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.

Morden Tower

Last night I went to Morden Tower. Bob Beagrie and Kalle Niinikangas were reading from Perkelle, accompanied by Milo Thelwall and Shaun Lennox. The night was compared by Kate Fox. I went along to show support, but ended up being asked to read at last minute (good job I washed my hair afterall before I went out.) It was an odd night, a night of powerful performances of poetry with music which I enjoyed, which was overshadowed by a feeling of disappointment on my part by the lack of audience. The quality of the poetry and its pairing with the music, made this a really magical night, and an enjoyable one- so why people didnt come I don't understand. The event was plugged in various e-mails, and has been plugged at other events-so I have no idea. It makes me sad for the Finns who have come so far more than anything else, but makes me a little bewildered as to where all the poets are (if we assume there are no poetry fans, that every poetry lover is infact a poet- which i am starting to believe.) Is it a case of cliques? Do people only to come to events featuring their friends? (which would explain why poets from Middlesbrough and Darlington are unable to get an audience in Newcastle.) It saddens me particularly because what poets like Andy Willoughby and Bob Beagrie are doing with musicians is so good, unique and entertaining (yes, entertaining, I can't say that for all the poetry readings I've been to unfortunately.) (Isn't it sad that when we think of poetry one of the words that doesn't readily come to mind is 'entertaining' come to think of it, if we are to expect people to sacrifice their time and energy coming out to things we should make the effort to make them entertaining more often.) I'd feel better if it was only OK, reasonable poets and the music was alright, but there is something so disheartening about knowing something is good, and not being recognised sufficeiently. Once again i will give the poetry scene of newcastle the benefit of the doubt, and say that perhaps people didn't come because it was Good Friday, and people tend to go away for the weekend at Easter. (To be honest even i wasn't enthused about the prospect of having to put some slap on and leave the house, when I would have rather liked to chill out in comfy clothes with a can of beer, but it was worth it.) A friend suggested to me that maybe people think Finnish poets and assume it will be boring,but I don't think most people have enough of a concept of what the Finn poets are about to reach this conclusion.

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 America, which don’t seem to be available in this country whatsoever. I read two books about a cheesecake pin-up, and I hope they will help me to write one or two poems that will relate to the porn sequence (they will be about a different character, though still set in America, and in a very different and more innocent era.) I am also reading a book about female criminals, which is sketchy and sensationalist, but may provide one or two names for people I would like to research further at a later date.

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

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 12^th 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(Harrison?- it was loud in there, and I was straining to hear the intro) who sang like an angel who has fallen to earth. This was the best Hydrogen Jukebox I have been to in a very long time, the night sparked with energy and offered a smorgasboard of North east talent that is second to none (where were all these people when I read in February?! I’m really trying hard not to take these things personally, but at the moment it seems there is nowt like me to clear a room!) As always the night ended with an open mic, which was as eclectic and darn right odd as ever, regulars took the stage including Mr Cabbage- a singer/songwriter who sang his song about failed romance to an 80's synth pop backing track ( including the word y-fronts in the song.) Also I had to witness my worst nightmare, I always have a terrible fear of standing up in front of an audience (so many things could go wrong, I could fart, I could vomit, I could die, or equally as bad my flies could fall, down.) One of the open mic acts got up with flies down, that gradually fell further and further down throughout their act. (I did actually shout out flies, flies, tried to warn them, but since it was me people probably just assumed that I was refering to the imaginary insects crawling round in my brain.) It was terrible, I couldn't look at the stage, and still had to look now and then to keep an eye on the situation. Always always check your flies before going on stage, get button flies if poss.

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 5^th 06

Last night I went to Exploding Alphabets at Morden Tower. This is the first time I have been to this event, which is on monthly ( I like how the dates work, as it is easy to remember, the 4^th of the 4^th, the 5^th of the 5^th, etc.) It was an enjoyable night, though a strange one. I didn’t know anybody there, and to be honest felt absolutely ancient since everybody there was in their early 20’s at the most. The night is ran in a very relaxed fashion, the idea is it is a place for new work, poetry but also songs, and there is no schedule for the night, people just get up and read when they want to. (The only problem with this is if you are shy you don’t want to just get up because you are worried that doing so may take time away from other people, and you are not sure how many people there have stuff they want to read- so maybe there are advantages of doing a quick head count of who may want to read at the beginning.) A problem I found was that because everyone there seemed to know each other no one said what their name was when they read, which frustrated me as I like to put a name to work.) What I liked about the night was the inclusion of music amongst poets, which is something that should be done more often ( a young woman who sang without accompaniment was brilliant, sang an amazing and uplifting version of Nina Simone’s Feeling Good- like I said, I wish people had offered their names.) I was amazed at the turnout, which was high, of mostly very young people. These are people I have never seen at poetry events before (where it is nearly always the same faces), and I am wondering why (would like to put it down to the venue, except for the turn out being so poor when the Finns read at the tower), wondering what it takes to get people like this to gigs. Quite a small percentage of the audience read work, so the obvious answer of people turning out to where they can read their work needn’t apply. It’s a mystery to me. I felt that if they like Exploding Alphabets they would have enjoyed the night the Finns read, where there was a good mix of performance, poetry, and music, but how do we get them there? I felt a bit out of place all night, on account of not knowing anyone really, and being too old (and had the feeling that the audience would be thinking, who’s this old bag? What’s she doing here?) I read a short little poem I wrote while I was sitting there, and later read a new poem I actually wrote on the day of the last Exploding Alphabets (thought never turned up to read it due to the snow- what a wimp!)

March 29th 06

March 29^th 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 18^th 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.

The following week I was a lot better, but was still suffering sort of that after ill feeling, where you just feel pretty wobbly and knackered (and are still coughing.) On Friday night I went to Colpitts in Durham, I don’t get to get there as often as I would like, but I really wanted to go as Jo Colley was reading from her Punchdrunk pamphlet. (Matt Fraser was also supposed to be reading, but had to cancel at last minute due to having a cold, and Andy Willoughby read instead at only and hour and a half’s notice.) Both were brilliant readings. I have seen both poets read several times, and still felt very moved by this reading (which is possibly Jo Colley’s best.) It is a long time since I have seen Andy Willoughby in quiet mode when reading his work, and it was nice to see the different elements of his work, and enjoy the strength and subtlety of the words alone (no music, no shouting, no “glibness of showman’s patter”.) They are two different things, reading and performing, Willoughby does both extremely well. I forgot how enjoyable no frills poetry readings can be, the power words can have.

Willoughby was followed by Jo Colley’s Punchdrunk piece, which involves projected images and sounds to accompany the poems about her father and alcoholism. The poems are razor sharp, intense, and extremely controlled, each one works well individually, but together they paint a vivid picture, snapshots from lives of scenes nobody ever took photographs off (the things nobody wants to remember.) It is bold work, with a lot of guts, and no apology, that deals with harsh subject matter. The work feels important, says things that need to be said, and the poems include brutality and tenderness effortlessly. Punchdrunk is the best pamphlet I’ve read all year. The overall effect of the presentation of the poems with the images and sounds is stunning, leaves the audience feeling melancholoy, introverted, gasping for breath. I wanted to sit in the dark a little longer after it had ended, just to let it sink in, and subside. But it was time to go home. I had a little chat with Jo and Andy and enjoyed a glass of wine with them. All felt good with the world, relaxed, pleasant, fun even- I forgot what it’s like to enjoy people’s company, to enjoy poetry and wine with friends.

March 13th 06

March 13^th 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 Newcastle poets actually think. It actually seemed I was getting a lot more encouragement, warmth and people liking my work before I was ever published, so I hope that it is a case of people making an effort to encourage new writers and not just thinking I am suddenly crap or arrogant and unreceptive of feedback. There are always going to be people who never comment your work, never seem to like it, never buy the book, and just don’t seem to like you or the stuff full-stop. I am still trying to figure out how poets maintain their confidence and keep going in the face of this, and I think the small amounts of feedback or support we are able to get is the answer. These little things become hugely important, and it may be a line of defending my own insecurities, but I think many poets may feel this way. After all, in a way it is a lonely occupation, seen by some as a hobby- which doesn’t help. Even those who succeed in having work published will be working away on a collection for a few years, that is an awful lot if silence, time to think, time to worry if the work justifies the self indulgence of the time spent. So we cling to minor small affirmations, no wonder.

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!

The theme last night was winter, though I didn’t know about this, but did make an effort to read some poems about snow. Another thing I didn’t know about the event was that the poems had to be new. This is a tricky category, since Sex with Elvis came out only the back end of last year the poems aren’t exactly old (I only read one poem from it anyway, Pornographic Snow People, because it seemed apt.) Also, the poems in Hardcore were only finished in December- but I was very aware that people may think those poems aren’t new, since they are in the unusual position of having been published so near completion (I am certain that some of the new poems people read are actually no newer than this, and yet I still felt worried that these poems would be seen as old work.) So what is it that makes a poem a new poem? Is it how long ago it was written, or its relation to the public? Can poems that may be years old can be classed as new poems if they have never been published or been read many times? Are poems that weren’t written too long ago automatically old poems if they have been out and about a little? I don’t know the answer to this, I wonder if anyone does, so I just had to hope people weren’t seeing me as cheating somehow. Fortunately, a friend of mine had planned to attend (who in the end couldn’t make it with the snow) who was interested in the new poems I have been writing, so I had planned to include four of these for her. Now these are poems I am certain are brand new since I only wrote them last month, and it was nice to have the chance to read them. In terms of how I read, I’d say not very well. I was definitely Angela rather than Angel, and with the proper poets there, no poetry allies there, and a small audience I wasn’t able to find the reading zone. I just had to keep going, a plain straight read, that was pretty intonation and personality free. Someone came up after to tell me they liked the new poems, and ask which actress the poems were based on, which really pleased me and made me feel happy about the poems, which you just couldn’t tell if anyone was enjoying while I was reading them. And another person came up and said they liked the set and wanted to buy Sex with Elvis and Hardcore. Both people are poets, and people I don’t know to talk to whatsoever, so it was nice to hear they liked my stuff- like I said small things.

All the readers at The Bridge were very accomplished poets and very relaxed on stage, but the highlight of the evening for me was seeing Ali May read (partly because I haven’t seen him read in such a long time.) It is always a real thrill to be in the presence of Ali’s poems and very effortless and natural style, which really makes an audience at ease.) For those of you who haven’t seen Ali, he is like a modern Zen poet- his pared down poems are glimpses of everyday life, and extraordinary in their ability of capturing a great deal beyond their words. The brevity of the poems means that he is able to read about twenty poems in set a set, with no explanations in between, and no intonation or emphasis in his voice, yet he is like a runaway train on stage. The poems keep the audience captive, and in an odd way so does the lack of performance to him ( I must speak to him one day and ask if he ever had to practice to obtain his non performance performance style, but I’m sure he’d say it is as natural to him as the poems.)

My favourite poem of the evening was Lisa Matthews’ The Waltham Zippy’s, which took a very everyday and seemingly light hearted subject matter (of zippy from rainbow in a shop window) and managed to infuse it with sadness and longing, which was so unexpected it was breathtaking.

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.

1st March 06

March 06

1^st March 06

It is only the 1^st 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 20^th- 28^th

Read at Sam’s Place in Boro on Wednesday night, to plug Hardcore. Again, I had to keep it clean. I had to read first this time, as it was Chris Searle’s launch. Boro is a funny place for me, I have only read there three times. There seems to be this whole is she a Boro poet or Newcastle poet attitude, I think the poets in Boro think of me as a Newcastle poet, and the poets in Newcastle see me as a Boro poet. Nobody wants to take responsibility! Don’t blame ‘em! So I don’t get asked to read in Boro, unless Andy or Bob are doing an event. Last year was the first time I have really read there, and I was so nervous, more nervous than usual, because that whole hometown thing is difficult. It is like they know. Don’t ask me what, but they do. Maybe I worry they will dislike me for leaving the town they love. Truth is I don’t think I’d ever have been writing if I stayed in Middlesbrough, I think I had to go away and be anonymous to do it. You know, sort of no pressure to do well, but also none of those people who have known you as being bad at stuff to expecting you to fail. I would have still written, but would never have taken it out of the house I think. The gig was Ok, I felt very quiet in comparison to Chris Searle, who was one of those very authoritative male readers, you know the type, who sound so right reading poetry, so confident and well spoken that you always feel like you are being made to stand up in an assembly at school. I wished I was a man, so I could be louder and clearer. I wished I was posh and had no regional accent- which is funny, since this was a gig at Middlesbrough. I got through it though, and I hope it was OK. I realized that the whole class and region thing leaves my mind when I read with the Finns, which is wonderful, and so rare. I was the only woman reading at most of the gigs when the Finns were here, so I guess I could concentrate on that chip on my shoulder instead. I didn’t wish I was a man this time though, I think it had something to do with what I was reading.

On Friday night I read at the tower again. This time it was John Hegley’s gig, and Connie had phoned me out of the blue and asked if I would read. I have no idea how she got my number, since it is rare I give it out. Only about three writers have it. It is even more unusual I answered my phone actually. Either way, that’s how it happened. Shaun came up and we did some poems with guitar. I’m so glad he came, as he is such a pleasure to work with. All week I was struggling with what to read, part of me thinking I should go back and do some of the cheerier more performancey poems in Unholy Trinity, and part of me wanting to do newer stuff, not try to be funny just to fit in. In the end my compromise was to read one old poem, and the rest were stuff from Sex with Elvis and Hardcore. I figured I’d be better off just doing what I do, since to be honest even if I read funny poems it’s not as if people will laugh like they do to John Hegley. He has something very likeable about him that audiences respond to I think, even when he does some of the poems I think are actually sad poems about his childhood people laugh. I am always so odd at gigs, people there I have met before have am so bad at speaking to. I spoke to three people at this gig, managed to piss off Paul Batchelor by saying "Nice coat. Looks warm. You look like a policeman." See this is why I'm not allowed to talk to people. So I didn’t attempt to do anything but do my poems. For the first time ever someone came up after and asked if I had a CD which they could buy, which I don’t, but still, it’s nice to be asked. That phrase sort of summarises the whole night really.

So far this blog is misleading, it looks as if I am reading all the time, and going out. But the truth is I have done more readings in the beginning of this year than I did in total last year, which I suppose is shocking, given Sex with Elvis came out last year. People just don’t seem to ask that much. And that’s before Hardcore; imagine how unpopular I’ll be with the ‘spunk’?

February 13th-17th

February 06

13^th-17^th 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 30^th 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 Finland) and very unique. I felt like I wanted to apologise for England somehow, not sure why. The tower gig was my favourite gig of the week, the atmosphere was really lively, and despite the small audience (numbers wise, I don’t think I saw any little people) everyone really got into their readings and gave it their all. Andy Willoughby read a seamless and energetic Flesh of the Bear (accompanied by Shaun Lennox on guitar and Milo Thelwall on violin and other things) and Bob Beagrie really went for it in an awesome version of 20^th Century Chicken. Bob is a poet who never ceases to amaze me, not only because of his work, but how he reads it. I remember seeing him read about 6 years ago, and he seemed very shy and a bit nervous, a few years later I saw him read again and he had transformed. He started off with very quiet poems and then just sort of flicked a switch and went for it at the tower, which was great to see, not only that it was poetry you felt wrapped up in involved in, the music just got to you, and the words jumped on your skin. Seeing how Bob has evolved as a reader really gives me hope, I used to think there are two types of people, those who are natural performers and have some sort of innate confidence, charisma and seem born to it, and those who are good poets and the readings are secondary. People like Bob have made me realise that reading your work as best you can is a skill you can learn, and become better at, even if you are not someone who finds it natural to be in the public eye. Tapani read his poems in Finnish, and amazed everyone by taking off his shirt and putting a pair of black tights on his head for the final poem (it’s ok, they were his wife’s’, but still!) It felt like a one off evening, that you just could never repeat, poetry felt live and full of energy and life, it came right out at you, and it seems I can count gigs like that I’ve been to on one hand.

As for me, I read last. I was thinking I might read second to last, as Tapani is the main turn kind of thing. It was odd to finally read the poems out loud in public, I wrote them, and they harder than my usual stuff, and then I realized I’d have to say words like spunk in front of people. The poems aren’t gratuitous; I had a reason for writing them. I wanted to write about some things we wouldn’t talk about, the lack of intimacy and knowledge in seemingly intimate situations, and the power relations between genders. I have made an effort in the past year to use words that make me uncomfortable sometimes, as it seems the only way to strip them of the power they have. But reading them aloud, saying them? I never considered that, and suddenly it was a worry. I figured the only way to do it was to be less apologetic than I usually am. I always apologise when I read, I have a sorry I exist sort of vibe that it seems I can’t shake, I feel that way and it comes out. I decided with these poems the only way to read them was not to apologise, or I wouldn’t get through them. Afterwards, the Finns got drunk, and when they came back to mine they wanted curry. Kalle spent about 20 minutes picking up rice he had dropped one grain at a time, with a look of concentration on his face. It seemed important to him, maybe it’s a Finn thing, so I kept out the way.

Later in the week, there were readings at Darlington Hydrogen Jukebox on Tuesday, and two readings on Thursday in Middlesbrough. It was a tiring day, one reading at lunchtime, and one in the evening. I had to be selective about which poems I could get away with for an older lunchtime audience, but it seemed to go down OK. Three different older ladies came to see me after and said they liked my nana poems, and it was lovely to hear. I suppose I’ve never considered that an older audience may like any of my work, so it was an eye opener, and really very unexpected. I suppose when I think of my work I imagine only girls in their twenties possibly liking it, of course you don’t see many of them at poetry events- which may be the problem.

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 America. I read some Leonard Cohen, and there was one book I couldn’t put down, which was the Traci Lords biography. I knew I needed it for research, but didn’t make any notes when I read it, which worried me. I think I just needed it to stay in my head for a while, knowing I might come back to it was enough for the time being.

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?