Poetry Parnassus: "This global chorus"

An audacious celebration at the Southbank Centre.

Whether you’re counting down the hours to the Games or couldn’t give a damn, the Cultural Olympiad programme - now well underway - is doing its best to win over all people to the London 2012 cause. A successful festival of any sort has about it the spirit of collaboration (over competition) and elicits in its goers the irresistible notion that, for the moment, they’re part of some utopia. Such was the feeling among hundreds of writers and readers last week, at probably the greatest international gathering of poets in history. 

Poetry Parnassus, the “back of an envelope” idea of Simon Armitage, artist-in-residence of the Southbank Centre, saw 204 poets from as many countries come together to represent their nation's poetic tradition at the many-venued culture complex on the Thames. Readings and workshops, parties and debates filled six days and nights. 

Did you know Somalia is possibly the world's most poetry-loving nation? Such takeaways about the global poetry scene were easy to come by over the week, but far more interesting was the demonstration of how many various ways people of countries around the world relate to poems. Take Somalia again: while poetic expression there is the base from which almost all other creative outlets develop - and most people can recite many poems - the tradition is entirely aural. How unlike the UK, where poetry is so often read in one's head, the verse printed and bound; confined to a page.

With such an international gathering the political dimension of poetry didn't need teasing out. On Wednesday, PEN International & English PEN hosted Freedom of Expression Day where personal narratives and debate centred around themes of exile, identity and conflict. Free speech, the defiance and deviance inherent to the purposeful writing of poetry, was alluded to throughout the festival: Shailja Patel, the Kenyan poet, warned writers should never "[take] lightly the privilege of a platform," and Yuyutsu Sharma from Nepal picked a lofty quote by Shelley, that "poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world".

Still, this was as much a celebration of the listener/reader as of the performer/published writer. Many times over the week they were at least as grateful, but on Tuesday evening poetry lovers may have been most excited. At dusk over Jubilee Gardens, behind the London Eye, a helicopter dropped 100,000 cards printed with poems by 300 contemporary poets. The "aeronautical display" by Chilean collective Casagrande had adults and children jumping for poetry, or merely gazing at the "Rain of Poems" that gently fell against the city skyline. Later, crossing Waterloo Bridge, I read the first I had caught: an abridged version of a poem by Rafeef Ziadah (Palestine's representative at the Parnassus) that I'd seen a video of her performing last winter. Printed on a little card and shortened to just a stanza, took my breath away again.

Poetry Parnassus, a gathering of poets from every Olympic nation

Alice Gribbin is a Teaching-Writing Fellow at the Iowa Writers' Workshop. She was formerly the editorial assistant at the New Statesman.

Photo: Hunter Skipworth / Moment
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Cones and cocaine: the ice cream van's links with organised crime

A cold war is brewing to the tinkling of "Greensleeves".

Anyone who has spent a summer in this country will be familiar with the Pavlovian thrill the first tinny notes of “Greensleeves” stir within the stolid British breast.

The arrival of the ice cream van – usually at least two decades older than any other vehicle on the road, often painted with crude approximations of long-forgotten cartoon characters and always, without fail, exhorting fellow motorists to “Mind that child!” – still feels like a simple pleasure of the most innocent kind.

The mobile ice cream trade, though, has historical links with organised crime.

Not only have the best routes been the subject of many, often violent turf wars, but more than once lollies have served as cover for goods of a more illicit nature, most notoriously during the Glasgow “Ice Cream Wars” of the early 1980s, in which vans were used as a front for fencing stolen goods and dealing drugs, culminating in an arson attack that left six people dead.

Although the task force set up to tackle the problem was jokingly nicknamed the “Serious Chimes Squad” by the press, the reality was somewhat less amusing. According to Thomas “T C” Campbell, who served almost 20 years for the 1984 murders before having his conviction overturned in 2004, “A lot of my friends were killed . . . I’ve been caught with axes, I’ve been caught with swords, open razors, every conceivable weapon . . . meat cleavers . . . and it was all for nothing, no gain, nothing to it, just absolute madness.”

Tales of vans being robbed at gunpoint and smashed up with rocks abounded in the local media of the time and continue to pop up – a search for “ice cream van” on Google News throws up the story of a Limerick man convicted last month of supplying “wholesale quantities” of cocaine along with ice cream. There are also reports of the Mob shifting more than 40,000 oxycodone pills through a Lickety Split ice cream van on Staten Island between 2009 and 2010.

Even for those pushing nothing more sinister than a Strawberry Split, the ice cream business isn’t always light-hearted. BBC Radio 4 devoted an entire programme last year to the battle for supremacy between a local man who had been selling ice creams in Newbiggin-by-the-Sea since 1969 and an immigrant couple – variously described in the tabloids as Polish and Iraqi but who turned out to be Greek – who outbid him when the council put the contract out to tender. The word “outsiders” cropped up more than once.

This being Britain, the hostilities in Northumberland centred around some rather passive-aggressive parking – unlike in Salem, Oregon, where the rivalry from 2009 between an established local business and a new arrival from Mexico ended in a highish-speed chase (for an ice cream van) and a showdown in a car park next to a children’s playground. (“There’s no room for hate in ice cream,” one of the protagonists claimed after the event.) A Hollywood production company has since picked up the rights to the story – which, aptly, will be co-produced by the man behind American Sniper.

Thanks to competition from supermarkets (which effortlessly undercut Mister Softee and friends), stricter emission laws in big cities that have hit the UK’s ageing fleet particularly hard, and tighter regulations aimed at combating childhood obesity, the trade isn’t what it used to be. With margins under pressure and a customer base in decline, could this summer mark the start of a new cold war?

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 22 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The zombie PM

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