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August 29th, 2023

This year marks the 100 year anniversary of a prestigious poetry speaking contest at Oxford in which my grandmother Diana Homer was a prizewinning speaker.

In the spring of 1923 the future Poet Laureate John Masefield made an announcement to The Times that he would be holding a verse speaking contest at Oxford. Masefield was an orphan sent away to sea at thirteen by an aunt who disapproved of his compulsive reading. A distressed seaman abroad and almost shipwrecked, he used his awe-inspiring voyages to inform much of his early writing, including Salt Water Ballads (1902) and Dauber (1913). Now, his plan was to discover a raft of beautiful speakers passionate about poetry to create a mainstream tradition for its performance.

As the principal organisers of the contest, John Masefield and his wife Constance sought help from their circle at Oxford. Gilbert Murray, the Regis Professor of Greek, George Gordon, a Professor of English Literature, Sir Herbert Warren, the President of Magdalen, and two winners of the Newdigate Prize: Laurence Binyon and Heathcote Garrod, a Professor of Poetry, all agreed to act as judges. George Gordon named the two day festival The Oxford Recitations, and gave the opening speech at The Examination Schools on July 26th 1923.

Over five hundred contestants entered, exceeding all expectations. But, after hearing the first dozen or so speakers, Masefield wondered had he made a mistake in pushing for the contest, when a young woman began to speak in a way that made him hold his breath. He later recalled, “I had heard nothing like it. What I had not imagined was the power of such speech upon an audience, which sat as if in a trance.”

A recital by Diana Homer, the daughter of the Unitarian Minister F.A.Homer, would have a similar effect upon John Masefield. Diana was my grandmother, then a teenager drawn to Oxford with a headful of Chaucer, Shakespeare and Milton set by the judges as test poems in the syllabus mailed ahead of the competition. She would be a constant winner in the women’s division until 1929. More about that later.

On the whole, the first year of the Recitations revealed impressive talent and application. Each judge selected two favourites from amongst the trained speakers, talented amateurs, up and coming actors and students competing in the ballad, lyric, dramatic and narrative classes to battle it out in the Oxford Prize Class Finals. Highly coveted silver and bronze medals were awarded to the first and second place men and women with prizes of around £200 in today’s money for the exceptional speakers.

The contest took place at the Schools from morning until late into the evening. Door stewards ensured the recitals went undisturbed and prevented the audience from questioning the judges about their decisions or asking them for autographs. Clapping was restrained during the day in case of exams elsewhere in the building, but on Finals night the crowd was roused into rip-roaring song, ending with a resounding, “Three cheers for Mr and Mrs Masefield!”

A Choir of Nightingales

John Masefield was guided by the revolutionary impules of WB Yeats, whose lecture in Lincoln’s Inn on new ways of speaking poetry he attended as a young man in 1901. Yeats’s methods, with his emphasis on the vowels and the beats, was a step towards realising the poet’s intention and a challenge to the stuffy Victorian drawing room approach to recitation. Masefield became a regular visitor to the Monday evening gatherings for poets, writers and painters held in what he described as, "the most interesting rooms in London" in which Yeats overwintered every year between 1895-1919.

By 1924, Masefield had resolved the earlier problems of his contestants shrieking, whispering, going prone or falling off the stage. A third day was added and most speakers were displaying the poems with their voices rather than outlandish gestures. He declared the effect of probably the best speakers in these islands gathered together was that of, “A choir of nightingales.” The excitement and delight of the poetry touched all present with a new feeling for poetry and a new understanding of the principle of speaking it

Read more: The Oxford Recitations

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February 2023

The Painted Rocks 

I spy chipmunks scampering over the rocks on the road to Tafroute. It’s been so long since I saw this striped, squirrel-like creature that for a second it’s hard to remember its name. Back in the 1970’s, chipmunks were caged pets in schools and households across Britain. But roaming free in Morocco, they are released from the karma of captivity. I comfort myself with this thought as we speed towards the Rocher Peinture, a group of brightly coloured granite boulders strewn intermittently amid the desert plains of the Anti-Atlas Mountains. 

The largest rock is the size of a small hillock, and resembles a strong, muscular organ, rather like a giant heart or a lolling tongue. The land artist Jean Verame (1939-) originally painted it a deep azure blue in the mid -1980’s, but time has weathered its surface to a lighter cerulean. Smaller rocks washed in bubblegum pink and acid green squat like unfamiliar blobs in the landscape. There is spacious desert as far as the eye can see, periodically interrupted by the bright protuberances. It looks and feels like a film set, especially when my lover walks off into the distance, a lone figure in the landscape. As I hang back at the big blue rock, I have a premonition he will soon walk away and not turn back.

A big full moon is strung over the Anti-Atlas as I pick out the Hotel Salama in the middle of Tafraoute's main square. For me the sign is an easy spot as it pokes above the low rise shops and businesses nestling under the looming mountains.The hotel breakfast bar serves particularly good coffee, the butter is excellent, and there is an egg. Later, we barter for blankets and shoes, and when I express how good it is to see the mountains from the town, a small group of traders complain the mountains get in their way!

The sheer beauty of Morocco’s physical geography abounds from the deserts of the Anti-Atlas to the snow striated Atlas Mountains. As the road winds from one place to another, a varied palette of stones create swirly textile-like patterns across the undulating hills, producing a breathtaking variety of ever-changing landscapes. A mountain in the shape of giant tagine cooking pot rises up to the sky along the way. On the ground, pebbles and larger stones have been arranged in piles by the roadside to communicate a myriad of messages; no entry, a place of prayer, a boundary marking the road’s edge, a sheer drop, and other possible alerts left by and for travellers and nomads. The hooded cloaks of the sun wizened men of the Maghreb seem to mimic the mountain peaks. And, late in the day, these pixie-like men sit in groups to appreciate the mountains, which all too soon will block out the rays of the evening sun.

Read more: Notes on Morocco Part II

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23rd August 2021

Amazigh is the word for the original Berber people from whom the majority of North Africa's population are descended. And truly the colours, landscapes, tastes, smells, sounds and music of Morocco are amazing! A rich tradition of handicrafts from shoes to soaps lives alongside a peaceful spirituality that reboots at the start of each new day with the call to prayer.

An unusually strong feeling of well-being emanates from the ground as I touch down in Marrakesh. Travellers glide smoothly over the marble floors under the high white geodesic arches of the pristine Menara airport. The scruffy greeters and taxi drivers must wait in the designated area beyond the airport doors on the orders of the King. Outside, I jump into a beaten up old blue Mercedes, which weaves its way through crowded roads with the horses and carriages, and wonder what is secreted in the old city behind the high fortress walls perforated with holes like a looming Swiss cheese. 

Marrakesh is guarded by a strategic mix of police, army and gendarmes posted in sentry boxes at checkpoints along the city walls. Inside the medina at night on a full moon, people work late and take bread home for supper. Behind more impenetrable walls are the fountains and plant strewn inner courtyard of the privately owned Riads. Small birds slip under plastic awnings stretched across the wide open sky to wait noisily for mealtime crumbs. Inside the narrow walls of my bedchamber, a four poster is festooned with red velvet and small vibrant flags rather like the bunting at a medieval joust. Unctuous oils, rose petals, and warmth conjure the quintessence of romance and continuity in this magical, scented kingdom.

Read more: Notes on Morocco

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Almost twenty years ago I found myself sitting eye to eye with Nick Papadimitriou in the basement of an art gallery, just off Queen Square in Bloomsbury. It was our first day on a research project and we were both nervously rearing to write, even if science was not our primary concern. Over those weeks, I got to know Nick and admired his roll-your-sleeves-up dedication to writing, and was intrigued by his wayward and somewhat wild side.

I enjoy eccentricity, so happily listened to Nick prattle on about Gilbert White, the Woodcraft Folk, and the mysteries of Middlesex. His tales of a marginalised, middle-aged man with glasses bearing a sort of resonance. And, the more he told his stories and repeated his often humorous schtick, the more I realised that Nick had everything he needed to become a successful writer.

Over the years Nick would often call round to mine. We talked about everything as he would lend a helping hand in the garden, editing my first collection of poetry, playing with the assorted cats and dogs, and amusing the long-term boyfriends that might be around. Once, I switched on my recorder and just let it run while we talked. (http://www.samburcher.com/articles/notes-on/152-interview-with-nick-papadimitriou-november-2011.html) During another lovely day, I held my film camera on my lap as Nick talked about his latest project. (See below).

Read more: Lockdown Notes on Nick Papadimitriou