Last night of the fayre

I've been deep into collection sorting, editing, and wishing I'd written the poems originally on A5 because when you get to that point of formatting them A4 everything looks disturbingly different. I have a horrible hatred of small visual things like a poem going over a page by only one line or two and am having to go through everything to make sure this never happens. Of course a poem should be as long as it needs to be, but the control freak in me, that wants everything neat won't allow for such indulgent thoughts. The collection is alot longer than I realised and I will have to embark on editing like crazy, because there are still a few poems that need to go in there that would explain why I've chosen the subject matter. The poems however work as sets that will chronicle a life, so deciding which ones can or should be ommitted is difficult without losing the narrative. Still sorting that, will be a fair way off I think.

Last night was the final Hydrogen Jukebox. It was a great night, and a sad night. The place was packed, too packed in a way for the evening to be that enjoyable, since the room was too full to ever reach so and so over there you'd quite like to say hi to, etc, but a great night of entertainment.This was one hell of a gathering of North east poets, most of which read a poem or two. Paul Summers started the evening reading a full set from his new book Bela's Dirty Cafe, which is a collection I have been waiting for for a very long time, and amazingly wasn't disappointed in. It is always a pleasure to see Summers read, he reads with such energy and passion to the North east as a cause he supports. The set, like the book, was a mixture of explorations of masculinity and it's meaning in everyday life, and a more haunting lyrical journey into places, people and mortality. The people in his book are somehow fossils, beautiful, neglected , a product of time and place. We can see their spines but never touch the world of pressure that has gone before. The poems made me feel awed, reverant, sad because it all seemed so true. The poems make me feel that is is a poet who never lies, colours the truth, not even a dash- that what is there is just what there is, presented in a breathtaking way.

Following Mr Summers were poems from Jo Colley, Andy Willoughby, Kevin Cadwallender,
Bob Beagrie, Andy Croft, Jeff Price, and a whole host of others I only know the first name of. A complete smorgasboard of poets and poetic style, including shamanic journeys into Siberia from Willoughby (accompanied by didj maestro Kevin Howard.) There is so much to say about this night I can hardly say anything. The most surprising performance of the evening was Bob Beagrie's new poem Nice Hat- a poem about a man in Finland admiring the narrator's hat. Such a simple idea, that elaborated became really funny and energetic as the admirers conspire against him

"Hey, nice fucking hat...
Him in the hat he thinks he is inwincible"

This poem really creased me, and I was surprised because when I have seen Bob Beagrie read before I have seen him be many things: shamanic, soulful, spiritual, introspective ,even manic, but never side-splittingly funny, and it was real joy to see.

As for me, I was thrown by lack of a musician, as I really wanted to Sex with Elvis to love me tender, which seemed perfect for last HJ, so i had to do somethingelse last minute. Surrounded by great poets and all these testosterone filled performers I decided not to try and do any of the poems that would require trying to compete (and failing), and opted to do two quiet little poems (Undertaking Elvis, and Swallows.) Very forgettable really, but not as bad as it could have been since I haven't read since February. Lots of people I might never see again, so much growth by so many performers, and so much opportunity provided by one event for poets to push their work into new directions. . I just hope I won't return to that void I was deeply entrecnched when I first was invited to HJ. I was writing, but had given up finishing things -without any feedback, never seeing other poets, no place to share work and knew no poets to talk to. It was difficult to have faith in my work and push myself into new directions without some feeling of community, example and encouragement to feed on. I think to keep going under such circumstances you need alot of faith in yourself and your work, perhaps more than I will ever have.

Here's to the Hydrogen Jukebox. The end of an era. So what now?