March 7th 06

March 7^th 06

I’ve been in London for a few days. The 4^th March was a reunion of the Arvon course I attended in December at Lumb Bank. To be honest I couldn’t decide whether or not to go, as I didn’t really say much to anyone on the course. The thing is I am bad at being in large groups of people; it always seemed that in such a situation I fail to make an impression of any kind. To be good in groups you have to have a certain kind of confidence that a) what you have to say is interesting, intelligent or funny, and b) that people respect you enough to want to listen to whatever that is. I have neither belief, so in groups I tend to hang back and sort of end of observing what is going on without being part of it. So why did I go? I think I wanted to go because I knew I had been sort of invisible at Arvon, and because I was hoping this time to get some positive feedback on something, either constructive feedback on how I can read my poems better, or some kind of approval for my work. At Arvon no one said much really about if they thought the work was any good or not, and I was disappointed by a sensation of coming home feeling worse about myself and my work than when I arrived- because I am someone who will interpret silence as polite disapproval. I think I was hoping to make it all better by having a positive experience of being in a group this time, sort of try to ask for feedback if it didn’t arrive, and be more involved. But I didn’t really manage it. This is silly really, and a good thing to bear in mind. If people don’t give you the feedback you require it is wise to ask questions, I could have tried and spoke to people on their own who I thought might have been most likely to understand the poems and ask them what they thought. People actually do like to be asked, I’ve never encountered someone who doesn’t so far, they feel pleased that you respect their opinion enough to take the trouble to ask, and are happy to say what they can. Knowing all this seems a lot harder than carrying it out for me though. I had exchanged a few emails with the lady who was holding the reunion at her house (Wow. what a house, it was like something from Grand Designs, the whole ground floor of my house could have fitted in her kitchen alone! I felt a bit scruffy as soon as I walked in, and was really glad I had stopped at her local before I turned up to tidy myself up after the long journey) and she seemed friendly, and to take writing seriously, and we had a few good chats about poetry and also the balance of getting poetry time in real life, so I thought it might be easier to be in a group with that one friendly face. The thing us though, it’s actually easier for me to be myself in emails than in real life, because in an email there is no possibility of that sort of competing to be heard that there is in a group. Of course in an evening with performance poets there is a lot of performing, not only in reading work out, but in being yourself. In groups it always feels that there are people who are stars of the show whatever the context in, the people who make people laugh, who everyone is listening to- some people are good at that, and seem to always shine. I’m someone who waits to be asked I think, so in situations where there are lots of people and no one does I don’t come across very well. I always go home acutely aware of the very real possibility that people don’t like me, that there has been nothing to like, and even worse, that they could actually think of me as stuck up, arrogant, aloof- shyness can be misinterpreted as those things, and it takes special people to get past that and pull out the person underneath. All this is my constant problem, and possibly why so few people, including writers and people I’ve seen around for years and know the names of, ever really talk to me. Maybe I seem disinterested even, given unless people talk to me first I won’t be brave enough to talk to them! It’s sad really, people always say things like I used to be shy, and I wonder when I will grow out of this- seems I am a bit too old now! There are one or two people in the group who it felt I could get to know better and allow to get to know me, but this wasn’t the occasion for it. I think there never will be. I caught someone looking over at me, who asked are you glad you came? I guess it was obvious that I am not easy in certain situations. I replied I haven’t decided yet, and I think that is still true. I think my favourite part of the experience was the next morning, having coffee in the kitchen with only a few remaining people, where it was easier to get a sense of what these people were really like, and easier to be myself a bit more. Someone asked me advice on how to order and sort their first collection, and it was really nice to be asked by a poet I respect, because it was the first time I’ve sort of felt any respect from any of the group, and got any sense of if they think I am any good or not! So, see- ask- people do like to be asked. I will have to try it myself.

Later on the Sunday I met up with Kate Fox, who was doing gigs in London- (I think she will be the next John Hegley, remember you heard it hear first folks!) We checked into a B&B in Bethnel Green called City Inn Hotel (think they could use an editor on the name- but maybe they couldn’t decide if they wanted to be thought of as something cozy like an inn or claim the importance of hotel, so I’ll let them off!) It was quirky little place, right next door to a chippy called Mr Cod. The entrance was just a door, and then a long thin corridor lit up with pink and blue and green strip lights, and felt a bit like the light and the tunnel would lead to stripper heaven. Inside it was very clean, and welcoming. The foyer was dominated by a big screen TV with sky one on, cream leather couches and members of staff sort of hanging out in ties. It was a bit like walking into someone’s very clean front room. There were odd family looking photos in frames, and a couple of framed pictures of Princess Diana, with no explanation. The room was clean and neat with white sheets and a clean bathroom with a shower, and our own complaint was the kettle in the room, but no cups and milk and t-bags. Later I went and asked for these items, and the staff was very obliging but very puzzled as to why we may want them. I could see them wondering if it has something to do with being from so far North, again this seemed to puzzle some members of staff, when I said we were from Newcastle (in the North) they asked if it was snowing in Bradford, and one told me he had been to Halifax. Another staff member wanted to know what my job in the Russian military was, and said my English was very good. The arts centre were Kate was performing was in walking distance, and a lovely building that looked new and bright on the outside, but was surprising on the inside. We climbed many stairs to find the workshop room, and found that it was a chapel of some kind, with old wood everywhere, and ornate carved things with little attic windows to the sky. This was the best aspect of the workshop, as I felt that it had been advertised as something different to what it was. A few participants left because it wasn’t what they had anticipated, and I was reminded of how often small things like how an event is advertised can so often go wrong, and need to be verified, and people in the workshop asked their expectations at the beginning. The workshop was for performance, not to deal with poetry, but the problem was that anyone getting to perform their work and be in receipt of tips of how to improve upon it could only get to do this in the last half hour of the 2 and a half hour session, so it all felt crammed in, and there wasn’t enough time for everyone who wanted to do this to have the opportunity. I really wanted to benefit from this, and possibly get up for the open mic, but ended up feeling that it was more important to give time to people who rarely got the opportunity to perform their work, since they were all dying to do it. It is a shame there wasn’t more balance in the workshop to allow everyone a go though.

It was interesting to see the performances later that night however. I have no experience of seeing London performance poetry events, and this is the first one I have been to. The standard was very high, and my favourite poet of the evening was Jay Bernard. Her poetry was dark, and very powerfully written, and the sort of poetry that works on the page, with images that leap out at you (I really wanted to buy her book, but there wasn’t one for sale.) Her manner of reading was very understated, and she didn’t offer much in the way of information about herself, but the audience was listening, really listening because the quality of the poems spoke for themselves. It was the sort of performance that leaves you wanting more, as if your appetite has been wetted and only the starter given to you, and I was taken by how rare this is. Often with performances of poetry it feels as if the poet has displayed a full package of work and themselves on stage for you to see completely, and even the best poems aren’t necessarily poems you feel you need to read, and want again.

(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.

My relationship with performance poets is a difficult one, in that it is so alien to me, yet I can see how they are skilled and talented, and work hard. Often they manage to receive more appreciation, recognition, and positive affirmation than most non performance poets, which is inevitable since their work reaches the public more, and is more likeable. Although I can see the talent of such performers, there is a part of me that is a little disappointed that audiences don’t respond (or often even show) to events of more ordinary poets (I am not talking about the work of the poets, but the delivery.) A part of me is concerned that non performance poets don’t stand a chance. The fact is performance poets will always get more gigs, more audience members, and sell more books and CD’s than all but the big names of non performance poets. They therefore always receive more feedback, and it seems that there is a career ladder for them to climb. But I worry about the future of non-performance poets, where there seems to be no such ladder. I worry about how they keep going, how they know when they are getting better, what makes it all worthwhile?

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.

The train announced that we were in Darlington, and I literally whopped, just couldn’t keep the sound in my mouth. I had to be unfaithful to the North East it by going to London for the weekend. I forgot how much I love the North East, even if it doesn’t much like me.