Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Easter
The season seems to have finally changed after so many false starts, and I've had a few days off writing over Easter. It was getting to a stage were so many jobs round the house had built up, and all that stuff was threatening to come crashing into writing time, so it was a good idea to take a week away from it. So I spent the week painting a room, and varnishing the floor and stuff, and am so stiff with doing the ceiling and gloss that I was glad of my time off to come to an end so I could sit at a desk again. During time off I kept away from writing events too, and had some relaxation at the end of the days watching movies. ( Really loved Walk the Line, most the other movies I saw were pants.) Sometimes I think taking time away from writing can be good, I sometimes find that getting stuck in to manual work can be a good thing if it follows productive writing time. At first you don't tend to think about writing, and get on with the painting, but eventually you get bored and find that something in the back of your mind must be working without you. Found that at the end of the day I had some ideas regarding the porn sequence when I didn't know I had been thinking about it, and also have a new poem idea sort of perculating around which I need to do some net research for.
So pretty much quiet and uneventful here. The only thing to tell you really is that I found a copy of my book in Oxfam the other day. I know logically that this is bound to happen at some point, if anything gets published sooner or later it will wind up in a charity shop someplace i guess. I had a conversation with Adam Fish once were the idea of seeing my book in a charity shop had just occurred to me, and I said how awful. Adam must be more of a glass half full guy than me, as he thought it was pretty cool, and said he would buy his own book and ask the lady at the counter of the charity shop to sign it! It was so sad to see it there though, it is so little compared to all the other books next to it. I had to buy it because it seemed so sad, and also to stop me checking next time i'm in the charity shop to see if anyone has bought it (and feel like it's a rejection everytime they haven't!) I came home thinking someone thought my book was shit, someone hates me, thinking it must be someone I know (whoelse bought it?) I took some consolation in the fact that there was another Diamond Twig book in the shop, so I'm assuming they have come from the same person, next to mine (which I have and is good), so it helped me take it less personally. (She is a good poet, and someone even gave their book away, so it doesn't matter if they gave mine away too- maybe they don't like poetry full stop. Maybe they beleive in recycling, maybe their ex partner chucked it when they found them in bed with a sheep, maybe, maybe- the list goes on, but there was definetely comfort in not being the only reject, however sad that is.) Thing is, now I am going to be looking at everyone with suspicion, wondering if they are the one. Well, I'll take my leave now, I have to sort through some things in my office, and go through some books for the charity shop.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Morden Tower
The tower opened the portal and magic happened, as it is prone to at the tower. When faced with disappointment the poets stepped up a notch and pulled out all the stops. I particularly enjoyed Andy Willoughby's performance of Sexy Baz's Birds, with a punky accompaniment (this really is a great poem anyway though, check it out in his collection 'Tough'.) I read first, but to be honest not very well. I wasn't expecting to read, and I hadn't had the advantage of working with the musicians in advance of the gig. I could have read better if I had read poems from Hardcore which I had previously done with Shaun, but I felt that this would be a cop out. Seems that the one advantage of having so few audience is that an intimate space is created, where you can experiment and share new work. Since there seemed little point in plugging the book with so few there, that's what I opted for. So my performance was decidedly average, but I was pleased to get the opportunity to read some of my new poems. I'm still not sure what anyone thought of them (people aren't that good at coming forward to say what they think , and I think my bad performance might have prevented people wanting to say what they thought of the poems, or of course there is the possibility that people just thought the new stuff is shite- which is always what you are gonna have buzzing about in your head at a later date.) (Also, other people's launches aren't good places to read new stuff I suppose, since you're just sort of something people have to sit through before they can see the main turn.) Anyway, it was a good night other than that, and I was pleased to have the chance to try out reading poems I've never read before.
Writing in March
Writing in March
The life story of a porn star sequence has reached its end. This month I have written a couple of poems that were drawing an end to the porn poems set, including a poem about gardening (of all things, quite a surprise to me!), one about Sploosh (there is something wrong with this poem, and I haven’t been able to put my finger on what it is yet), and a final postcard poem. I have also been doing re-writes on the poems I wrote last month, and in research mode, reading about a counterfeit king, Liz Taylor and Marilyn Monroe. I managed to track down a couple of books from
Writing in february
Writing in February
There have been times when the gigs got in the way, and I wasn’t able to write all week when the Finns were here. I have been breaking up the research with poetry. It has been very productive, a good mix of research, writing and editing. The Traci Lords research I did came out in some new poems. The process of writing these new poems was interesting to me. For one thing, I made myself write them in chronological order, I don’t know why. But it felt important to do it that way. I wonder if this was because I didn’t want to jump into the more grim subject matter right away, and it was a way to avoid it for a while. I found myself sort of writing from someone else’s point if view, which I have done before, but it seems not so deliberately and intensively, and using language which isn’t even close to my own (dialect, colloquial ways of speech, use of words etc.) There are so many limitations, and a sort of freedom with this, which was interesting. I found myself putting off writing the first sex poem by spending two days writing short poems to scatter throughout the piece, that are sort of a journey.
Then I had to get into the sex stuff and I found it physically draining to write the poems, a new sensation with writing that hasn’t come to me before. Sure, I’ve been tired, or sick of seeing a monitor, but I felt like I had been digging in a field after spending the day writing the sex poems. I knew I didn’t want to go there, and then made myself go there anyway. This leads me to ask why I did that, why I pushed myself to write about something I must find so distasteful, when I don’t have to. For the past year I had been writing with a collection in mind, a publisher already there, and knew I had to get on with writing poems for that collection to complete it. But this time, there is no such external need for the work, which makes the question of why I made myself write something so mentally and physically demanding all the more challenging. I don’t know. The sex poem that came out is the longest poem I have ever written, and yet it seems that there isn’t the option of cutting it, as it doesn’t seem unnecessary, or gratuitous. It surprised me, in dealing with innocence, expectations, a transition, and yes sex, but also love. Love is what surprised me the most. I suspect it is the kind of poem people really wouldn’t want to hear at a reading. It is probably the saddest poem I have ever written, and yet the most tender. Without the length it would seem unredeemable, I had to make it worth it with other things in it beside the acts. I came away from writing the second draft feeling drained, a bit like you do when your blood sugar drops, and had a can of beer to sort of distance the process. I’m amazed writing can do this to me; it’s a new sensation.
A few weeks later I showed the poem to Jo Colley and Kate Fox, they are my new poetry buddies, and we try to meet up now and then to sort of get some feedback and sound out new work. This is so great, it’s hard to find people who will look at your new poems, and even harder to find people you trust to give feedback. I had a feeling of wanting to show them the new poems, but also wanting to drag the sheet out their hands and bury it with this one particular poem. Wanting to show the poem, and not wanting anyone to see it- I think because I knew it was a miserable poem, and I felt guilty for making them go to a miserable place to hear it. As for reading it, in a way I didn’t want to read it, because it was hard to read, hard to keep going when I could hear the silence in the room and sense them really actually listening. There is always that oddness of reading, if you are reading a darker poem, the silence of the audience is almost unbearable. It is lonely to read serious poems, and have that silence around you, you wonder if people are bored, if they think it’s crap, part of you wants to make a joke half way through to get something back. It must be nice to have funny poems to fall back on, to get some reassurance. I think it the silence must be something we should get used to, and respect, but it’s hard when there is always going to be the element of wanting to feel liked. This particular poem seemed to magnify this feeling. I read to them, and we were quiet for what seemed like ages after, though it was probably only a few seconds. I hope they liked the poem, and I am sorry if it is a hard poem to hear. Thing is it feels like a personal poem probably to listen to, even though it is about someone else and uses their voice. I was pleased with poem in a way, though it isn’t one I will ever send out due to its length.
Later in the week, and the one after, I had to continue with the sex poems. This time I had to do research, of buying a porn mag. This was so dreadful to me; I have never bought one before, and sort of felt implicated in the whole industry by doing so. I could have not bought one and guessed I suppose, but it felt like cheating. It took me a week to pluck up the courage, and I ended up putting on a big coat and going to a newsagent near Byker where no one would recognize me in order to do it! This is so silly, I have always thought I am quite open minded, and sure I have seen porn mags before (I house-sat once in my early 20’s and found a big stack of them, quite out in the open, in the house of a friend’s aunty. We were grossed out, but did in fact read them for the whole fortnight, a sort of morbid fascination, a ‘yeah right’ to the letters page, and a ‘yuk, but how are they doing that?’ to the pictures.) I bought lots of other magazines to sort of disguise what I was actually buying, and was very aware of some young student lad in the queue behind me looking at what I was buying as the shopkeeper struggled to find the barcode. All the way home I wondered if he was thinking, yeah, a woman buying porn! When I got home I had to hide the magazine, I have no idea why, and then go back and look at it the next day. I was surprised by my reaction, of feeling so sad, and so yes, shocked. You hit 30 and think nothing will surprise you anymore, and certainly not shock. But I was shocked, shocked at the pictures, and the odd lack of eroticism in the pictures, shocked by what I was seeing, the glossiness, the letters page, and by the captions (one page was artfully called Hairy Russian Twats for god sake- is it just me, or could they have found a less sort for insulting way to describe what they wanted to?) The whole thing was a puzzle I couldn’t solve. In terms of research it is probably the oddest thing I’ll ever do, but also strangely satisfying to find reactions I never knew would be there. Now of course I’m stuck with the damn magazine, I can’t stand to put in the recycling pile incase the men see it and think thereafter that’s the porno house! How sad is that? Do you think it would be better if I put a post-it on the cover stating I bought this strictly in the name of research ?! Partly I am paranoid that one of the recycling men will recycle it in his own way, and that is even worse. I’m wondering what uses I can find for the damn thing, there is an evil side of me that wants to put a stack of Bella’s around it and leave it in the dentists, and a better side that wants to learn how to make handmade paper so I can make some with the thing and write something beautiful on it (and yeah, of course, send letters to nice people on it, like my mum!)
If you have any suggestions of what you would do with my porn mag, please email me them, and I will send the one I like most the magazine (if they so wish!)
Writing in January
Writing in January
In January I spent time reading as research for things, and working on poems I had started at Arvon in December. I had to type them up first and see how they looked, and do some re-writing. Only a couple seem finished, and there are some I will need to go back to. The best of them is a poem called Tap I think. I spent some time thinking about poems I never got far with at Arvon, and finally got round to doing something about the snapshot exercise, which proved to be the most productive exercise of the week. So why was I reluctant to do much of it at Arvon? Seems the exercise was private and didn’t suit that public space. The idea was to write about a photo. I started and wrote two very short poems about photos of me as a child. In the end in January once I had the other things out the way and in the PC I spent some time writing a sequence of these photo poems. All of them are very short. I rarely write about my own early childhood, in fact never. I thought it would be a good way to write about it, quite simply, without bringing much that isn’t in the photo into it, so that there are gaps, things missing, to be figured out, which sort of relate to the child’s viewpoint of lack of judgment and few words. It shaped up not bad, but the title still isn’t there. The title was originally Snapshots before the Ugly Stick, which I quite like as a title, but when I showed them to Jo Colley and Kate Fox they felt that a judgment and awareness is in the title that isn’t in the poem, and I think they have a point. So I still need a title. I spent some time the following week writing a sequence that expands beyond the original, and is a sequence of poems about things you make as a child. It seemed to convey the relationships and things to aspire to as a child, without getting into a god-like voice about it all. They are very simple poems in a way, pared down with a lot cut out. One of them is the first poem that mentions my Dad, I seem to write about my mother and grandmother a lot, but he is conspicuous only by his absence. Maybe this is why I distrust them; some work is like that. The question over is it too simple has no answer. Titles though, they are tricky. Seems that there are poems you know the titles of instantly, and others never seem right.
April 12th 06
April 12th 06
Last night was the Hydrogen Jukebox. This is really what poetry nights should be, and never are. Hydrogen Jukebox always produces an excellent standard of work, and is a forum that inspires artists to produce new work and take risks. There is a lack of pretension and an atmosphere that is charged, poetry is alive at the Hydrogen Jukebox and you can feel it. Last night was no exception. The night started with Darlo band Too many Units, and then proceeded with Kate Fox’s Hydrogen Jukebox commission “How I learned to stop worrying and love Leonard Cohen”. The piece was a mixture of stand-up and drama, as Fox begins a stand-up act and girls representing her 16 year old self begin to unpick the year she was 16 and in the process deconstruct the comedienne’s persona. The story itself is fascinating, about identity, role models and a dysfunctional family (which include her parents swinging), but more than that is a deeply personal and moving piece which is ambitious and ballsy. The piece swings effortlessly from comedy to drama, and sadness, and brings out a new element in Fox’s performance which we haven’t seen before. The piece may well be about growing up, for those who have seen her perform before it is also clear that this is a piece in which Fox is growing as a performer, taking more chances, including more range, and delving into more adult and at times bitter sweet humour. The piece was directed by Andy Willoughby, and the physicality on stage created humour that both complimented and contrasted with the text. This will not be the last time you see this piece; there is a lot of scope for further development and expansion from this commission (such as drawing out further the different versions of events, and questioning what constitutes truth and memory) and it will go on to surpass its humble origins.
Following the break Bob Beagrie and Kalle Niinikangas launched their new bi-lingual Ek Zuban pamphlet Perkele. Perkele is an old Finnish deity, who became demonized by Christianity (and is now infact a finish curse word.) Kev Howard, Shaun Lennox and Milo Thelwall provided music to accompany both poets, and the result was spectacular. Both poets provided their best performances to date. Beagrie is a true wordsmith who seemed to become possessed by the poems, transporting us to other worlds, that we are not always comfortable in. His poems are lyrical, intense and lively, and are invocations that hold the audience under his spell. Mr Niinikangas followed Bob with a menacing performance of his hard edged urban realist work, in which humour snuck up on you in the most unlikely of places, and was all the stronger for the artists unique dead-pan style.
Later the night offered the song stylings of Shaun Lennox (the Leonard Cohen of Eston)- and the beautiful Rebecca Davison(
All good things must come to an end I guess, and it is sad that there are only 3 Hydrogen Jukeboxes remaining. Hydrogen Jukebox has been running for six years, and for the last three years I’ve considered it my reading home. It emerged as one of the few sources of encouragement for me at a time when I just wasn’t reading, and was beginning to give up on writing. It has been the only place I can go to read, and try out new work. It has been the only place I can read certain poems (knowing that this is a unique place that makes no distinctions between highbrow and lowbrow subject matter, poetry is liberated and for once it is all about the words.) I have to get used to the idea of Hydrogen Jukebox not being there, and sort of feel as if it’s the end of my readings era (time to go back in the box.) I’m starting to look at my writing life and worry once I’m back in that box no one will open the lid.
Favourite lines of the evening:
Later it got freezing cold
& I found a refuge
in the roadside toilet
where I slept in the urine of Norwegian lorry-drivers
dreaming of beautiful girl’s shitting
(from Mountains of Toothpaste by Kalle Niinikangas,
in Perkele- Ek Zuban press.)
April 5th 06
April 5th 06
Last night I went to Exploding Alphabets at
March 29th 06
March 29th 06
On a mundane level I’ve had a weird chest infection thing since I last blogged, was stuck in bed for the best part of a week eating only grapes and drinking from a flask of tea. When I felt well enough I finally got out of bed to go to a poetry event at The Chillingham Arms on 18th March. It was a Poetry Vandals thing (why does that sound like it should be on a t-shirt? It’s a poetry vandals thing…you wouldn’t understand) , and I was interested in going to see the Canadian performance poet they had on Dwayne Morgan (also I felt as if I wanted to support the notion of poetry things on at The Chilli, and given it is so nearby would feel rather churlish for not attending.) The turnout wasn’t bad (people will come to poetry things in Heaton? Who knew? ) and it was an interesting night. As usual the night started with the vandals, who provided some interesting material, but I felt read slightly too long. (This is my only problem with the Vandals, quite often they play host to poets from various parts of the world, yet the balance often doesn’t feel quite right. I have been trying to figure out why this is, and I think it is a case of reading slightly too long, so that the guest poets seem to have to wait a long time before reading. The result of reading even one poem each too many can make the balance not quite right, as potentially that’s six too many poems remember. That being said, the Vandals read with good humour, and energy and managed to create a relaxed atmosphere. Highlights of the set included the bizarrely Shakespearian Scott Turrel’s extremely funny poem about Coitus Interruptus, Annie Moir’s highly relatable poem about being a poet (the odd secret shame we have about writing poetry), and Jeff Price. Price seems to epitomize what is good about the vandals at their best, that ability to treat language with a lack of reverence and play with it. Certain things are out there, in the public domain, and on top form the Vandals make this clear, and have fun with wordplay. The Vandals don’t intimidate an audience by making poetry seem holy, when they are in the zone they make poetry accessible to everyone and make us feel as if we wouldn’t mind giving it a try. There is something about the things Jeff Price vandalises that makes me quite inspired to give it a go (last year I was bored one night and ended up writing a vandalism of his vandalized version of Sunscreen), and I came home from the Chilli gig feeling inclined to write a vandalism of his Marks and Sparks poem. Words can be fun, sometimes we forget; Jeff Price seems to be able to remind me. It was interesting watching Kate Fox in her full on stage mode, who managed to become so likeable to the audience that she was later unable to read a serious poem she introduced. The problem seemed to be that she was so likeable and fun to the audience that as soon as she opened her mouth people laughed, so as she was introducing the serious poem people laughed, and the more people laughed the more she seemed to play along with the audiences expectations of her, and ultimately talked herself out of doing the poem. What was interesting about this was that while she was assisting Jeff with one his poems (she was required to read certain lines that were a female voice) she read (the part of Charlie) in a very different manner to the way she reads her own poems, using a voice that managed to convey gravity and purely present the words. I’m sure no one minded that Kate didn’t read the serious poem she introduced (since there was so much fun to be had in her introduction of it then its disappearance), but I would have liked to see it, see her step up and use her body language and voice (and minimal chat) to convey a conviction to read her serious poem (as she did for Jeff.) The format of the vandals on stage actually seems very good for facilitating changes of tone that may otherwise be difficult to achieve in a set, the whole process of reading a poem, stepping back or sitting down while other people do their stuff, and then stepping forward again seems as if you can come to the audience almost afresh for each poem. I think more gigs should have this format for poems, one poem, and then a break sounds good to me.
Sheree Mack read well, but I was disappointed she didn’t read a little longer, as she just seemed to be gone too quick. Still leaving them wanting more is always a good philosophy, and she certainly did that. Dwayne Morgan followed with his slam style poetry performance, of rhythmic words reminiscent of rap. Morgan seemed to have the polished confidence we have come to expect of slam poets, but also seemed to give more of himself to the audience than some performers tend to. He manages to convince the audience they know him a little bit in his set, which instantly gets them on side. The poems were sharp, lively and sexy, and he managed to seduce the audience with words (particularly in the extremely racy oral sex poem, which creates an unusual and effective metaphor. I think there was only me in the audience who was a little disappointed that the poem was a metaphor, as I initially thought I was in the presence of an AA style meeting where a bloke actually states he likes oral sex. You just never hear straight blokes saying such a thing, I was like, how brave, Praise be, Hallelujah! Then oh, metaphor, figures.) What I found particularly interesting about Morgan’s work was the way in which he talks about women. There was a great deal of respect for women in his set, an acknowledgment of feminist concerns, and a simultaneous admission that as a man he has been implicated in some of the things that are issues for women. It seems rare to see this in the work of male poets, and I was impressed by a male poet’s ability to address certain concerns, without coming across as holier than thou.
March 13th 06
March 13th 06
Last night was the bridge poets gig at The Bridge. For those of you who don’t know, The Bridge poets group is a group which began over 5 years ago. Initially the poets attended a workshop with Jo Shapcott, and there was the notion that after this the poets involved would start off their own meetings for feedback on new work (as the initial Jo Shapcott workshops began with people being accepted only when they had sent work the result was a group of very competent poets, who could give each other feedback of a level that you wouldn’t usually be able to obtain in beginners poetry groups etc.) The meetings are once a month, and the people who turn up vary from month to month, due to the difficulties sometimes of being able to get poetry time on Saturday. I am guilty of sort of dipping in and out of the group, sometimes I might not go for six months, others I will go a few months in a row. I was unable to attend the last one due to being in London, and sometimes being anywhere at midday is really difficult, other times there will just seem to be far too many things to do that can only be done on Saturday when things are open and the car is available. They are doing maybe four readings a year, in which the line up of poets is always different due to the size of the group. I never offer to do these readings, but am happy to if asked, as I feel that maybe the opportunity should be given to people who make it to the group more often than me. My favourite thing about the group is the rule of silence, that when people are discussing a poem the writer of it is not permitted to speak whatsoever. I think this is a good way of just letting go, stopping your instinct of defense, and actually really learning something about your own work by allowing people to argue about what the poem is about amongst themselves. At the end of the discussion is when you can explain what you did want to do, and acknowledge the points made. It is often a matter of the individual, as always, that what some people don’t like or get others will, but there is always something to consider and take away to help you improve your poem in someway.
Among the readers last night were Bob Cooper, Ali May, Lisa Matthews and Sheree Mack, as well as myself. It was a rather small audience by previous attendance standards, but there were other events on, and also the snow and the metro not being on didn’t help. It’s funny how much harder it feels to read well with a small audience, that aspect of being scrutinized seems magnified by the fewer people there are. Also of course, there is that feeling of no response, in a small crowd there are no responses to hear, which makes being up there harder. The readers all read very well, with skilled work, and seemed very confident and at home. I was somewhat less so, I think part of that is that many of the poets felt among friends, have much better social skills than myself, and also get on rather well with the other poets. Don’t get me wrong, there are a few poets in Newcastle who I have felt to be supportive, who seem to make the effort and see me as an actual colleague (a real poet, it is hard to feel that way when there are so many brilliant poets.) But I am completely awful at social things, and make a point of always sitting by myself at events unless anyone asks me to join them or sits next to me, and as for the writing I never really know what the
The Bridge readings are a very positive thing because of they can provide the opportunity to make new work public, and I think that helps the writer to see how people feel about them, hear them out loud. Another thing I was struck by was that it felt like a real poetry gig. Now this term sounds worrying I know; how many poetry events are not real somehow? The term isn’t right I realise, but what I mean I think is that there seems to be two types of poetry events. One is usually held at nights which include music, or comedy and very confident performers, and the temptation with these gigs is always to try and include more funny poems, or poems that lend themselves to be performed more than read, as the audience aren’t a poetry audience as such, but may contain people who are experiencing live poetry for the first time. The other is a reading in which the audience is made up of poets, and people who are into poetry, and the pressure to perform poems is taken away, as it feels more about the words. Both types of event have their merits, one being the introduction of poetry to a wider and perhaps younger audience, and other in being a space for poets to try out new work, and for words to be heard purely on their merit, and not the strength or popularity of the performer. The world would be wrong in poetry if both types of events didn’t exist. Poetry would die out without ways of introducing it to non poets, and certain types of poems and poets would never be heard at readings if these pure poetry events didn’t happen. I was very aware of this being the first pure/real poetry reading I’ve done in a while, and was relieved to not have to select poems that may get a reaction from an audience, or appeal to audiences of a certain age, and was nervous at how these real poets would feel about the work. At the same time, there were poems I would have liked to read but felt I couldn’t because of the language used or the subject matter that I was worried proper poets would disapprove of! As usual I have a problem with fitting in, not being a proper poet enough to fit in with the proper poetry gigs, and not being funny or a good enough performer to go down well at the performancey gigs!
March 7th 06
March 7th 06
Later on the Sunday I met up with Kate Fox, who was doing gigs in
(There are a few exceptions, one of them being Chloe Poems I wanna be fucked by Jesus poem, which I wanted to read as well as hear again almost instantly.) But on the whole this is rare. This is young poet you just know is the real thing, and the writing and its quality are priority. I was pleased to see how the audience appreciated this genuine and brilliant poetry, presented quite simply without any tricks and glitter. It restored my faith for a little while.
The next day we went to the station and had to queue forever to buy a cup of coffee and a muffin at a place called The Waiting Room. Everyone in the queue was strangely accepting, and the staff strangely unapologetic. When I finally placed my order they handed over the coffee, and said they would bring the muffin over. We had been in there over 30 minutes, and still no muffin came. The problem was Kate and I score quite high on the autism quota. She had to have her odd little needs met, to know and have planned when the next mealtime will be, and I had to have mine sorted, to always be far too early for everything, so I am in the right place at the right time and nothing goes wrong. So it was weird, Kate was determined to get her muffin, and me looking at the watch worrying about the train. In the end Kate left with a pair of microscopic muffins in her hand she had to go and pester them for, and I left looking mournfully at the glass of lemonade I never had chance to drink more than a few sips of- it’s not called The Waiting Room for nothing I guessed, we were warned.
1st March 06
March 06
It is only the 1st of March, so I’m a bit early. Last night I went to the Lit and Phil to see Kevin Cadwallender, Valerie Laws, Kate Fox, Sarah Millican and Sheree Mack do their talks based on old Lit and Phil lecture titles. It was a really varied and interesting night. I love the Lit and Phil, the building is just perfect. I wish I worked there, but it is a distant dream since there’s no point in getting trained up to work in a library to be sent to one of those brightly lit places, where all the books are new and easy reach of the patrons. I liked the idea of the gig, to take old lecture titles and do something around them. All the performers used the starting point in different ways, and were all really good. But my personal favourite ‘lecture’ was Sarah Millican’s The Uses and abuses of sleep, which seemed to go down best of all with the audience, and felt really natural and fun. All I could think was I wish I’d had the chance to one, as someone told me the title of one of the ones on the list, which was Experiments with Balloons, and it seemed very very me. I can just see the slides! It was a fascinating night, to see the different approaches each reader took. I really admire comedians, all that confidence and presence. I feel sorry poets, it is so much harder up there when you can’t get the comfort of laughter and make audiences like you. Still, we do it; somewhere underneath it all we must have more balls than sense.
February 20th-28th
February 20th- 28th
February 13th-17th
February 06
13th-17th February
The Finns came over, to launch the latest Ek Zuban pamphlet, and stayed with me for a few days. I had to go into that odd hostess mode to have them here, and spent a two days cleaning, as if I felt they would go back to Finland and tell everyone that Angela Readman , who they never heard of anyway, is a slob. It’s odd, in my experience no one really cares if your house is a mess or not actually, but the shame must come from somewhere and I had to keep it quiet. I found myself wishing for those nice little things of water by the bed with a glass that fits on the top, and realized how old I must be getting and sort of obsessive (speaking of which, is there a proper name for those things?) Something newly trivial to worry about!
It was great having the Finns here, but a sort of exhausting week, lots of racing about to different places for the launch. (Will I ever learn to drive? I’m still waiting for the first of the lessons I was promised for my 30th birthday!) The audience turn out was really poor, and it was a shame that Tapani Kinuuen and Kalle Ninikangas traveled over a thousand miles to be met with such a trickle, as they read their poems wonderfully, and are really amazing poets. I’m surprised so few writers in the region wanted to see some Finnish poets, as they are extremely well published (Tapani has had 5 collections out in
January 06
January 06
So this is the first blog entry, I’m new to this, and have been meaning to set up a blog since New Year. The funny thing is, when I’m writing the last thing I would think about doing is sitting down and writing a blog, it’s sorta that feeling you get when you have your dissertation to do when you are at Uni and find yourself turning monosyllabic- “oh damn, I have to write so many words”-seems a trial to waste any. I get the blindness, the can’t look a PC anymore, so it’ll be interesting as to how this works out.
I’m writing this in February. Summary of January is hard. It's that usual thing of cleaning up before Christmas, messing it up with Christmas, and then cleaning Christmas away. I think January is the hardest month of the year, as the winter seems so long, and after Christmas it feels like there is nothing to look forward to. What surprised me this year is getting back to work after New Year, it felt easier than usual. I wasn’t putting it off. I spent most of January in research mode, I read work by poets I’d been meaning to get round to, and started on some new books that finally arrived from
At the end of the month I read at NWN up and coming event, where four poets read. I’m not that comfy with daytime readings, I wear too much make-up and look out of place, but it was nice to have a gig so soon in the year to feel like a poet again after the furry footed Christmas sensation. Alphabetical order, so of course I had to read last, which means following really good poets, which is daunting. The only thing about the event that seemed slightly odd was to call it an up and coming poets event, the reason is I wonder if that is something that will put audiences off turning up. I think these events are necessary, but I wish there was a better name for them- I mean, if you want to see a musician you go and see a musician, not a rehearsal. So if you want to see a poet, would you really want to go and see an almost poet? There must be another name for poets who aren’t well known yet that sounds more appealing. Any suggestions?
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About Me
- angela
- Poetry is like having an imaginary friend, who still forgets your birthday.