Extract

Extract from a poem

The leaves quiver an elderly hand,
so slight I need to adjust my eyes.
Rustle of breeze like a prom dress
being tucked into a car,
hum of tractor far away
as Mom's hoover at the foot of the stairs.

I saw a picture of sunflowers once,
a swirl of sky so angry you knew it cared.
There is just this, warm, light.
With my eyes half-shut
I have learnt to be my own Van Gogh.

Rainy Bank Holiday

Last night I had a dream that my tongue was involved in some sort of accident with a fishing rod, and I had to live without a tongue- couldn't speak, taste a thing, and it made me quite depressed in the dream. I woke up, couldn't get back to sleep right away, and later dreamt that I had a butterfly in a jar, it was an amzing thing, I had caught and wanted to show to someone before I released it, but I was in my old school and none of my schoolmates would look at it.

This morning I woke up to another rejection from a poetry magazine, the bog standard variety. One of the poems I sent is probably one of the best I've ever written, or at least that's how I feel about it. The problem with sending to mags is the ability to hold on to how you feel about your work is threatened, maybe this can sometimes be a good thing. It was a sad poem, not neutral feeling at all, and I am wondering if this is a problem. Seems emotion in alot of work magazines favour can be a liability, and not something that can be harnessed. All day today I am clashing my tongue against the back of my teeth to see it is still there, wondering if I make a sound- and if it exists if no one hears it.

The proper poets

This week I have been working on how to approach the life of a Cheesecake pin-up model in poetry form. There has been a problem getting into it, because I have found so much contradictory information about her life. The question is who do I beleive, and having to decide which side I will take somehow. In the end I wrote a poem in which I described one event twice, projecting both versions of events, which seeemed more interesting than I imagined, in questioning what truth is, how memory is constructed. Perhaps both versions of events are reliant upon eachother to exist. Really I should have been writing prose this week, but the research I had done was pressing upon me to make a commitment and decide how I would tackle it. I wanted to tie up poetry loose ends before delving into prose because I always feel with prose I never know how long it will take. I don't with a poem, but at least a draft is in sight.

Also this week I went to two poetry events. The first was a reading by Paul Batchelor and W.N Herbert at Newcastle University. I was uncertain about going to this event, I think because it was at the university, and because it was required to book a place to attend (I worry that events which do this potentially exclude people who may not know if they can attend until on the night itself, or people like myself who can't speak on the phone.) I am sort of very wrong at the uni, the room was full of academics and proper poets, lots of people who don't know me, and lots of people who have met me once or twice but don't really want to speak to me (just as well, I am even more useless in this context and sort of hear my voice bleat useless hello's, but am too intimidated to have anything else to say.) (OK, a quick diversion to describe what I mean by proper poets, I think this is something I need to think about. I suppose the term refers to people I consider to be serious poets somehow, either by the content of their work or by the fact that they are recognised, known and respected as poets. Proper poets leave me feeling somehow improper I suppose, somehow inferior because of the things I write about maybe, but also because I'm not there. I am not a hobbyist with my poetry, as it is something I am passionate about, but somehow respectable poets leave me feeling like a poet YTS.)

This event was really packed out, literally every man and his dog (the proper poets can really rake them in.) There was a good mix of men and women in the audience, which was unusual. (Last month there was a reading by female poets and the audience was exclusively female (this doesn't beg the question to me, it screams it- what lies at the heart of this? It seems to indicate that women who like poetry are interested in hearing it whatever its source, but this does not seem to apply the other way around. I refuse to accept that male poetry lovers are somehow more discerning, or that the quality of poetry by women is generally inferior to that by men. I am still thinking about this, and have noted that when I have seen lists of poets favourite poets it is very very rare for female poets to be included on the lists of men. Is it just me who finds this insulting?)

Batchelor read from his new pamphlet To photograph a Snow Crystal (everyone knows this is a poet on the rise, and I mean this in an actual way, not in how we usually use this term to talk kindly about poets who aren't yet known, so I won't go into the quality of his poems- we all know it, since the poems are a competition winner.) I almost feel as if some poets are a different type of species to myself, perhaps because of the quality and content of the work, and I feel ill-equipped to venture my opinion when the poets are academics. Batchelor's poems are very clean and precise, at their best they are like a crystal through which we can see the real nature of light. My favourite poems in the pamphlet are those which illuminate specific details of real life (sometimes the ordinary becoming extraordinary, as in Butterwell, a poem which is not in the pamphlet which the poet ended the reading on, in which the simple act of his father returning from work is transformed.) The poems are controlled, almost scientific, but if the poems are a science they are a science of the human condition, providing space for thought. My favourite poems in the pamphlet are those which seem somehow haunting, almost lonely.

' A day
with nothing to say for itself, and morning
making light of it. Who in the world
might she have been? You draw the blinds
& turn back to the bed as one
by one the panes fill up with snow.'

(from Snow, To Photograph a Snow Crystal- Paul Batchelor)

In contrast to some of the poems I was surprised at the humour, and humanity of his introductions to poems. Like I said, this is an event of a whole different poetry species ( the respected poets) so I didn't expect humour and honesty at an event at the university (don't ask me why, something to do with my own fear that middle class/academic people are somehow robots, I am prepared to accept that many of them may not be, but they usually have to demonstrate otherwise somehow first!) Batchelor seemed to create an atmosphere of inclusivity for the audience by allowing chinks of humanity to be glimpsed in his introductions to the poems. (I think introducing a poem well is a skill that isn't thought about too much, the danger of saying too much or negating the poem is always present, and the tendency to say too little is there. What I actually realised is that audiences do like to hear little bits to create the illusion that they know the poet a little, that he/she is sharing something of themselves with them. This is something I need to work on, since I have the feeling that the less I can share of myself the better, as I hope the poems are alot more interesting than I am.) There was a comfort in hearing Batchelor's mother said she ' liked this poem, it reminded her Ruby don't take your love to town, by Kenny Rogers', and it was this sort of revelation that was surprising in the midst of (some of) the poems.

W.N Herbert read following Batchelor, and I was again surprised at the energy he put into presenting his work, and the inclusion of humour in the poems and the presentation of them. I haven't seen this poet read before, and he wasn't as I imagined him to be at all. The audience lapped it up. The only thing that I was slightly disappointed by perhaps is that although the poems were presented in a very confident and engaging fashion, there was less of that illusion of the poet revealing something of himself to the audience, and I was left wondering what this poet may actually be like really under all of this. The advantage of this of course could be the creation of intrigue. I will certainly be reading more W.N Herbert in the future, not only because it was of a high standard (like I said why go there? since this is a uni event and a Bloodaxe poet we knew that) but perhaps because I want to see if there is any sense of who this poet really is to be gleamed from inspection of the poems.

The following night I went to Colpitts in Durham, to see Jackie Litherland read from her new book The Work of the Wind (I really can't wait to read this book from cover to cover.) This was another extremely well attended event, and I suppose another situation in which I am uncomfortable in. (What I discovered from the two events being in sucession was that people's reaction to seeing me at events is to say 'I haven't seen you in a long time. are you alright?' This really surprises me since I do go to a fair few events, not every event granted (or there wouldn't be time to write, or do those pesky things that need doing in life to ensure free head space for writing time- in my case, at this time of year re-potting plants, and sorting through rooms with binbags of things for the charity shop, things for recycling, things that will get in the way when I have to gloss the skirters.) (Perhaps people say this because they just don't know what to say to me, because after all these years I've still never managed to have a conservation with any of them beyond how is work?) Jackie Litherland's reading was amazing in so many ways, the sheer volume of work in this book is intimidating in alot of ways (the fact that there are 60 sonnets in the book is something that makes me realise how far I have to go.) The poems are lyrical, sad, and at times funny, but always ferocious with life, and she defly combines all these elements in deeply personal poems which never contain an ounce of self pity, bitterness, or anger. What the poems do is present loss, grief, the ordinary things that become extraordinary in everyday life, and most of all love, a very human tenderness is in these poems, and we see love, relationships that are sometimes mundane, predictable but always magical. This is a love that is sometimes full of holes that have had to be darned again and again in different ways, the poems show this working, love happening between different people negotiating who they are and what is there everyday. I felt extremely moved at the reading to hear poems about her father, poems about alcoholism, life and grief. I forgot about class, and didn't care, the poems seemed so specific and yet universal. I forgot how uncomfortable I was, how I didn't fit right, how I hate my hands and couldn't seem to hide them, and was transported by the poems. A poem which was a celebratory tide of a baby forming cyllables on the beach seemed to demonstrate the remarkable skills of this poet, a subject which could so easily become sentimental and be difficult to tackle in a poem flowed effortlessly, beautifully, a celebration. This was truly an inspiring night, a humbling night, and something that has made me think about how there are still things I've never been able to write about to any satisfaction, and perhaps never will.

Holy smoke

Having an odd week, after such a good week last week with the writing of poems about pigs. I've just returned from a few days away in Holy Island , a writing retreat with some poetry colleagues. Came back feeling? Odd. That's about the only word. I haven't stayed on Holy Island before, and the place is so different to anything I've experienced before, it is such a beautiful place, and I went expecting the isolation. What I didn't expect was that because the island is so small you can never really be alone, you go for a walk and there is always someone everywere you go, strangers. It is a quiet place were I seemed unbareably loud, the jangle of change in my pocket, the buckles of my boots, I felt invisible in many ways when I was there, and yet almost wanted to be because the place demands it. Travel is a funny thing, you start to think too much, because there is no one there who knows you, about who you are really, and it seems a difficult question to answer. We are all so constructed by the people around us, what they see, what they reflect back to us, that being away makes you wonder what is really there, wonder if there's anything at all. All around the island there are notices, signs to make you aware of things that could happen, intructions: Beware of falling rocks,
We are not a cafe,
Naturally occurring poisonous algae,
a strange feeling of an awareness of visitors the islanders don't want to bother with. I have quite a high threshold of being able to be alone, but this feeling of not quite being alone is new to me, and something that made me an unwelcome visitor in my own skin.

As well as the physical aloneness I suppose there was that awful feeling of being misconstued, things you have said that have been re constructed by interpretation, which make you feel invisible in a more sad sort of way. I sat around worrying about not being entertaining, about being quiet, about people thinking I was not really there and engaging with them, and it was a feeling of being exposed I suppose, of people discovering the parts of you that are worried about on a bad day- what if I'm boring, silly,no good at it all, what if I just have nothing to say? I wanted to have jokes, to wear them like a mask and nothing would come. I just felt quiet, as if I was thinking about things I couldn't identify yet. In terms of the writing I took scattered notes and that's all, and I realised that my process has changed. I used to be a workshop poet, could write something there and then and have something to show. For some reason I'm not like that anymore (mostly those workshop poems could never be used again anyway, maybe 1 in 10) , something has changed and i'd be interested to know why. I just take notes now, the odd line, which I have to put away and return to, and be at my desk to sort out. To see the poems typed as I make them seems essential, for the spacial awareness. If I was to describe now the way I used to write I'd say it was like making a stir fry,so many colours, a little flash tumbling into one another, now it is more of a casserole, plainer but needs to simmer for so long. I didn't know this about myself, I think something about being given the time to spend on my writing may have something to do with it, I can approach everything alot more slowly,have more time to think. I didn't see that I am working in a different way, and just sort of needed time to process the things I had thought about there. When I came home I was able to process all those odd little notes more I think, and have written two poems (one of them quite long, one short.) I am saying this stupidly, as if size matters, and maybe sometimes with me it does, most of my favourite poems are quite short, but when it comes to my own work I somehow feel more justified to myself if I have produced more lines (which is just so wrong, and something I hope will go if I can gain more confidence in my abilities.)

The whole experience was interesting. The negative thing about it was thinking too much, being faced with my own limitations, and wondering if my poems are any good and if I will get them out there. I think I am thinking about this because I am at a stage with the current poems were I have been writing away, and am in need of some reaction to them/feedback, as the doubts are trying to creep in before I've actually given the poems a chance. My hunch is they are different to my previous work, but are they better? They are certainly simpler, but am not sure if that's a good thing. They are more assured in the respect that they do not try to be clever or witty in any way. But I don't know if this is a bad thing. I was trying to think of working class women poets who have made good, and couldn't think of many at all. In terms of poems in magazines, poets who win competitions, etc etc they seem to have alot in common, a sort of class neutrality, and often location neutrality, which doesn't allow for exceptions.Don't get me wrong, they are always good poets, but is it possible that poetry isn't as open to diversity as much as we would like think? Cultural diversity seems to be embraced by poetry, with this one exception. It also seems to be somehow more acceptable to be a working class man than a working class woman. I worry about this a great deal. If I wasn't so working class, infact even if I was a man would magazines etc be more interested in my work? These are things I don't want to think about, that suspicion that I'm just not the right type of poet, but maybe I have to. So the question is what can I do about this?

I wanted to wear the shoes in the picture when I was away, because I so rarely am anywhere were I don't have to wear big shoes to be taller, but the weather didn't allow it. When I got back all the cherry blossoms I could see from my office window had gone.

oops- forgot

Oh , forgot to actually say what I've been up to. Came 2nd in an internet competition to write a poem about new year (was such a bummer to come second, in a way would have been better not to be placed at all, because the prize for 1st place was an ipod, and i'd love one- so near and so far!) I have no use for the second prize, some simm card back up thing, so just gave it to a friend. Still, I suppose these minor triumphs get us through the day. The poetry perculating bore fruit. Worked on a huge sequence last week about pigs, the first draft was finished on Friday, and it ended up having 16 parts (16 being the age it ends at, before the story has already been told, or rather seen.) Also been considering images and stuff to go with the porn poems (actually I call them that, there's very little adult content in them, it's just a working title I guess that I stick to). I think it would work nice as a package with images at a reading, so it's been a nice hobby for me to consider this at my leisure. Took a lovely little bit of footage of the tree outside blowing in the wind, but now need to find out if there is a way for it to be projected bigger without it losing all the definition (when blew it up on the PC became more pixilated the bigger it got- this is a huge problem, since had the camera on highest res possible. Wonder if doing it on a proper digital moving image camera would improve it or not?) I think I need to learn more about stuff like this, but am not sure how or where to start. There are so many more things I don't know than I do it's amazing some days, and scary others.

rejection

It didn't take long, sent out first bunch of work to magazine in 6 years last week, and got my first rejection today, less than a week since I sent it. It was the standard photocopied slip, no comments, the usual. I couldn't help but notice how pristine the poems seemed, wondered if they'd even been read. I think I'd have felt better if the magazine had kept hold of them a little longer somehow. Still, I knew this was coming, just didn't know how soon. I am looking at the poems wondering what it may be that they didn't like about them, and can come to the conclusion that maybe they aren't poemy enough. They probably don't have that poem tone somehow. I'm not sure how I define this, it is the sort of thing you know when you see it, when you read the poems that do make it into magazines. Quite often the poems that make it into mags are fairly quiet in tone, seem somehow mystical and mysterious. The poems I sent are new ones, and have a plainess to them, not complicated really, no tricks to them. This may be what will be wrong with them to the poetry world, I dunno, time will tell. I'm still wondering if sending work to magazines serves any function , other than to fluff the poet's own ego, and reinforcing their feeling of being a poet. Think people need this from tme to time perhaps, but is that all it does? I don't think I know anyone who has gained collection publication or readings or anything from getting work in magazines, I don't even know if it sells books, or any feedback from the poems is passed on and is useful. If you've experienced anything positive from sending work to mags let me know, I think I'd like to hear it's not just fluffing.

Also, this week I heard that Colpitts in Durham has limited days. This is really sad to hear. Colpitts is the only regular poetry night in Durham, and has been going for thirty years. It seems that alot of poetry nites are sizzling out, and I worry about this. There are alot of theories buzzing about about why nights may be disappearing: that they aren't getting the audience figures, aren't reaching new audiences, that the arts council have changed their funding criteria, that large arts institutions like The Sage and The Baltic mean there aren't enough funds to go around. I really don't know what the case is, maybe a combination of things. I just know that i would be sad to see Colpitts go, and that I worry about the future of poets in the region. It seems that poets plod along and there are less and less places for them to get together, read their work, and sell their books. There are alot of problems for poets, one of them is that book shops simply will not stock poetry (particularly by small presses.) (Recently I was on a quest to buy some poetry by Sharon Olds, I went in several book shops looking for her work. Not one poetry section had a single one of her collections. I eventually found one shop which stocked her selected works (but being a purist of readuing a collection as it was intended, this isn't reallty the same thing. yes, I could have asked them to look her up on the computer and order a book, I would have to go back for in a few weeks time, but the thing is, I wanted to see a few of her colections on the shelves, have a flick through them, and select the ones I felt held most value for me. Poetry in these shops isn't selling, I'm not surprised. Few people will buy what they cant see. Potentially I would have bought three books that day, in the end I bought none.) I wonder if independent presses will become a thing of the past if there are no regular poetry nights in existence where their books can be sold. What will happen to all the poets?

The general reputation and accessability of poetry is a huge problem. It seems the majority of the population just are turned off by it. There are many many writers producing exciting and vibrant work which I think could change people's minds about their associations with poetry being nothing other than stuff that seeemd irrelevant to them when they were made to study it at school- the problem is trying to get people aware of it. One way audience figures have improved is by incorporating music or comedy into poetry events, and this has worked well. But speaking as a writer I think poetry spaces which do not want to go down the open mic or slam route should be maintained and are due for a re evaluation, and re appreciation. I have read at both types of events in the past, and think both are vital for bringing poetry to life away from the page. Unfortunately the simple fact is books don't sell at events with musicians and comedy. The audience may be younger and therefore do not have the funds to buy books, and I have been to many poetry events were people attend for an open mic or a slam to read their own work and do not stay for the poets (or do not listen.) At events like this poets who are performance or comedy poets are able to gain the attention of the audience, but for those less skilled in this area it is a struggle. There are poems even skilled performers will not read at such events, because they are quieter or more serious poems, and there needs to be a space for poets to read good quality, though not necessarily funny or immediate work. I read at Colpitts a few years ago, and went there worried and holding perhaps some of the prejudices some people may have about such poetry nights.I was worried about not being middle class, about having a regional accent, and about how I would be received. The truth is I was delighted to find something unique there, that is a place were the audience really listen. This is somewhere that doesn't feel like a poularity contest, a battle of charisma or confidence to make the work heard, an attempt to be read your funnier stuff (that in your heart you know isn't as good as some of the serious poems in your bag that you daren't read because there is silence after them)- this is a space that is all about the words. It didn't matter how I read them, who I was or wasn't, words were allowed to stand up by themselves. (And I sold more books as a consequence than I had sold in the last 6 gigs combined.) I am ashamed to say that I am not currently a member of a library- how odd is that for a writer? The reason is that libraries have changed. The library were I live has been closed down. Libraries have been transformed somehow from what they used to be, and the concept of quiet and a librarian saying ssshhh is a thing of the past. Libraries are full of children, teenagers, mobile phones and people who come in to use the computers, and the need for quiet seems to have gone with the digital age. I don't like what they have become. I don't beleive poetry should be something in the exclusive domain of libraries, but nor should it belong exclusively to the domain of pubs. I am grateful that something like Colpitts still exists, an event that I can go to hear good quality poets, were the space a good poem needs is provided and understood.

Colpitts aim to re-apply and ask for reassessment of the decision to stop their funding, and I hope it is sucessful (or like I said, is the future of poetry performance poetry only? I don't think anyone would see this as a good thing?)

As for poetry being so poorly available in shops, I am extremely continually disappointed that The Baltic fails to stock a selection of regional writers in the book shop. A poetry section of regional writers in the Baltic bookshop would take up little space, and be a welcome addition, and way for an arts funded project to show support for artists in the region. It is easy, it's simple- so why don't they do it? Who knows. I also know that phoning to ask about this, or sending an email gets absolutely no response (hey, even a response explaining why this isn't their policy would be nice, and a courtesy.) What started me on this was reading with the Finns at the bookshop in The Museum of Modern art in Helsinki (which is a hell of a building, amazing) , who were very nice to the poets and happy to stock the book. Yet a reply could not be gained as to the prospect of The Baltic stocking the book from the Baltic poetry exchange. Seems that if somewhere like The Baltic would stock regional poets it would become somewhere that could host the ocasional reading in their bookshop (and given the aspect of the shop what better way to get people to see contemporary poets, people pass by on their way in and out.) One art institution supporting in these small ways artists, and smaller arts projects in the region, seems logical and couldn't be easier. Why don't things like this happen? Is poetry dying, and who's going to miss it when it's gone?

Writing in April

The research has been getting to the good bits. Research is like that, so much wading through irrelevant stuff and then bam! Something that gets you going, pen moving away, can't wait to get it all down. I haven't felt as if I've gotten as much writing done this month, but I think it's a false verdict in a way. All it takes sometimes is a period of getting lots and lots of new stuff on a page so that what follows seems lazy in comparison. All that new stuff has to be sorted, waded through, and spotting the mistakes and improvements takes time, sometimes more time than that inital rush. I haven't sat and counted how many poems there actually are for the biographical set, I slowed down, and what came out seemed more ready and in need of less work. I wrote the gaps that needed to be filled out once I sae it, and I think I'm done with that. There is still an end poem conspicuous by its absence though, something that feels like an end, without tying too much up this is a tough one.

I have spent my evenings in spring cleaning mode, painting the walls a boring colour I never thought I'd entertain. I must be becoming a beige person in my old age. I just wanted something cheap, clean and tidy. When I got back to work I got stuck into a poem about pigs, it had been bubbling away while I worked. I have one book left to read I think until I need to change my routine to better accomodate prose. The poetry has worked well as some actual writing while I'm doing research, but I'm at a point were I need to wrap up lose ends then flip to researching poems while i write some prose.

And yes finally I've done it, I've been psyching myself up most of the year to send some work to magazines. I sent one some poems this week. I tried to guess what the mag would ike, but to be honest I just can't tell. Mags are funny, now I'll wait for the rejection. I heard it's a 1:30 ratio of rejections over acceptances, just 29 more mags to send to then!

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.