Michael Schmidt - Tuesday 22nd January - The Punter
Join us at The Punter on January 22nd for an exciting opportunity to hear and put your questions to Carcanet's founder and PN Review's editor Michael Schmidt.
Michael Schmidt was born in Mexico in 1947. He studied at Harvard and at Wadham College, Oxford. Former Professor of Poetry at Glasgow University, where he was convenor of the creative writing programme, he is currently Writer in Residence at St. John’s College Cambridge.
'Vibrant, radiant... steeped in modernist tradition and questingly new... a passionate discourse that is at once earthy and numinous' John Ashbery
He is a founder and editorial and managing director of Carcanet Press Ltd, and a founder and general editor of PN Review. An anthologist, translator, critic and literary historian, he is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and received an O.B.E in 2006 for services to poetry. His Collected Poems was published in 2009.
'Schmidt is a stringent poet, never shy of painful truth' Helen Dunmore
The Punter, Pound Hill, Cambridge. Open mic floor spots, books for sale, short Q&A following reading. Doors 7.30pm Readings 8pm. Tickets on the door only, £5/£4.
What is it like in heaven, Agatha? I see you in those tight scuffed shoes, now dangling Not over the playground wall (and your sharp knees And the frayed serge skirt of your school uniform) But off a black cloud hard against the blue. They swing to and fro, to and fro, what can you see So high above my head, and the tree and the hill? Am I down here, is your house, is your lame cat Dorcas With whiskers on the left side of her face And a broken tail? Can you see us, do you want to now, Recalled by the school alarm, the smell of asphalt Softening in the sun, and the effulgent haze, Or is all this fading, faded out? If so, if your eyes Have been able to uproot themselves from us, Do they feed on the entire firmament, is it blue, And is this as though it never had been at all, Where I stand, where you used to sit on the wall? What is it like, dear skinny Agatha With your sharp ribs under a stained singlet, your flat Chest with nipples stuck on like round plasters, Like valves, like coppers on smooth sand? (We walked on the level shore at Capistrano Gathering dark sand dollars and coolie-hat shells; First we were five and six, then six and seven.) What is it like, your straight lips pursed, your grey eyes, Agatha, Gazing at a sky you’re new in and new to? And what’s it like, dear Agatha, without me? What colour is your hair now, how do you wear it? Still in braids, or piled up high, in a bun or pony tail? I stand beneath your cloud and ask and ask. I look up at your swinging soles and still I love you. I want to tie your right shoe lace, touch your shin.