Château Ventenac

Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

It’s springtime here on the Canal du Midi. The boats once again ply to and fro, fresh green leaves are appearing on the vines and blossom is everywhere. The bright Languedoc sunshine emphasises the snowy peaks of the Pyrenees.

View of the Pyrenees from Chateau Ventenac

The spring season of courses is underway at Chateau Ventenac. At the end of March we were delighted to welcome Tamar Yoseloff as the tutor for our first poetry workshop of the year.

Eight poets and two non-writing partners came together, here in Southern France, for a six-night workshop. The theme of the week was “The Poem Sequence – Its Narrative and Form”. It was a time for experienced poets who were working on a sequence to experiment with different ways of extending their drafts, or exploring in more detail a particular narrative or theme. Some of the Poets were in the early stages of their work, while others were busy preparing a book for publication.

Tamar Yoseloff reads to the group after dinner

Lunch on the Terrace at Chateau Ventenac

For most of the week we had glorious weather – the sun-beds came out and there were requests for sunscreen and hats!!

There are lots of shady places around the garden and during the warm afternoons it was common to see people scattered about on the terrace, under trees or down by the swimming pool, writing away, preparing for the evening gathering – where the group came together over a glass of wine to discuss the day.

One of the participants Ann Vaughan Williams sent me this review of the week that I thought it would be nice to share. Thanks so much Ann!

REVIEW of CHATEAU VENTENAC POETRY WORKSHOP MARCH 2012 

We reached Chateau Ventenac by Eurostar from St Pancras to Lille and then SNCF to Narbonne and balmy, breezy Languedoc with its distant backdrop of the Pyrenees.

We were immediately enchanted by the chateau, warmly restored and taking in a panoramic view. We would assemble on the veranda or terrace for well-timed drinks in the sunny dappled light under clumps of wisteria. There was no procrastination: we settled into readings and writing exercises, soon translating a Baudelaire sonnet as if we did it all our lives. We tackled the poem sequence in its angles, well-fuelled by organic food and freely running wine from the cellar of our attentive hostess Julia. Energetically meeting every need, she runs the course with her partner Philip and a team of talented chef and hands-on waitresses and gardener. One feels part of a structured as well as relaxed and dedicated community. We were welcomed with glasses of bubbly and cassis.

There were so many places to ensconce oneself in writing and sharing with eight course members, and each of us had an hour’s individual tuition over the week. We worked hard, one way and another, and were amply rewarded with results. Tamar Yoseloff has an avid following and we were glued together under her tutelage.  It felt like a real holiday as there were no chores to do; it was 100 per cent writing and reading and talking time and everyone shared their considerable talents as the week proceeded.

There were three non-writing partners, and mine was enthralled by the resident hoopoe bird and the two black swans who combed the canal each day. It was easy to have a promenade to refresh the body and mind. On the last night we read our work to the not unwilling household; and enjoyed the open fire that was lit as the weather suddenly changed to rain, much needed for the vineyards. 

The weather can be variable so a good mix of clothing is needed. You can also expect to keep fit as the Chateau is built on several levels and the stone steps present challenges, which helps to justify tucking into the healthy, delicious, artistically presented food, all of which was locally sourced. There were plenty of good books to read and comfortable chairs to sit in.

I had not imagined a retreat could be so rewarding. I was reminded of Arvon Writing Courses in Yorkshire and Devon, which started my writing career nearly twenty years ago. This experience threw me back to the memories of those germinations. To spend a week with one’s writing, with other minds at hand is a fecund experience. The only extra costs were the lifts to and from local arrival points.  All meals and services were otherwise included. It was a memorably generous week.

Ann Vaughan-Williams

Chateau Ventenac Writing Courses is proud to be able to bring you a new poem from one of our regular tutors, Sean O’Brien.

From his new collection of poems due to be published next year, this poem was written after his stay at Chateau Ventenac in March 2010 and I’d like to thank him for his generosity in allowing me to reproduce it here.

Sean will be back at Chateau Ventenac  in April 2011 to run a poetry writing course “About Time”. For details see the Chateau Ventenac Writing Courses website at www.chateauventenac.com/courses

A note from Sean

‘I was teaching a course at the Chateau in April 2010, and as usual, was very much enjoying it despite knowing that at any time I might receive news of the death of my close friend and mentor, the poet Peter Porter, who had been gravely ill when I’d last seen him shortly before leaving England. It was still a blow, on 23 April, when I received the phone call telling me he’d died. Peter had himself visited Ventenac, years before Julia began offering courses here, and had remembered it clearly. If you have been fortunate enough to come here you may recognize some of the places and people that found their way into the poem I subsequently wrote.’

Leavetaking

In memory of Peter Porter
 

In a draughty terrace bar

Beside the cave at Chateau Ventenac,

And lapped by the green Midi canal,

I take my leave, old friend,

By raising une pression and not

The Minervois that you would recommend.

Bad news prefers its poison cold and long.

The news has not improved so far -

So, keep the decent bottle in the rack

For later, for the ‘decent interval’

That death like a bureaucracy requires.
 

Or maybe neck it in the midnight heat

Up at the house when everyone’s in bed,

At one end of the huge white tablecloth,

At which a Nazi colonel also sat

To sample the warm south

While waiting for the war to end -

The kind of fact you would absorb

For later, but there is no later now.

Flute-playing psychopaths all must

Like cats and poets come to dust,

But I will not be reconciled.
 

The evening boats slide in,

Last autumn’s leaves still piled

Along their guttering and in the seats

Of plastic chairs left out on deck

In token of a former merriment

In which I am required to believe

When the patron, a rugby star

From some time back, limps past

To put another freezing glass beside the last,

Then fire the oven up with grubbed-up vines

And stand admiring its crimson speech

As though like alcohol it were

A kind of poetry. My friend,

Is there sufficient detail for you yet?

You’d know much faster than I ever could

The point at which the orchestration starts

And evening is converted into art.
 

La patronne with her brutal crop

And wide-girl suit comes out

To criticize the styling of the blaze.

The grinning barman comes by bicycle

And finds their bickering, the bar,

The voices from the dim canal, the flicker

Of the bunting’s spectral tricolores

A stage to serve his wordless drollery:

These are perhaps our characters, but where’s

The crowd to fill the choruses

Of black-edged pastoral?

The world, you’d say, exists

Not to be understood

But to demand conviction. I assent,

As if it matters, and the dancers have arrived,

Cool, pink-pastelled blondes who

In another life have raised

A parapluie at Cherbourg, squired

By lupine George Chakirises in black.
 

This is the world, or part of it.

They do not think themselves Shakespearean,

Although you might, were we to sit

Beside the water here, me with une pression

And you among the quiet notes you will transform

Into a poem in the high nine hundreds.

I have not learned your lesson yet.

Work is good, like love and company,

But these so-courteous deaths, who sweep

Their maidens up and down the shore

In perfect silence on their light fantastic feet

(When did the music stop?), insist

That they are quite another thing,

Sent from a place less beautiful than this

But just as carefully designed,

The shade beyond the trees and the canal,

Where evening ends, and songs likewise,

And there is no one left to sing.
 

Sean O’Brien

from November

(Picador, 2011)