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Lawrence Upton

 

hot mazing on time

I shall speak of some aspects of writings and performances in which I collaborated with the late Bob Cobbing. I'll talk about Members Only, which was his book entirely until publication; but I was a large part of what may have been the only performance of it. And I'll talk about a number of aspects of D.A.N. (Domestic Ambient Noise) My title is from DAN #299


from Moise (DAN #299)

I imagine that D.A.N. is what many readers would expect me to speak of. Actually, I might be inclined to say that Collaborations for Peter Finch is my favourite work with Cobbing. I think there's a lot going on there. I think we were breaking new ground there and yet... Though we treated it flexibly, we had quite a strict method of making.

Each could work on half of the page only. Each initiated half of the pages.

Thus half of the 64 pages would have been blank before I put any marks on them. I could take my half horizontally or vertically or diagonally. Same with Cobbing. The pages were made one or a few at a time. I certainly remember being aware of how it was developing and changing.


from Collaborations for Peter Finch

And there was another rule. That when both sides of the page had been made, the page went back to the initiator who could make changes; and that included changing what had been the other's contribution. So you could add to or subtract from your own work or your collaborator's because - as if we needed a justification or thought of it then - it was all the collaborative text now.

We didn't invoke that rule much; but it happened a little. And that takes me back to a recollection of writing Is moving the television with cris cheek; and cris crossing out one of my lines and me taking it like a (collaborative) mensch but not being happy in a way; I wouldn't have minded had we been talking about signs or actions in a live performance. I remember that very clearly and have spoken of it on a number of occasions; because it was the first time I faced that; and it is when I overcame the desire to object. I had already known the loss of mss through accident...

It is, I think, a different concept of collaborative writing to many.

I spoke recently with the composer Joseph Hyde (the agreed transcript will be published in February 2004 in Masthead 8) about his collaboration with the late Alaric Sumner on their "opera" Nekyia. There, though one is primarily musically-oriented and one was primarily word-oriented, they trespassed collaboratively upon each others' fields to make one thing of which they are both equal makers. It isn't music by Hyde and words by Sumner.

With many collaborations, the contributions could be separated out. That might leave both incomplete; but still it is a different kind of collaboration to the one where either contributor might have responsibility for a particular thing and one is not really able to identify who did what.

I might here call that kind of writing co-operative. Collaborative and co-operative might seem interchangeable; and my choice of one might seem arbitrary. Yet co-operation rather than collaboration seems to me to have an element of letting things happen rather than of making things happen. It includes really listening to the other person and perhaps not arguing - And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain - and making the outcome the most important thing. There are limits to this. It implies a considerable degree of trust in the other person and it relies upon that trust being justified.

This should not be confused with team building exercises. It is not the same. In this situation the outcome is almost certainly not known. Nor is the journey the thing. This approach does, however, allow for multiperson writing in which the strongest or loudest voice is not the one which prevails.

In the case of Collaborations for Peter Finch most pages went through the prescribed two stages, a few went through three and maybe one or two went through four. By this point, we had been making images with each other for some time and were beginning to open each other to our ways of seeing.

Nevertheless, it should be remembered how different this book was from Domestic Ambient Noise.

D.A.N. was collaborative in that we did not strive to separate our work from the others but let it stand contextually. (I have, for instance, not published D.A.N. work in other contexts as "mine" even though about half of D.A.N. was made by me.) Collaborations... does not have one page made by one of us; and in some cases the work of one has been changed by the other and not just added to. Further, while there are some indications in D.A.N. as to who did what, most of them trustworthy, in Collaborations... the writing is there without attribution of individual efforts - as with Sumner and Hyde's Nekyia.

As with D.A.N., outside economic influences affected Collaborations.... We hadn't exhausted the possibilities. We were only just beginning to discover them.

Nevertheless, it was probably right to stop about where we did, leaving what had been discovered to be effective in another context or one does develop a style in line with what has succeeded. Just as one is striving to avoid use of tired language and repetition of previous juxtapositions, so one does not want to get stuck in a style. If style is optional, which I believe it could be, then it has to be struggled with. The alternative is having an audience thinking they've heard this story before or something very like it; and writing by numbers, the poet knocking out texts like a chef with a numbered menu.

The length we settled on was about the maximum number of pages that could be managed in Writers Forum's then preferred publication style (sheets folded to make 4 pages, centrally stapled). The page size was Cobbing's favourite and I think it's all right. He was doing the actual production. I just did half the artistic bit. So I agreed, though left to myself perhaps I might have wanted to try different page shapes.

We wrote up to that limit, pages having been abandoned along the way, usually half way through their completion by the first artist, sometimes by the other artist. (Typically, we would give each other a batch of pages half finished or a number of responses to the same page; and give with them permission or instruction to choose some but not all)

Near the very end, we had a look through and weeded a couple which we felt - in tranquillity - were weak.

And so we edged to the agreed total.

All the pages were laid out on Cobbing's living room floor and the order discussed. When a link was agreed, the pages were moved until we had the entire order worked out.

My writing had been made miles away in a very sunny room. Cobbing's had been made in a rather dimly-lit room. So to see them all together on a well-lit floor was disconcerting and exciting. We had taken quite a long time over the writing; and the individual pages had sometimes taken me hours. The whole process speeded up as the project progressed; and on the last day we finalised the last few pages and determined the whole order of the book. I think that the order of pages works; but it was not in any sense predetermined or foreseen.

Whenever I see or think of pages on a floor, being ordered, I recall the choosing and ordering of pages in Chencott and Feek's 101. There the potential pages were spread on the floor of The Poetry Society bar and a stone was thrown across them in such a way that any dog pursuing that stone would walk on them. The dog, King, was such a dog. He liked pursuing thrown stones; catching them up in his mouth and returning them to be thrown again. And he thought his lucky day had arrived when the stone was thrown across the room again and again, pursued by the dog, pursued by our young writers eager to record the order in which his paws touched the pages.

So few methodologies are truly random.

The timelines of the making of Collaborations... are complex and now untraceable. They might have taken a long while with one or both. There might have been a long break between each writer's making though each writer worked fast. And so on.

The order of each page changed constantly while the number of pages in all slowly built, to fluctuate towards the end of the entire process.

Order of composition, order of responsive composition and place in the book are all different. The spatial context for each page was different.

And then, when the book was finished, a few pages were performed at its launch and then the two moved on.

That is how Cobbing and I behaved separately, with a few poems being revisited; and the two of us together reinforced that behaviour.

Members only was performed in part a few times, but not much. Cobbing wrote it quite rapidly, I believe. It was a text I had hardly been aware of as it grew; so I had little preconception as to how I should perform it.

It was launched by performance at The Klinker in London and the texts were made available to me and the audience on slides, projected at huge magnification upon the wall and ceiling and the occasional passing member of the audience. It is a quite different physical and perceptual space to the page.

The Klinker, then, was an odd venue in that times sometimes varied considerably from those advertised and much of the space including the audience's was likely to be taken up with instruments and cables. It tended to be a space in which the best default performance behaviour is to stand still.

In the last 2 or so years of his life, Bob Cobbing became more infirm; and, increasingly, he sat down to perform. There was a time when no one, perhaps including himself, could be quite sure what he was going to do in that regard on a particular night. And so I found myself faced by an image I hardly recognised being projected from somewhere in the audience by Jennifer Pike while somewhere in the darkness in another direction I was aware of Bob winding himself up to make percussive and vocal utterance.

(It may be that the recording, if there is one, will prove some or all of this wrong. I am saying it as I recall it. I have been told on several occasions that recordings of me and Cobbing together are often disappointing because what we did with space and the way we moved about it was not microphone friendly. Bob's attitude tended to be that it didn't matter, because he was interested in the performance and not its preservation, though that only applied to documentary recordings. When he was making a recording as a work itself, a text-sound composition, he would be meticulous.) I can't say that I feel any different.

There is much more to this than carelessness, which I shall go into presently.

So, a little panicked, I started performing and went on about 45 minutes. After 5 minutes, I realised that I had started too strongly and that there was no way I could keep up that level of output. I couldn't stop and start again; I couldn't suddenly change down without justification. There had to be a gradual change as, slowly, I stepped down my energy level. Meanwhile Bob was doing extraordinary things with his percussion instruments and Jennifer was doing extraordinary things with projections. It was all unlikely.


from Members Only

It was a long 45 minutes. It was longer than a day, longer than a job which has become unpleasant and to which one must return each morning. I felt ill. I wanted to sleep. I had no breath. I wanted to be out of the dark and the crowd. I kept going, thinking all the time that I was dominating the performance and that I was about to keel over. And, after, Bob thanked me for what he called a brilliant performance, one of my best interpretations of his work.

I tell that in order to emphasise that it started from a misjudgement which started from being lost from the outset in a number of ways. I was not in control of time and space within the performance and not able to judge them. Time became endless in the way perhaps that it can be for an animal, a consciousness in which each emotion seems always to have been the only emotion and yet also a consciousness in which there is always waiting, waiting for an end, waiting for a change and only a rather general sense of other time.

Colloquially, distance is referred to relatively with no distance attached. How far is it? one asks; and the reply is Have you got a car? Only when it is known how one is travelling will the distance be given. With a car, a machine, or on horseback, where an animal is treated as a machine, distance is a function of fuel unless the machine is poorly. On foot, many factors are relevant, including knowing short cuts and the difficulty of communicating them in advance, and including an assessment of the fitness of the traveller to make the journey. Nowadays the fittest person is likely to overestimate the difficulties of a journey from a to b rather than so many minutes in a gym, and to exaggerate the rigours of an unregulated atmosphere.

My 45 minute vocalisation was seen as astonishing. Yet, had I not misjudged my start, it would have been self-sustaining.

Distance, then, is not constant, any more than time is. And the interdependence of the two was known before and beyond Einstein - How far is it? ask the USAmericans in Mailer's The Naked and the Dead and the answer is given in terms of a number of cigarettes to be smoked.

This is body time, not clock time. The trouble with clocks is that they can't do individual body time; and so the clock maker has to pretend that there is a general time, from which false premise arises the false conclusion that body time departs from clock time. The human, the artist, exists in body time. There is no other time that we can apprehend because it is Other, though we can measure it.

What happens after death or somewhere else or to someone else is not measurable because not experienced. It is once upon a time in a land far away or not very long ago in a land quite near.

The life in me maintains an artificial environment of liquid levels and temperature against the averaging tendency of the environment to make the inside of my body like to what is outside: liquid and temperature and time - perhaps other things. When I am dead, there will be no time for me and the measurement which fits the inanimate will do quite precisely for my remains.

Everything which lives is surfing its own timeline as each wave follows its own vector.

In the sort of performance that I am describing, one is on carnival time, in Bahktin's sense, or something like it. There will be innovation and invention, and yet all happens by consent and by a kind of expectation. The audience is part of it, in the performance space and or vocally in it. Lose that sense of collective will and the performer loses control. That is, in this context, the audience loses interest. Cobbing was masterful in keeping the audience on his side. He would absorb opposition and sometimes provoke it so that he could absorb it. As he grew frailer, he used frailty as a means to control, turning the frailty up by acting it and sometimes worrying people... Sometimes of course he wasn't acting.

It is this intermixing of performers and audience which makes miking of such events so difficult. Recording equipment, visual or audio, requires separation of the performers from the background. Anyone who has ever listened to a tape-recording of a party will understand this. Human beings are able to filter what they want to hear in a noisy place from everything else, which for them will be background noise, uninteresting noise. A recording machine will hear everything of equal volume as if it is of equal value. On a piece of paper which has been overprinted, one can usually separate the two layers visually. Make a photocopy of that piece of paper and the two layers become one. It is an analogous effect to flattening the layers in a file produced by a sophisticated computer graphics package.

But it was in the nature of many performances of DAN and other texts that no such separation of audience and performers did occur. The audience might not join in supportively but they joined in. Most could not help it. The performers would aim to be among them before starting and a person coming in at the start of the performance might not immediately know who was doing what.

Where projections of the images were used, we started with Jennifer Pike among the audience with the projector and she emerged from among them, the audience closing behind her and opening again after she had danced.

Strange things happened to time too whether the performance were taking place in the dark or the light. The duration of a piece was not inferable from the manner of performance; and images would be revisited, both modified and unchanged.

There would be a basic structure in some pieces, but it changed, too. At the performance of Curve, a book in which each page had one author unattributed, at the Barbican, Jennifer danced throughout, Upton and Cobbing vocalised throughout, Cobbing sitting, Upton standing. Elsewhere, the need to operate the slide projector, meant that both Pike and Upton would be outside the main performance area at some point, usually with Pike's dance replacing Upton's vocalisation and gesture while he advanced the slides; and Upton returning to vocalise at the end while she returned to the slides.

But few unaware of the venue's time constraints would know how long a piece would last.

In my experience, time slowed for the performers, but not uniformly. Its velocity fluctuated greatly and in such a way that I have doubted if there were one cause and effect relationship affecting its speed.

Years ago, for good reasons I shan't here narrate, it was my practice as a teacher to read large sections of novels to a class, with the class following in the book. I would read strongly, I believe, acting as best I could with a "voice" for narration and one voice for each of the characters - minor characters tended to be merged.

This might last 15 or 20 minutes in order to engage the students with the story. I had to mark the reading text clearly with my end point because I found there was a tendency to go into an unusual state in which, at first, I too was listening to the reading as an auditor; and then my attention would move away and I might reflect upon my private life, plan a future lesson or even make poetry, though that was rare as there tended to be conflict which I take it was metrical. The students noticed nothing and I was monitoring their behaviour. Indeed it was some time before I realised that I could do it.

My then partner could seemingly attend to the radio and read a novel at the same time although direct conversation brought her back to single track consciousness.

Repeatedly, particularly when Cobbing and I dueted, we stopped together nearly always, sharply together. With three or four performers, one was aware of a conversation about endpoint taking place within the interpretation of the texts, the performance being also a carrier for a meta exchange about the progress of the performance. That may sound odd, perhaps; but the interpretation of texts was inherently improvisatory with the visual and audio interpretation by one becoming text for another; and so we managed it. Musicians have said the same thing to me.

Yet these events remained sensuous and playful. The materials were often whatever had been to hand and absorbed whatever was found in the performance space. The result may not have been in line with the ideas of the figurative person in the street; but it seemed to be accepted happily; with objections coming most often from those with more than a little formal education; and with less imagination and openness than one might wish.

The audience enjoyed the spectacle of the dancer, dressed the same tone as the screen, merging with and emerging from that screen; the dancer dancing in, and as part themselves of the text under performance. They enjoyed the projections moving up the walls and across the ceiling with the vocal and physical slapstick which chased after them.

There was a lot of laughter in the audience. Those who are familiar with Cobbing's work will be familiar with his poems made up of insults and ridiculous outtakes from officialdom. He didn't, as too many do, write poems with a punchline, but used humour, including numerous visual puns, as part of his material; so that laughter at the jokes drew the audience in to the poetry in general; and where necessary it undermined their preconceptions.

Performance dialogues between performers were often raucous and outrageous. The work was Comic and with an edge. Cobbing, for instance, generally did not play an audience as a stand up will. I have told elsewhere the story of a singer who told jokes who, having done his turn, took it upon himself to intervene in a performance of a DAN, doing it no good at all as he made inept imitations of our performance, seeking to make it an extension of what he had done - which, though it announced subversion, actually proposed reinforcement. Unable to discourage him, we turned and encouraged him, got him into the centre of the stage area; and then, went off, went silent and still, and left him there. It seemed that the silence and stillness persisted a long time while the space he was in became isolate. Our interrupter quickly shuffled off.

Something was going on and he didn't know what it was. He may well have classified both himself and us as in one sense or another anarchic; but his intention was irresponsible dominance.

As I would see our performance as a mode of resistance, an intransitive prepared resistance; and I assume Cobbing to have been of like mind; we resisted without thinking about it when we met ill intent.

It wasn't that someone had joined in; but that they had done it with a bad will; and rendered themselves beyond the scope of the performance.

Audiences are so various in their preconceptions and points of view, that it is easy for the performing poet to fall back upon a hierarchical relationship with the audience.

In some cases, Cobbing too was The Poet as all perhaps must be at some point. In a well-known piece like Soma Haoma, especially in his early days, he easily became worryingly priestlike. Later, however, in groupings like Domestic Ambient Buoys (sometimes Domestic Ambient Ghoyles when Jennifer Pike joined us) and Birdyak, the invite was there to varying degrees. For example, at Freedom of the City, they used the stage at Conway Hall as Jennifer's performance area while the musicians performed below the stage and with the audience.

The invitation was there for the audience to participate and as individuals, without letting go of their separateness from the official performers, or their own individuality, to the plurality.

Domestic Ambient Noise was more complex in its structure than any of the texts I have discussed. The improvised structure, actually a series of structural decisions which we overthrew and undermined, opened out, to be terminated without being closed off.

It was so complicated in its complexity that we made more than one "error" and had forgotten some of the playful snares for others and jokes which we prepared. Recently, seeing a piece of Cobbing's in a book and sure that it was mine, I looked for the evidence as preparation for a letter to the editor. Some hours later, I finally accepted that this was one of the occasions when one of us had worked in the other's graphic style.

DAN is multi-threaded asynchronously and asymmetrically. It started, as we have narrated elsewhere, from a piece of mine, which was found on a cardboard packing case in which had been transported a cheap refrigerator from Allders of Sutton.

A reproduction of it turned up in an exhibition in Novi Sad, in a magazine of visual poetry and in a bundle of texts I offered to Bob Cobbing as possible starting points for a jointly authored text to perform at the Smallest Poetry Festival in the World organised by Robert Sheppard and Patricia Farrell. He made 6 variations and gave me his own original text for me to make 6 variations.

The earliest variations came very slowly. Later the making speeded up as we twined our line of responses around each other's.

However, once we had added a theme, and we added themes when we felt like it with no external signal, it became increasingly possible to keep feeding the other with work to respond to whilst delaying over a particular problem of response. Themes went dormant for long periods.

Initially we took it in turns to start new themes, but we reversed that as well.

At first, all the booklets were called Domestic Ambient Noise and then variations upon it; and then each had separate names; so that it became possible for us to have a kind of dialogue in the telegraphy of the names. But the call-and-response namings were separated from each other numerically because the themes were extending at different speeds and vectors, like Sumner's written waves.

We were not trying to mystify; and sometimes became slightly mystified ourselves. I have been trying to untangle it. Cobbing did come up with a complete order - as publisher he had more chance, though some of his use of ISBNs were errors - but he insisted on leaving the model in filing boxes in The Sussex pub (Klinker venue) during our DAN exhibition and someone stole copies. We never recaptured the documentation of the full pattern of our writing performance.

Towards the end of the series we were writing very fast and trying to find and trace the lines. The poem could have grown exponentially; but the task of printing and maintaining stocks was proving burdensome for Cobbing as publisher; and we were fast approaching the point at which no one would want to buy such a big sequence.

I also think that Bob wanted something to look forward to. From the late 90s until his death in 2002, he made for himself and announced an increasing number of anniversaries - of the workshop, of the press, of his first performance with Toop and Burwell as abAna... When offered a performance at SVP, six months ahead, he accepted "if I am still alive"; but having targets kept him alive. And his idea that we should publish 300 DANs by 1st April 2000 was part of that, I believe.

Thus, although we created something of a penetrable private world, we did eventually step back from it, and even closed the door on it. It wasn't that we had exhausted DANs' possibilities but that we had, in my judgement, opened up so many it was all a little confusing; and we needed time to reflect. (Bob's intellectual energy persisted and he started collaborations with Ralph Hawkins.)

In DAN, there is multiple carnival time all day long. We never thought of it like that. I have only thought about it in these terms recently.

In DAN, we did many things with which I am very pleased. We explored the poem - the whole thing is one poem, but each booklet is a poem - we explored the poem as a book, with pages extending across the double spread so that each page is a section and the two pages together is another section at the same time. And, at the same time, the images intertwine between representational and abstract. They fall off the page edge, sometimes swing round to the other side, and set up homes on the covers. A lot of that was deliberate. A lot seemed like a good idea and the explanations came afterwards.

And then there were the performances of the pages.

Those have been described by others so interestingly that I will say nothing. I refer you to writing by cris cheek and Peter Manson. Generally, of course, I haven't seen any, except in fragments on cris cheek's video of the final weekend.

At Chisenhale Dance Space, a few years ago, predominantly with cris cheek and Jennifer Pike, I investigated some of the ideas arising from DAN and other writing, particularly my own Initial Dance.

The workshops were open to anyone to attend. One of the main areas that we explored was both the abolition of confining space and the creation of illusion by projecting the texts we were using to moveable screens within the space rather than on to fixed screens on the limiting walls of the space. Walls became textual.


from Wall

With three or four projectors, arranged in complex relationship with the screens which were themselves at odds with the building's structure; and which let through different amounts of light and were visible to varying degrees, the resulting possible polyphony of modified images quickly overloaded the observers, who were primarily those who set the whole thing up.

We wrote with still images, but made them move, not by animation but by interaction and overlay along a set of performance timelines.

Each contributor made their time. There was no base time. We stopped when our interaction stopped and thus stopped us. The lights came on, the illusioned space fled; and willing retention of trust in architecture returned.

For an unmeasureable time we had been within a multiple text and performing it.

Subsequently, The Scream in Ontario published some of and housepress in Alberta published all of SAN', a reproducible version of my one off poem of that name given to Cobbing on his 80th birthday.

Like Initial Dance, it is primarily visually-oriented; unlike Initial Dance it does not use the alphabet as such.


from San'

Each was made relatively quickly if one measures the amount of time that brush was in contact with paper; but each was also made over many hours during which time, to an observer, not much would have been seen to have happened.

The originals were made on large black sheets of paper. The published images have been reversed and reduced with the aid of graphics software.

As scores, they propose no consistently measurable duration of performance. When they are danced, all might be done in seconds or over an entire day. One might set a fire in an open space and declare that it has performed a page of SAN when the rising smoke has traced that gestural shape; or throw light fabric on to a wind from wires and watch for a similar effect. I have looked for the voice to sound them and would do that while dancers danced them. They are not intended to be representational, but we might represent them, should we feel so inclined.

I am pursuing something which I think I have seen but not in the height-width-depth space in which our roads and buildings trace themselves in the world. I may know better what it is when I have joined in a satisfactory performance of San'.

And more recently still, I made Cumbria Poems (called that because they were made in Cumbria). These are coloured drawings made on A3 and then reduced in size to greyscale. I have performed them vocally and am hoping to have them performed with musicians and dancers.


from Cumbria Poems

The relationship of the letters to each other is only slightly orthographical; there is no spatial or temporal priority. The order of images is only one among the numerous orders that are possible. The performer may find words and pictures if she pleases.

Use of greyscale is to make cheap printing possible. (They are unpublished.) But Cobbing's remark that there are more colours in the greyscale than in the polychrome palette comes to mind. Reduction is to facilitate cheap printing and to make them manageable to hold and fit on a small music stand.

At Boat Ting in September 2003, a year on from Cobbing's death, I performed for a few minutes in his memory, taking some of his own texts and making sure they were unlike to any that we had used in Domestic Ambient Noise. I set myself a few unnoticeable rituals to get into the space and then somehow imagined myself to be him.

I didn't sound like him. I didn't look like him. I looked like me. I sounded like me. The texts were unlike my texts. I think they came out well.

As I performed I recalled what he said in an interview about this area of poetical making and utterance relating to the individual physicality of the individual poet. That his voice and his gestural system were his and quite different to mine.

And I noticed how odd it felt. I was trying for that moment to be him in order to discover how he would have done it. It wasn't an entirely pleasant feeling; but it wasn't that unpleasant. As I gestured to give force to certain sounds, I felt myself in a dimensional universe a little different to the one I am used to. I had felt something analogous when performing Alaric Sumner's part in Nekyia. There I tried to hear his voice in my head so that I could imitate him, a little like learning to use a computer mouse perhaps. And time... on both occasions time slowed right down. I had all the time I needed to hear my way through those pieces. As Sumner wrote in Waves on Porthmeor Beach

Insertion #39
perception of time
isn't fixed:
a wave can dominate
consciousness
so that its inexorable roll
to the beach
is perceived as a traumatic
slowness
or hours spent gazing
at the sea's
multitudinous repetitions
can seem
mere moments in millennial movements


Collaborations for Peter Finch Lawrence Upton / Bob Cobbing; Writers Forum, October 1997; ISBN 0 86162 784 9

Curve Jennifer Pike, Lawrence Upton, Bob Cobbing; Writers Forum, November 2000; ISBN 1 84254 011 4

Domestic Ambient Noise Bob Cobbing / Lawrence Upton; Writers Forum, 1994 2000 in 300 separate booklets

Initial Dance Lawrence Upton; housepress, Canada, February 2001 ISBN 1 894174 36 4, out of print; another version from Writers Forum, 2001 ISBN 1 84254 40 8, September 2001, out of print; another version in R & K, Visual World Poetry, St Petersburg, Russia, 2003

Members Only Bob Cobbing; Writers Forum, July 2000; ISBN 0 86162 999 X

Waves on Porthmeor Beach Alaric Sumner; words worth books, May 1995; temporarily out of print

Lawrence Upton (c) January 04

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