Biography of Glyn Maxwell
Glyn Maxwell (born in 1962) is a British poet, playwright, librettist, and lecturer.
Though his parents are Welsh - his mother Buddug-Mair Powell acted in the original stage show of Dylan Thomas's Under Milk Wood in the West End and on Broadway in 1956 - Maxwell was born and raised in Welwyn Garden City in Hertfordshire. He studied English at Worcester College, Oxford. He began an MLitt there, but in 1987 moved to America to study poetry and drama with Derek Walcott at Boston University. He returned to the UK and began publishing poetry in the 1990s. He has written several plays, fifteen of which have been professionally staged in the UK and the US.
His three earliest collections of poetry, Tale Of The Mayor's Son (1990), Out of the Rain (1992), Rest For The Wicked (1995) are collected as The Boys at Twilight: Poems 1990-1995 (2000). The Breakage was shortlisted for both the T. S. Eliot and Forward Prizes.
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In 1994 he was named one of the New Generation poets and he received the E. M. Forster Award in 1997. His book Time's Fool (2000) is a narrative poem written in terza rima, and is now in development as a film. His most recent collections are The Nerve (2002, winner of the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize), The Sugar Mile (2005) and Hide Now, which was published in 2008 and shortlisted for both the T. S. Eliot Prize in 2008 and the Forward Prize in 2009. One Thousand Nights and Counting, a selection of his poetry, was published by Picador in the UK and by Farrar Straus Giroux in the USA. He has edited a collected edition of the poems of Derek Walcott, The Poetry of Derek Walcott 1948-2013, for FSG in the USA and Faber & Faber in the UK.
His first novel, Blue Burneau (1994), was shortlisted for the Whitbread First Novel Prize and the book Moon Country, published in 1996, describes a visit to Iceland with Simon Armitage. His second novel, The Girl Who Was Going To Die, was published in 2008 by Cape in the UK and by Kunstmann in Germany.
His latest play is Masters Are You Mad? a sequel to Twelfth Night written for the 3rd year of the Chester Summer Season at Grosvenor Park. It opens on 13 July and closes on 19 August, is directed by Olivier-Award winning director Robin Norton-Hale (La Boheme), and plays in repertory with Twelfth Night. Chester staged his comedy Merlin and The Woods of Time (dir. Alex Clifton) last summer.
Other recent plays include (in the UK) After Troy (dir. Alex Clifton), a retelling of Euripides' Women of Troy and Hecabe (Oxford Playhouse/Shaw Theatre London), Lily Jones's Birthday a satyr-play based on Aristophanes' Lysistrata, which premiered at RADA in 2009; Liberty, about the French Revolution, which premiered at Shakespeare's Globe in the 2008 season (dir. Guy Retallack) and toured the UK. In New York, Agamemnon Home (dir. Amy Wagner) received its world premiere in April 2012.
His radio adaptation of Dostoevsky's The Gambler was on BBC Radio 3 in June 2009, and repeated on BBC Radio 4 in December 2010, starring Patricia Routledge, Sam Crane, Siobhan Hewlett and Nicholas Le Prevost, and directed by Guy Retallack.
The Lifeblood, concerning the last days of Mary, Queen of Scots, was British Theatre Guide's 'Play of the Fringe' at Edinburgh in 2004, and was directed by Guy Retallack with Sue Scott Davison as Mary. The Lifeblood was first performed at the Hen and Chickens Theatre in 2001 with Felicity Wren as Mary. His play Mimi and The Stalker was one of six projects awarded funding by the UK Film Council in the spring 2009 quarter, for development as a screenplay under the name "Witchgrass". Other plays include Wolfpit, about two green children said to have appeared in Suffolk in the 12th century (Edinburgh 1996; New York 2006), The Forever Waltz, a reworking of the Orpheus-Eurydice story (New York 2005; Edinburgh 2005), and The Only Girl in the World, a play about Mary Kelly, the last victim of Jack the Ripper (London 2001). He contributed the fantasy The Black Remote to the National Theatre's Connections series in 2006. He is the Resident Playwright for New York's Phoenix Theatre Ensemble.
Maxwell has written the libretto for an opera based on Philip Pullman's The Firework Maker's Daughter, with music composed by David Bruce, and directed by John Fulljames, the founder of The Opera Group. It premieres at the Royal Opera House in London in April 2013, before touring the UK and going to the New Victory Theater in New York City.
Other recent libretti include those for Luke Bedford's opera "Seven Angels", premiered at Birmingham Contemporary Music Group in June 2010 before a UK tour, and Elena Langer's opera "The Lion's Face", which toured the UK in 2009. A short version of The Lion's Face, (then titled The Present) won the Audience Prize at the Zurich Opera House's New Opera Festival in January 2009. His other libretti include The Girl of Sand, also composed by Elena Langer and performed at the Almeida Opera Festival in 2004, and The Birds (after Aristophanes), composed by Edward Dudley Hughes and performed by I Fagiolini at the City of London Festival in 2005.
His verse monologue, The Best Man, was turned into a feature film starring Danny Swanson (dir. Jon Croker).
His critical guidebook On Poetry was published in May 2012 in the Oberon Masters Series. It was described by Adam Newey in The Guardian as 'the best book about poetry I've ever read' and sold out its first run within five days.
He has taught at Amherst College, Columbia University, Princeton University, New York University and The New School in New York City, the Poetry School and Goldsmiths College in London. He teaches annual poetry master classes at the 92nd St Y in New York City. He was Poetry Editor of The New Republic from 2001 to 2007. He reviews for the Times Literary Supplement, London Review of Books, and The New Republic. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and the Welsh Academy.
He married Geraldine Harmsworth in London in 1997; they divorced in 2006. They have one daughter, Alfreda Ceridwen Patricia Rose (b. 1998). Glyn Maxwell returned to the UK after ten years in New York, United States (1997-2006) and lives in Islington, London. Until recently he lectured at the University of Essex.
Glyn Maxwell Poems
Sundays, like a stanza break Or shower's end of all applause, For some old unexplaining sake The optimistic tread these shores, As lonely as the dead awake Or God among the dinosaurs.
THE LION'S FACE
MR D the doctor was my doctor the doctor was there was the different doctor the different doctor there the different he had the best results he had the best results he had the best they never come the same people never come here people come here two ladies held the picture of the boy beside the seaside to be beside to be beside I buy him the ice-cream! buy him the ice-cream beside the side I said I have the things I have the things there's money in the land to buy the things but no beside they say no they fold the boy away in the white ice-cream book in the white book the different doctor closing time in the white book the doctor is my doctor where is my white doctor who comes who came before no one ever comes who came before
FLAGS AND CANDLES
Flags line up an hour before they're chosen, wave back along the row at others like them. Candles sit in boxes or lie still, sealed, and each imagines what will happen. Flags will not accept the explanation of why they were not needed as they are now. Candles feel they're made of stuff that's soft for a good cause, though maybe not their own cause. Tall flags love all flags if it's their flags. Small flags are okay about immense flags. Candles doze in xylophones of colour, Thrilled their purpose maybe merely pattern. Flags are picked out one by one. The others muster in the gap and say Gap, What gap? Candles dream of something that will change them, that is the making of and death of candles. Flags don't dream of anything but more flags. The wind is blowing; only the landscape changes. Candles have the ghost of an idea exactly what the wick is for: they hope so. Flags have learned you can't see flags at nighttime, no way, not even giants in a windstorm. Candles learn that they may do their damnedest and go unnoticed even by old candles. When I wave flags, flags think it's the world waving while flags are holding fast. When I light candles, candles hold the breath that if it came would kill them; then we tremble like our shadows. Flags know nothing but they thump all morning. Candles shed a light and burn to darkness.
HOMETOWN MYSTERY CYCLE
For Claire Messud and James Wood But I was one of the children told they play the Creation on Applecroft Road while Abel is battered on Barleycroft Lane and if I go with him he'll cop it again at the top of Old Drive. If I stay with the Ark I'll have seen a good twenty-one Floods before dark, but I know the place well as the front of my hand so I watch it in zigzag and still understand. The dawn's coming up over Handside Green As Hell's being harrowed by Christ in sunscreen, But another one rising by pulley-and-rope At the corner of Mannicotts isn't the bloke who Thomas is gaping at over his eggs on a little white trestle on wobbly legs by the scout hut on Guessens. The stone's rolled away as slowly as you can roll papier-mâché, and Judas is keeping his anorak zipped as he checks on his lines in a ragged old script. Pilate is bicycling by. If we're quick we can leg it to Lazarus, set up our picnic, still be in time for the beauty they've got to assault with tomatoes till Jesus says not to. Over the chimneys we hear as we hurry the loudspeaker crackle the usual story about a lost child, and we chuckle and say You'll be late to an angel we pass on the way. We hop all the hedges of Attimore Street, where a girl who got rid of me rinses His feet, and it's too much to take so I plod to the pool, for the Slaughter of half my old nursery school, but they lie there and giggle, they're clearly okay, to the fury of someone who's Herod today and gone tomorrow I joke to my mates but they've spotted the Virgin in wraparound shades, and we pass the Three Wise Men, muddled by props in the shade of an alleyway down by the shops. Afternoon tires of us, everyone tires; I hang around people who hand around fires; three mothers attempt to look vaguely surprised he is striding already up Mandeville Rise; but the little girl chosen Star-Girl for the day - Has anyone seen her? - the drunken PA is trying to be serious and nobody has. The imbecile doing Balaam and his Ass is playing for laughs so he's not getting any. Judgment is here, they've unloaded already. Satan is making a meal of a yawn. We rush up to God hey we saw you at dawn! So how's the day been? And to illustrate how, He ploughs an old finger across an old brow and puffs out His cheeks like we might blow away but we don't understand so we nod and we stay; we are gravely observing the fools in their cart, them they go and it's quiet and he says Can we start? to nobody really. Just one more to go, but we've ticked every box so we've seen every show and it's chaos again as it is every year with the carts in a ditch and Whose bloody idea was this in the first place? Somebody bawls in the queue for the luminous-necklace stalls, but he can't really mean it he has paper wings that his daughters deface with embarrassing things; he's played about every last role in the Cycle (he'd never been Michael but now he's been Michael) and someone is holding a ladder that trembles and someone has wound a great zero of cables around his strong arm, and he stares in my eyes as I say Weren't you Peter? which yes he denies and someone is binding the Cross to a Jeep and someone I bearing a burden asleep with a garland of foil and cellophane star, who, in other versions, is found in a bar and in at least one is found stabbed in a pit. You know your own villages: write your own shit. I've never done much and I didn't do this, But you asked where I come from and that's where it is.
A PLAY OF THE WORD
Something was done and she ran from a town and I'm glad it was done or she wouldn't have come, but she wouldn't have gone and she's long gone now, so I'm wondering why and remembering how. Her hair was the various colours of leaves in the fall in a heap as we watched her asleep and we stood there like words with the ink still wet, as reminders of something she'd likely forget, or read in the morning and scrunch in a ball. Her eyes were so wide that they had a seaside and a faraway sail in one eye then the other till I envied my brother and I've not got a brother. Her mouth had his shape that it made and you can't, we tried it all week and our lower lips ached as we pointed this out and she didn't know how she was doing it. I'm sort of doing it now. Her hands were so delicate delicate things were careful with them and the length of her arm was an hour when I saw it at rest on a sill with a twig in its hand that's in my hand still Her body was everything nobody knew and discussed in the dark till it wasn't that dark but her feet were so callused they made it clear We two will be getting her out here. Something was done and she ran from a town and I'm glad it was done or she wouldn't have come, but she wouldn't have gone and she's long gone now, so I'm wondering why and remembering how. You all have your tales and we too have a tale in the form of a play that we stage in the day, it's a play of the Lord, it's a play of the Word: if it had to be written it has to be heard. And we opened the barn for the costumes and sets that have always been there and the dust on the air would set us all sneezing and telling old jokes of old times and old shows in old years with old folks. And one was the Maker and one was the Man, and one was the Angel and one was the Stranger, and all the old lines were as fresh as cold beer in a morning in March in that field over there. But she was so puzzled her mouth did that thing and her eyes were a mist and her hand was a fist that she held to her chin till our play was complete. Then she started to laugh. She was right by that gate. It isn't for laughter we play in our show, it's not at all funny. It isn't for money, it isn't for love. But she laughed and her eyes were the fog as it shrugs in the face of sunrise, and her ribs were the sea in the shirt she wore: we were sickened to follow its suck and its swell, she was out of our reach, she had always been, but that was our choice, if you see what I mean. Something was done and she ran from a town and I'm glad it was done or she wouldn't have come but she wouldn't have gone and she's long gone now, so I'm wondering why and remembering how. Why are you laughing, we wanted to say till one of us did and wanted to hide, and her glistening eyes had no answer to that, so we waited like birds for her swallowing throat to be still and it was, and she stared at the ground like a book of her own to be counted upon. Everything here is made out of card. Take light from the World and you're left with the Word which she seemed to be trying to show in the dust as we crowded to see and could never agree what she said after that - that our Maker was sick of his word? That our souls could be drawn with a stick? That our Man was a rainbow, our Angel should hang? Or the other way round? But whichever way round there was nothing to do but the next thing we did, which was take it in turns to repeat what she said having tiptoed unnoticed away on our own to the elders and olders who had to be told what a creature she was and how little she knew and how hard she was laughing and what she should do. But I was among the ones crowding her light so her shadow was gone but I wasn't the one who asked her to tell us what should have been done, in a voice with arms folded and uniform on. Something was done and she ran from a town and I'm glad it was done or she wouldn't have come, but she wouldn't have gone and she's long gone now, so I'm wondering why and remembering how. And she asked her to say what the Maker would say and a few ran away. I did not run away but I want to have done, so I sit on this gate where there's nothing to wait for at all and I wait. And she looked at who'd said it and looked at who'd not and she stood and she started to speak from her heart what the Maker would say. I can say this to you. For who lives in this shell of a town but we two? The elders assembled like stones in a boat but it sailed as it could, while it could, when it could, and then I saw nothing and now I see all and I wait and there's nothing to wait for at all. And the wind caught the fire with the last of its strength, the fire they began for what had to be done, but the fire caught the town and it burned in my eyes till my eyes were the desert an hour from sunrise. And I talk of we two, but it's me on this gate, with an echo of wind when the song has an end, but the wind didn't do what I too didn't do, and we won't breathe a word till there's reason to.
Old Smile at the Roast
Test for the Old Smile, they're going to roast it— it'll have to keep its ends up all night, for the secretary says she finds it creepy, and the golfing partner says you got that right, and the rival says it's fake, and the ambitious junior makes his point with a few slides, and the protege the Smile was always sweet to walks up and says it turns his insides. They harp on it, the bosses and the buddies, and things get even better by these lights, which is to say it's shredded like a secret, which is to say it's one of the great nights; and folks are saying so while they're still roasting: they cry out to the Smile and it smiles back, like something huge is burdening a hammock, or is until you hear a frightful crack.— And then you better run like you saw nothing. And then you better run like you weren't there. There is a line, it's long and isn't smiling. You won't believe me when I tell you where.
Joey Awake Now
Some poems, right some poems. I'm a lover of poems.
The Only Work
When a poet leaves to see to all that matters, nothing has changed. In treasured places still he clears his head and writes.
Brief History of Sport
Granted that your guess is as good as mine Here's mine. It happened like this in a vale in sunshine Or moonshine. What it was was one was gone
Sundays, like a stanza break
Or shower's end of all applause,
For some old unexplaining sake
The optimistic tread these shores,
As lonely as the dead awake
Or God among the dinosaurs.