Friday, March 7, 2014

Ode to Duras

April 4,  2014, is the centenary of the birth of the French writer Marguerite Duras.




Hailed as one of the leaders of the French avant garde, Duras wrote novels, plays, film scripts as well as directing her own film and theatre pieces. Her best known works are the screenplay for Hiroshima Mon Amour (directed by Alain Resnais) and her novella The Lover which won the Prix Goncourt in 1984. See full list of over 50 published and produced works here. 





At Cafe Parliament on King in Newtown, Sydney, from 5-9pm on Friday, April 4, we will celebrate Duras' birthday with an evening of poetry, called Ode To Duras.

Poets, non poets, Duras lovers and innocent bystanders will be invited to read, write or construct odes, laments, rants & raves, in the spirit of desire, longing and melancholy, to this iconic literary figure.

Dress will be black tie/formal à la India Song, or dress Vietnamese style in 'ao dai' in. Guests will be encouraged to drape themselves languidly about the furniture and stare avec ennui into the distance.

For inspiration watch clip here




More about Duras

Marguerite Duras was born Marguerite Donnadieu in a small village on the outskirts of Saigon, Vietnam (then part of the French Protectorate known as Indochine), to French school teacher parents. When she was four, the family, along with her two brothers, moved to Hanoi where her father worked as a mathematics teacher. Her mother, unable to secure a teaching position, purchased a house and set up a school.


Despite its Frenchification they didn't like Hanoi and after a couple of years moved to Phnom Penh in Cambodia. (The French Indochina protectrate included present day Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos). They hadn't been in Phnom Penh long when Marguerite's father was struck down with a recurring tropical illness and sent back to France. He was no stranger to French hospitals where his wasting disease baffled the doctors. With no hope of recovery he discharged himself and went home to die in his village of Duras, from which Marguerite later took her name.




Left a widow, but without a widow's pension due to the maner in which her husband died, Duras' mother struggled to support her three children, moving back to the Mekong towns of Vinh Long and Sadec in Vietnam, where she taught by day and played piano at the local cinema by night.

When Marguerite was around ten years old her mother bought an acreage of land 500 miles away in Cambodia  and embarked on an ambitious plan to farm rice.




The battle went on for many years and became the subject of one of MD's early novels, Le Barrage Contre La Pacifique (published in 1950, made into a film by Cambodian director Rithy Pahn in 2007). Marguerite left Indochina for France at the age of 17 never to return, but her early Indochine years were to be a strong influence on her writing.
 

Marguerite's most famous novel, The Lover ( L'Amant), wasn't written until much later in her life, when she was 70. It tells the story of a 15 year old girl's affair with a rich Chinese man. Said to be an autobiographical account of Marguerite's own romance, it began its life as captions for a photo album and became an experimental discontinuous narrative set around one single image that was never photographed.


So, I'm fifteen and a half.
   It's on a ferry crossing the Mekong river.
   The image lasts all the way across.
   I'm fifteen and a half, there are no seasons in that part of the world, we have just the one season,     hot, monotonous, we're in the long hot girdle of the earth, with no spring, no renewal.







 Jan Cornall has been a self confessed Duras fan (fanatic) since she acted in her play L'amant Anglaise at The Pram Factory in Melbourne in 1979. Duras' writing was the subject of her Masters project at the Sydney Consortium, UWS in 2012.

Jan is currently working on a memoir about a trip she took following the footsteps of Marguerite Duras in Vietnam and Cambodia in 2009.  Read more here. She will lead a 15 day writing retreat, Indochine Journey, to share her discoveries with writers in Vietnam Aug 16-30.

Jan is currently an Australian Poetry Cafe Poet in Residence at Cafe Parliament on King in Newtown, Sydney.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

My secret (whispered) moment with Yoko Ono



Back in November 2013 when Yoko Ono was in town with her show, War Is Over, I got a text from my friend Royden who was working as production manager for Ideas at The House (that's Sydney Opera House of course).

Yoko needs people for her performance on the 17th. Can you do it?

Sure, I replied, just tell me where and when...

On the following Sunday I arrived at the Opera House stage door a bit before 1pm. Royden appeared and took me up to the green room where I got myself some tea and settled down on a big couch in front of the harbour view.

 I thought perhaps I was in for a bit of a wait, but suddenly there she was, so petite, dressed in child size jeans and black leather jacket, with a gaggle of people, including three big body guards, surrounding her. Royden signalled, I followed and bam — suddenly I was in the lift with Yoko Ono, sharing small talk, feeling slightly awkard and at the same time completely normal.


The lift doors opened onto the stage area and Yoko took charge, letting people know in her soft spoken commanding manner exactly what she wanted.

The set up was quite simple. Two low arm chairs were already in place— one for Yoko and one for MCA curator Rachel Kent who would lead Yoko into an hour long conversation. But before the conversation got going Yoko had a surprise —she would come on alone and perform.

This is where We Whisperers came in. I was one of four people who would be out in the audience somewhere, whispering into microphones.

Let's try it, she said, so we spread out into the empty auditorium armed with substantial radio mikes and found a random spot.

 From the stage Yoko told us to whisper a phrase or a sentence into the mike — whatever comes to mind, then just keep repeating it.

Ok, so my phrase, the one that popped in, was — what I really want to tell you...
what I really want to tell you... what I really want to tell you...

Yoko started vocalising and off we went. The whispers from our mikes were  reverbed, looped and mixed as a kind of backing track to her improv.

We tried it for a couple of minutes, then tried it once more (with all the mikes turned on this time).

Then it was back to the green room to wait until show time at 3pm. The body guards hung about chatting and Yoko went for a nap in the board room.

At 2.40 pm I went to find my allotted seat. It wasn't where I had rehearsed, but was bang in the middle, not too far from the front. I squeezed past the knees of my fellow audience members with the  microphone hidden in my bag and wondered how they would react when I burst into whispers.


When I spied Paul Capis, the fabulous cabaret diva, sitting in front of me, I had to lean over and show him what was in my purse. (Is that a microphone in your bag or are you just pleased to see me!) When I told him what I was up to, he was thrilled.

I do love a secret, he whispered to me behind his hand as the audience went quiet.

The house lights dimmed to darkness and tiny Yoko came out on stage alone as planned. The audience started clapping and wouldn't stop. So she just began her vocal and soon they were listening in awe as this wee famous figure with her signature sunglasses perched on her nose, began her moaning improv, and, one by one, we began our whispers.



Her moans rose and fell, gathered urgency then dropped away, began again, built to a screeching climax then ebbed away once more. Several times we faded away as she did, thinking this will be the end, but then she took off again, revelling in the reverb echo of her voice mixing and merging with our invisible soundscape. At times I could hear myself in the mix and it was tempting to break out of the whisper into moans and screams like her, as I have been known to do in my own vocal work, but like a good chorus member I kept to my part.

There was a moment in the middle that seemed made for us, when she was repeating:   I wish........ I wish.......... I wish..........

and with my whisper it became:

what I really want to tell you ...... I wish.....what I really want to tell you.....I wish.....what I really want to tell you....

only nobody could decipher my whisper, and nobody knew but me.

And another moment as we were building to a crescendo, when I lost track of time and place, when it was just me and Yoko, Yoko and me — nobody else, no audience, no opera house, no other whisperers, just the purity of voice in empty space.



When it was finally over (it went on for a good ten minutes), I put the mike back in my bag, sat back in my seat and went back to being a regular audience member, delighting in hearing this eighty- something icon talk about her life and work.

At the end we clapped and cheered again and as she left the stage she asked us to wait until the alarm of an old fashioned tic-tock clock went off. I turned to the woman sitting to my right and showing her my mike, asked her if she knew what I had been doing.

No she replied, no idea.  I thought it was just all her voice.

The secret was ours.



Later in the green room as I was working out how to get Royden to give Yoko a CD of my songs written and recorded a long time ago, he said, she'll be out in a tick — you can do it yourself.

Yoko emerged with Rachel Kent as we gathered around and gave compliments about the 'show'.

Do you think they liked it? Yoko asked with an innocent curiousity.

Oh yes, we reassured her, absolutely.

That was the moment I shook her tiny hand, thanking her for the pleasure of working with her and gave her my CD.

 For Yoko, I had scrawled on it, Thank-you for your inspiration.

(Corny, but true).

Signed: one of your secret whisperers.








  

Friday, February 14, 2014

Love Poets Pictorial

Here are some pics from our Love Poem Love In.
On Valentines Day a bunch of love poets got together at our fave cafe, Parliament on King in Newtown, Sydney. I invited them to make cut up love poems (from my shredded Bali novel, Take Me To Paradise) or bring a poem or two to read. At around 7.30pm we hooked up on skype with poets  gathered at The Icon Club in Luang Prabang, Laos, and we read back and forth for a good hour or so. Such a great event, thanks to all who took part and helped make it happen.
















Our Love In was hosted by Ravi Prasad at Parliament on King where Jan Cornall is an Australian  Poetry Cafe Poet in Residence.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

happy V day


Today the sweetest 'lil cafe in Newtown - Parliament on King (POK)




 is sending a bunch of poetic valentines to coolest wee bar in Luang Prabang, Laos - the Icon Klub and host-poet Elizabeth Vongsaravanh and friends. 



Poets will skype their love offerings back and forth from both venues this Sydney arvo/evening. 





Also skyping in (technology, V day dates and time zone confusions permitting) will be: 
from the Philipines, Luis Batchoy
from Chennai, India, Sharanya Manivannan 
from Yangon, Burma, Thet Swe Win, Aung Myo Khant and members of YEP
from the Irrawaddy Literary Festival in Mandalay, Jennifer McKenzie. 
from Siem Reap, Loven Ramos.

Jan Cornall will read/sing poems sent by Darwin poet Claine Keily, Yangon conceptual poet, Nyein Way, Brisbane Poet Samuel Wagan Watson, and more. Taking part live at POK will be Chris Raja, Mujib, Abid, Ravi Prasad, Diana Plater, Ben Sutton, Kinga Bisits, Sonia Bible, Rachel Anne Abrahams, Shikha Sahay, Louie Joyce and many more. 

Others will leave poems on our FB page Love Poets Anon. I hope you will too!

Jan Cornall is cafe poet residence at POK until June. Cafe poets residency is run by Australian Poetry.

 

Thursday, January 16, 2014

Cafe residency love poem/love in

It is with great pleasure that I announce my cafe poet residency at my fave cafe, Parliament on King, in Newtown, Sydney, begins in February.



Thanks must go to POK Cafe Meister, Ravi Prasad for hosting me and Australian Poetry Cafe Poet Program for making it all possible.

For the next six months I plan to be running monthly events and workshops as well as just hanging in the cafe penning a few new poems.



Our inaugural event in Feb will be:

          Parliament on King -  Love Poem/Love In
                    Friday 14 Feb, Valentines Day

Now this won't be just any old kind of love in, you might even call it a veritable cross border, cross gender, cross race, cross country, cross-yourself-and-say-a-few-hail-mary's, love in. From 6pm to 9pm Sydney time,  we will be calling on dear friends and lovers of the poetic persuasion, to skype in from from far and near with a love poem or two. We hope to gather a crowd of poets and random poet-passers-by in Newtown, who will be waiting to love them back with a poetic love offering of their own. 

The list of poets is just beginning to grow and we will add to it daily - so far poets Elizabeth Vongsaravanh (and friends) from Luang Prabang, Laos, Claine Keily ( Darwin)  Samual Wagan Watson  (Brisbane),  have committed to a love slot.


Do get in touch asap to line up a love slot whether it is by skype or in real time at the cafe. You never know what cosmic matchmaking and love surprises the evening will bring! I think we will be very busy on Skype so Sydney siders please turn up in hard copy for your slot at the cafe.  

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Hand Holding in Rangoon



He’s holding my hand in Anawratha Rd
his long plaid longyi giving him that
thin waisted, big footed look of Burmese men.

I didn’t know quite what to do
I didn’t pull my hand away
but left it there
to warm against his skin.

We’d discussed handholding the night before
at a regular get together of local artists and the expat crowd
The evening was revving up with beer and chilli chips:
the 5 o’clock early starters, quiet and intimate
the 7 o’clock shift, starting to get into it
the 10 o’clock crew, about to descend.

Asking my advice on open relationships
(was it so obvious how I’d lived my life?)
he said he had more than one or two on the go
but it only amounted to handholding.

‘How lovely’ I crowed
‘such a simple pleasure
 haven’t done it in such a long time.’



Now I’m holding his hand in Sule Pagoda Rd
and it feels quite strange
to hold a strange hand
feels like
I need to get to know it better
need time to
explore its cracks and crevasses
before I expose my fleshy mounds and naked valleys
before I crook his fingers into mine
feels like I’m having
an early morning
broad daylight
one night (one morning)
handholding
stand



Still, I’m holding his hand in Alan Pya Phaya Rd
and already 
we are getting some strange looks
Is it the age difference?
race difference? 
(he could so easily pass for a local)

I want to reassure the passers by
say
don’t worry, it’s not what you think
we haven’t been tangling and wrangling in hotel sheets all night
we’re just having a completely innocent, full broad daylight, handholding moment

besides
I could be his mother
I could be his friend
I could be his nurse leading him gently back to the asylum.



But no, now he’s holding my hand in a taxi on Chit Maung St
(turns out we were walking the wrong way)
He’s taking me out to breakfast
at Morning Star Cafe
he’s stroking my fingers and tickling my palm
and I feel like a shy schoolgirl
wishing my hand was more hungry for handholding
than my tummy is 
for tasting sticky rice Shan noodles
for the very first time.



(c) Jan Cornall Yangon, Burma, Feb 2013.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Angel Of The Breath

          Angel of the Breath from 'Sing until the cactus bleeds' by Claine Keily

                                                       for Jan Cornall




She is telling me of breathing, and now I know how hungry I have been




for I have always wanted someone to speak to me this way




And then I heard her singing, and I wondered why it was, that she had not always appeared to me, to have this voice in her




why I did not from the first see her marked with that singing






 for for she herself, had always been this way.


(c) Poem, Claine Keily Fes, Morocco, June, 2013
(c) Photos, Jan Cornall, Erg Chebbi, Morocco, 2013