A few months ago, I received an owl from Hogwarts. Secrecy being what it is, I could not reveal the true reason for my recent trip to Britain until now.
I have been recalled to my position as Poetics Master after an extended sabbatical in the New World. I objected to the recall, having built a comfy little life here, and after prolonged negotiation was able to come to an arrangement where I can remain in Hillsborough, teaching my classes remotely using a combination of bi-location and VoIP.
As part of the arrangement, this Saturday afternoon at the Read With Me bookshop in downtown Raleigh, I’ll be holding a special poetry workshop for young witches and wizards. Since poems are simply magical spells cast in the mind of the reader, we’ll learn how to better construct these spells to express and evoke powerful emotions.
If you know any aspiring students who would like practical instruction in the magical art of poetry, they should register at Read With Me. Send an owl or visit their website.
While I was in London, I was a little distracted so I missed that my poem 
For example, today I visited the homes of Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot and on the way I ran into the house where Sir Charles Stanford lived. I had to look him up on my phone before I realized that I’d heard some of his compositions on the classical music channel I listen to most mornings.
I had to ask a helpful shopkeeper where to find Mr. Pound’s house. It seemed like she’d been asked before. The street he lived on is very short and it looks like there’s an apartment building now with his street number. Instead his front door was hidden off a little alleyway. Seemed like a nice enough place, none the less.
Earlier this week I also found a blue plaque for the place Gandhi lived while he studied law in England. He has at least two statues in London, one in Parliament Square Garden, a nice contrast to the rest of the admirals and generals there.
Now I can claim to have an international audience since I’ve read poetry in England. I participated in Poetry Unplugged, the Poetry Society’s weekly open mic at their 
According the website if there are less than 25 readers then we’d get five minutes each. If it goes over 25 and we only get four. This evening there were 37 readers! I’ve been to plenty of “over-booked” open mics where the poets don’t respect their time limit but there were only a few who even got close to four minutes. Most stayed in the two to three minute range which I think is just about perfect.
Westminster Abbey was underwhelming but I’m still glad I paid my fee and got inside. This nasty English weather meant I had to stand in the bright hot sun in a long line for almost an hour but the guides at the entrance were suggesting it would ninety minutes or more. They may have been exaggerating to scare some people off. The entrance fee was also supposed to twenty-two pounds but they’d run out of audio guides so they were letting everybody in half price.
How old is this tree
William Blake, the great poet, artist and mystic is also buried here though the exact position of his remains are not marked. Apparently he was interred in what is now a lawn surrounded by benches, a very peaceful place to read as I can attest. There are also some apartments with balconies which overlook the cemetery. Location. Location. Location!
Happy Solstice! To celebrate I went the farthest north that I plan to go in London: Hampstead. While still accessible by underground, it feels very much like the smaller towns and villages that I’ve visited elsewhere in Britain. I walked through quaint old shops near the tube station, then through a residential area until I found Hampstead Heath. It’s a wonderfully wild large urban park, mostly tree covered but with some meadows, the highest of which offered a view of downtown London with it’s skyscrapers.
I asked one of the grounds crew why it was that some areas are nice and tidy and the rest are returning to their natural state. I had hopes that they operate on some sort of decadal schedule for which sections to work and which to leave fallow. Alas, the simpler answer was money. It’s a private cemetery and even with new burials and charging visitors an entry fee they can’t hire enough staff to maintain it all. Apparently the cemetery went completely bankrupt in the mid-twentieth century and place totally went to seed until the current trust bought it for one pound and while they’re still afloat, they are struggling.
The unexpected highlight for me was finding the grave of Douglas Adams, author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I didn’t know he was buried here and when I found the grave I was delighted by the “42” marker and a collection of pens next to his tombstone. Being a poet I always have a pen at hand so I left mine in gratitude for the laughs he gave me back in college.
