It's no good I'm not going to stop this, I might as well join in.

That collaged set of accounts of Sparty Lea was engineered  by Jeremy
Prynne by invitation,  just after the event, and appeared as part of the
run of The English Intelligencer. Some copies have  authorial attributions
pencilled in - I think the copy in Edinburgh University Library has.  Of
the two Allen quoted, the first is someone putting on a heavy local accent
which doesn't read authentically to me, describing childish pranks of John
James and others round the deserted lead mines of the area. John also went
shooting, as I remember, with a large gun, but didn't manage to kill
anything.   The second bit was by me.

Actually the g athering was a function of the Intelligencer, announced only
in its pages, it was the first meeting of a number of people who had got to
"know" each other through participation in that privately circulated
worksheet, which only went out to about 30 people at that time.  All were
young and virtually unpublished and thought they just might hold something
in common by way of a future hope, though the future turned out, on the
whole, very differently.  I think the list given is basically complete --
there were a few other shadowy figures who drifted in and out and obviously
thought we were all bonkers.

 The pub singing was the only point during the week when "community" and
"participation" became untense and transcended ambition and confusion,
though individual senses of purpose among some of those writers were
developing in dynamic ways. The question of sharing any of it arose like a
millenial rocket and descended in fizzles.  What was that other song, John?


I propose we take John (Kearns)'s  proposal seriously. Rather than send you
an account of Jeremy Prynne out of his mind on Newcastle Brown Ale playing
Little Richard records and thumping the delicate walls of the cottage with
alarming severity.....Not to mention the distressing aftermath...   I
propose we start with John James, and invite opinions as to why, on earth,
he remains so extraordinarily unknown as a poet, even within specialised
zones, given the nature of his presence both on the page and as one of the
best readers I ever heard.    This is something that's always puzzled me.
I can't join in on this at once myself I'm buried under books for a week or
two. I'll have to retire.  But I hope someone will think this worth
investigating.  There are poems by JJ in most of the obvious recent
anthologies, but there are only a few small-press  books in print, all
quite old.


/PR




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