowing. And not our acceptance of it is bad; the bad thing is that most people misuse and squander this experience and apply it as a stimulant at the tired spots of their lives and as distraction instead of a rallying toward exalted moments.’ – Rainer Maria Rilke
Isobel Norris
Isobel Norris is Welsh, and don’t you forget it, cwtch. She’s read at the Dylan Thomas centre and was specially commended in the Welsh Poetry Competition, and even once wrote a poem about a dead sheep, which is about as Welsh as you can get. She likes running, swimming, cycling, Auden and the word ’fantastic’, and dislikes Yeats and things with gluten in them (because they kill her). (Gluten kills her, not Yeats – Ed.) Izzy lives in Swansea, where the highest-quality rain is.