For The Record

I always associate the Guinness Book of Records with my childhood. I may have been given one for my birthday, though I can't recall poring over any of them with great enthusiasm. But I was delighted to be asked, some weeks ago, to take part in the Irish Writers' Centre fund-raising marathon reading this evening. I quote from the email I received, which gives the idea:

We are organising a fund-raising event to help the Irish Writers' Centre stay open and maintain its high standard of service. We acknowledge the support you have given the Centre up to now, and would be delighted with your further help by agreeing to participate in this event.

'Read for the World' will be a marathon public reading which we hope will set a new Guinness World Record for 'the most authors reading consecutively from their work'. But we will use the event to promote contemporary Irish writers by broadcasting it in real time around the world via the internet. It will take place from 10.00 am on Fri 15 June to 2.00 pm on Sat 16 June. Choosing to climax on Bloomsday will add to Dublin's celebrations, but emphasise that the great literary tradition continues unabated in our UNESCO City of Literature. A detailed outline of the event is attached. [end of quote]

So I donned my Molly Bloom t-shirt (and yes I said yes I will Yes) and made it in early enough. Not a large audience, but attentive. There was a DVd camera, as the event is being streamed live for the net. Each reader had exactly 12 minutes. There was also a large stop-clock facing the podium, with a green, amber, red traffic-light system to let you know when to wind up; also a woman sitting in the front row whose job it was to raise her hand and signal those readers who missed the light.

I read from my last book, Fade Street. I chose my James Joyce poem of course, and also 'Stopwatch', both of which seemed appropriate:

One Of The Houses
James Joyce Lived In,
Once

James Joyce ivy
on James Joyce plaque,
James Joyce pebbles
on James Joyce dash,
James Joyce knocker
on James Joyce door,
James Joyce dust
on James Joyce floor,
James Joyce windows
with James Joyce glass
waiting for James Joyce
clouds to pass.


Stopwatch

Over fifty now, one of those joggers who pass,
heads down - hard shins and soft knees - eyes on the grass,

I crank myself into old age, hold to the thin
muddied track made by runners, that keeps grass down.

Here I come, round and around - the tip of a second-hand
on a blank green clock, marking what will unwind

lap by lap, the lagging flesh on its beat
from what will escape it - spirited, hard-soled, fleet.


Afterwards I went for a couple of drinks and a pleasant chat with Paul Perry, whose slot was a couple of hours after mine.