Thatcher, Ice Lollies and a Poem by Tom Warner

She...

It seems that everyone has got an opinion on Margaret Thatcher. It would be difficult not to to have an opinion on her as she is such a divisive figure. Since her death it feels as if everyone has time-traveled back to the 80s, reliving their 80s youth or middle age whether they were there or not. Like many people I have quite a few memories and experienced quite a lot living under Thatcher. She came into power during my babyhood. My mother and father lived in Tuxford, North Notts. My father wasn't a miner but he worked in various coal-fired power stations in South Yorkshire and Nottinghamshire. Before I was born he lived in a static caravan, much to my newly-wed mother's horror. He was a classic itinerant worker, going from job to job, saving money for a house. In the 60s and early 70s these jobs were often plentiful. By the time my mother was pregnant with me these jobs were starting to become scarce. One of my earliest memories is the sight of him coming home from work covered from head to toe in soot. His face was the colour of liquorice. Nevertheless I didn't mind getting grubby and I remember running towards him, arms out-stretched with my latest artistic creation.

Having an ice lolly under Thatcher circa '83,
blissfully unaware of my father's imminent unemployment.

Another thing I do remember very clearly is the sense of identity our village had based around coal. There were Working Men's Clubs, pub gatherings and a community that felt very close. Everyone has something to do with coal and everyone had a open fire with few people having central heating. There were many nights when fire engines came round as chimneys got blocked and sparks lit up the dark. After we moved, many years later, I opened a bin liner full of baby clothes and there it was the smell of soot. You couldn't get away from the stuff, it hung around.

We moved in 1984. Jobs related to the coal industry were becoming obsolete. I didn't want to go. London was the work of the devil. No one spoke to each other. You couldn't ride a bike in a flat with just a balcony.The other night we watched an episode of 'Spitting Image' from around this time and it seemed very edgy and controversial. It was hard to believe that this was aired on the same channel that shows 'X factor' and 'Dancing on Ice'. I'm not saying this was typical of ITV, but it appears to me there were more contrary and satirical voices around back then in TV media then there are now.There was a scene in which Margaret gets gardening advice from her neighbour at No.9, who just happens to be an aged Nazi dictator (guess who) who also enjoys dispensing political advice as well. Ironically, it's been said that pop culture was quite good under Thatcher and perhaps it's her only positive legacy for many. The Smiths may not have been The Smiths we know so well if they didn't have her to react against. We may not have had the force of feeling that defined an alternative pop generation. See below for Robert Wyatt's cover of Elvis Costello's 'Shipbuilding,' a song about the changing face of industry in the 80s. The song describes how the shipyards were kept open only because of the need for ships for the Falklands war. That voice is so naked and vulnerable. Put that in your pipe Simon bloody Cowell:

                                           http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B6T9qp9XbRY


I was part of the Nottinghamshire exodus. A lot of people moved, communities were broken up and those who were left had to begin to live without a reliance on coal for heat and industry. This is why I've decided to end this blog with a poem by Tom Warner called 'Scabs.' Tom read at the Nottingham festival of Words and has a pamphlet published in the 'New Faber Poets' series. You can read more of his work at his website here. I like this poem because it reflects what was going  at the time from a child's point of view:

Scabs

All through those weeks off school our fathers watched us
our mothers took extra hours in part-time jobs

and the news was men in denim thumping coaches
police playing British Bulldog or riding horses

while Mr Oxby lined up rollies in a tin
pinched bitter shreds of Virginia from his tongue

and taught us kids exactly what was what
whose parents were digging deep and whose were not.

States of Independence '13

I have found myself with a bit of time to catch up with the blog. It's over two weeks since States of Independence was held at De Montfort University and by now most of the keen bloggers have blogged so before March is through I'll write about the event. Certainly 2013's 'States' seemed to be one of the busiest, well so it appeared to me. There were some fabulous panels, such as Ian Parks' talk on Chartist poetry; a talk on sex and censorship before 1963 by Kathy Bell, Gina Greaves and Elaine Aldred, and I read with Jonathan Taylor in the afternoon. A husband and wife act if you will. Jonathan's novel was shortlisted for the East Midlands Book Award and it was made public on the day.The shortlist also included Will Buckingham's novel The Descent of the Lyre which was a book I enjoyed reading last year. It was rather lovely to hear a reading from Alison Moore too. There was also ample opportunity to buy books as well and I purchased Angela France's Hide and Joel Lane's Flarestack pamphlet Instinct as well as others. It was also good to catch up with friends as well. If you're curious to have a look at exactly what the day consisted of have a look here.

The Opposite of Money

I have been miles away. My head is in another country. My thoughts are with my family in Cyprus, many of whom will be losing jobs, houses and a way of life they took for granted only a few weeks ago. For the last couple of weeks I have been plunged into a crash course on EU economics. I'd rather I didn't, but it's been necessary. This isn't a problem affecting a few wealthy people but an entire country. Even those with less than than the magic sum of 100,000 Euros are still going to be hugely affected. Schools and hospitals cannot afford to pay their staff. I worry that my mother, who has a long list of medical issues, won't be getting adequate health care. There is no NHS in Cyprus and right now there is no money. Of course I am scared.

Then I remember that I'm a writer. I should say 'oh, the guilt, what I do doesn't help anyone financially. I don't make any money out of poetry.' Hang on, I always knew poetry was the opposite of money, no one expected to make serious money out of writing did they? Especially poetry. I have a part-time job and I write poetry. That's me. I read this by Alison Brackenbury from 'In Their Own Words,' edited by George Szirtes and Helen Ivory: 'I think our planet is almost ruined. In poetry, as in life, I am now intent on survival...' and something struck a chord.

Then I think that writing can be liberating and that has little to do with money. I like starting a poem without a map, I don't want to write A Priori, I don't want to know where I'm going on a page even though in life I am bound to news reports, politics etc. I might have a moment of revelation and realise that I was writing about such and such after all. When I was a little girl I'd spend hours in Greek Orthodox churches. I didn't understand a word of what was going on most of the time, the services were in Middle Greek. I had one technique to keep me entertained. I'd look at the icons around me and try to make up a story which somehow plausibly involved jumping from one icon to another. One day I made up a story so terrible I burst into tears. I can't remember what it was now, but it moved me so much. The point is I was trying even then to make sense out of something that I couldn't understand, but without logic or a priori facts. Maybe that's what poets are trying to do, not bashing us with rhetoric or cold hard fact, but getting us to look differently so we realise we understood all along.

My Father the Gambler...

I am somewhat allergic to writing competitions. I tend not to enter many and when I do I go for competitions where I know the money is contributing to something important. Most of them are. Call it poetry tax. The problem is though that I cannot see how anyone goes about winning anything, it seems so random and so subjective. Obviously someone does. I recently judged a poetry competition for Leicester Writer's Club and it was a real challenge settling on the winning and commended poems. I really enjoyed that experience and wanted to be a fair and considerate judge. I took the role very seriously indeed. It made me realise that being a judge is actually not straightforward at all, especially when you're giving feedback and dealing with dozens (or hundreds, or thousands) of hopeful entries. As an entrant are you competing or gambling?

My dad is about to turn 76 this year, he has gambling running through his veins. I swear that when his ship to England from Cyprus docked in '61 he must have headed straight for the betting shop. Growing up I watched my dad alternate from feelings of elation and frustration. He never watched the horse racing on TV quietly, there'd be a lot of high speed 'cmon, c'mon' and then a barrage of swear words when the wrong horse won. He always backed the wrong horse most of the time. When he did win he seemed generally very surprised, as if losing where in fact the expected outcome and winning was something alien. Me and my dad spent a lot of 'daddy-daughter' time engaged in gambling pursuits. I spent a lot of time outside William Hill waiting for him to place his bets, they were smoky, male places. Children weren't allowed. At home he'd read out the names of horses for me to pick and him to bet on. The 1989 Grand National was a lucky one. He read out the names and 'Little Polveir' stood out. 'Yes,' I said, Little Polvier!' He grunted a comment about it only being good for dog meat and put the bet on. I didn't like the Grand National much because I knew a horse was likely to die. Still, I insisted on Little Polveir. It won. I received £20 and my dad took out a commission fee. I was in Primary School by the way.

Spot the Ball

Spot the Ball was another family favourite. It seemed more artistic than the other games, you actually had to guess where the ball might be in the picture. It was like finishing off a painting for a great master.
I'm not sure if it was my father's favourite, but I loved that one. Then of course there was the Pools, everyone played the Pools until the lottery came about. You had to guess which football teams would achieve a score draw. My dad was convinced this was a science and not random. You could guess which teams could achieve a score draw. So when I was 8 or 9 I was brought a copy of Football 87, a sticker album which featured all the teams in the top divisions. You had to buy the stickers of all the players and teams. The album also featured lots of statistics and info about the teams as well. Somehow understanding football from the inside would help. The boys in my class were very impressed and we'd swap stickers and things. I think my dad really wanted to join in as well.

Fond Memories...

One Saturday I got several score draws and my dad was happy with the promise of £11 until he realised that one more and we would have been in the thousands. Or something like that, we were always one draw, horse, or ball away from a fortune. He would scowl, bemoan his lot, vanish into the kitchen.One more draw/ball/speedy horse and we'd be millionaires. Alack! Alas! Back to work on Monday then.

Then 1994 - the lottery. No more £3 or £10 there, it was £18 million here £7 million there. The good people of Acton were quivering with expectation and my dad was among them.

'Give me 6 numbers, Maria!' That would be on  a Friday.

I'd give him six numbers. Saturday night the lottery was on TV. Six little balls and a bonus ball would levitate on air and be chosen by an unseen force. We wouldn't win. It was of course my fault.

So the years went by, as they do. There was the odd win here and the odd win there. My dad aged in front of the TV. When he comes over from Cyprus he still sneaks into William Hill. What has this got to do with the more genteel world of poetry competitions? Surely there's more skill and delicacy involved. I suppose there is, but that feeling is just the same. I grew up with my dad experiencing that feeling. I'd see him waver between joy and scowling. He once won £800 on the horses, you should have seen the smile on his face. Bless him.

Nottingham Festival of Words February 2013

Who Lives in a House Like This?

I attended the Nottingham Festival of Words both as a performer and a punter. On Saturday 9th February I read with Jonathan Taylor (we know each other pretty well) at Newstead Abbey. The Abbey is famed for being the family home of Lord Byron and is absolutely stunning. We took the twins along too and one of them was very taken with Lord Byron's indoor swimming pool, which she referred to as 'Byron's paddling pool.' There were other readings that day by C.J. Allen, Mark Goodwin and Chris Jones among others and it was a perfect location for poetry. The twins were also very impressed with a waterfall in the vast grounds of the Abbey that you could walk behind and look at the landscape through falling water.

The reading went very well and I tried out a couple of new poems too, or 'sounded them out' as I like to do with new work. Reading at the Abbey was a real treat and I'm so glad I was asked to take part.

On Saturday 16th Feb I attended the main festival at Nottingham Trent's space age Newton Arkwright building. Due to a neurotic Sat Nav in need of valium we got a little lost and missed the first reading with Sarah Jackson and Rory Waterman among others, but made it in time for lunch. I went to Deborah Tyler-Bennett's workshop to begin, Deborah was also the festival's Poet in Residence. I then had my Tarot read. The cards were friendly enough, no hanged men or falling towers, relief. Then I was in the audience for A.L. Kennedy's keynote speech and what a pleasure that was. I thought of her as a 'writer's writer' in a way, she was full of sensible comment about writing and was equally as funny as she was motivational. She has only one rule for writers, don't be afraid. There appeared to be an A.L. Kennedy wannabee groupie in the front row who couldn't resist asking lots of questions and I thought, this is the kind of writer she is, people immediately warm to her. Let's face it not all writers are personable, but Kennedy is and is genuinely committed to her craft. 

After a break with added hot chocolate I went to 'We Used To Live Here' posted by Polly Rowena Atkin with guest poets Tom Warner, Jamie McKendrick and the poetry of Eireann Lorsung. Eireann was unable to come over from Belgium to participate so Polly read one of her poems. While I was familiar with Eireann and Jamie’s work, I’d never come across Warner’s poetry before, so it was a pleasure to hear him read. You can read some of his poems here. I cam away with a copy of his Faber pamphlet. 

Then, home time! The Sat Nav, or Jane as she likes to be known, was still a little shaken and delicate so we used road signs instead. The Nottingham Festival of Words is the city's main literature festival for many years. The event is still running until the 24th. Much of its organisation was by Pippa Hennessy, thank you Pippa! 

Festival Artwork

January 2013



A convincing January scene.

Now that February is upon us I've just realised that I've fallen behind with the blog! The beginning of January saw the launch of Overheard at the Betsey Trotwood in London's Farringdon district. It was a busy, lively event in which many of the readers came along to read extracts from their own short stories in the anthology. A good night was had by all!
Here's a blog post by Lindsay Waller-Wilkinson, complete with photos and things. Read here!

Then there was the snowy Shindig with the lovely Julie Boden, Dave Reeves, Jayne Stanton and David Clarke. If that wasn't enough I went to Leeds to read at the Poetry by Heart event at the Heart Cafe in Headingly along with fellow Leicester poets Matt Merritt, Roy Marshall and Deborah Tyler-Bennett. We also read with River Wolton and Gareth Durasow. It was a lovely evening.

Pleas note: my (late) new year's resolution is to try and write more fuller accounts of events without asking people to click 'here' every time.

Reviews and all that

Having written and published a poetry collection there was one thing I forgot to take into account, reviews. I've written a lot of them in my time but reading reviews of my own book was an experience I wasn't quite prepared for. I generally read them between my fingers and hold my breath. Here are a few out there on the internet, I had a nice one in Orbis too.

This review on the Eyewear blog by Heidi Williamson was a dream, read it here.

Matthew Stewart wrote some nice things here as did Roy Marshall on the Guardian site here.

This review is on the Dr. Fulmiare site. I've taken on board some of the points about punctuation, read it here.

As an extra quirk here is my interview with the Athens Voice in Greek! There's a translate button for Englezi people. It reads quite oddly when it's translated into English by the way, read here.

While I'm copying and pasting like a maniac let's include a few more things. Here's David Morley's blog about how judging the T.S. Eliot prize and how he quite liked mine! Oh rapture.
Read it here.

And finally... at the risk of overdoing it all, although I did say in blog post #1 that I wanted to use a blog like a scrapbook, here's someone called Maria Taylor reading out some poems at Wordsmiths in Dec. By the way I can only watch footage of myself through my fingers too, but the production values are really good.

The Next Big Thing

New year and new things to do. I was tagged by Matt Merritt to answer the following questions. The questions were devised by Sophie Mayer and the idea is that poets answer them and tag other poets to do the same. The project is called 'The Next Big Thing.' This morning I am very bleary eyed, but luckily for me I answered these questions on Sunday. Ah the joys of cut and paste! 'Tagged' poets put the questions and answers on their blog and then nominate poets for the following week. Please read on...

Where did the idea for the book come from?


I didn’t approach the book with a particular ‘idea’ or ‘concept’ in mind. It was only when I came up with the title that the book felt more cohesive. The title is ‘Melanchrini’ which is a Greek word for dark featured and dark-haired. It’s a very common nickname. I needed something which would hold the book together, even if it wasn’t an easy word for audiences. Perhaps the collection is mainly based on memoir, but with some flights of fancy. I have some friends who would like to know the facts from the fiction, but I think poems should have their own sense of truth.
What genre does your book fall in?

Poetry, unless you’re a rather harsh critic.

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Hmmm. The main character would be played by the love child of Louise Brooks and Kathy Burke under the acting tutelage of Bette Davis. The film would probably have the Mise-en-scène of an early 60s kitchen sinker, but with modern splashes. Rita Tushingham would be wandering around in the background like a monochrome ghost. The poet Philip Larkin would make a cameo role in the ‘Larkin’ poem. The Greek actress Irini Papas would play the role of Thea; she has the face for her I think. I’d like Stephen Poliakoff to direct and Scarlett Johansen to make the tea.
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

This book is about being at once modern and out of time; present and vague; a native and a foreigner and everything within these poems is underpinned by a personal sense of history.

How long did it take to write the first draft of the manuscript?

The poems were written over a span of roughly two years. I didn’t realise I was writing a manuscript, as far as I was concerned I was writing individual poems. The book was published in July 2012. I started initial drafts in the summer of 2011. However I was still writing new poems for the book alongside this. The first ‘official’ draft was completed in December 2011. There were at least 4 or 5 drafts between then and May 2012. Some poems needed tweaking, while others were completely altered. Some were consigned to the big paper basket in the sky.


Who or what inspired you to write this book?

The birth of my twin daughters. When I was pregnant I suffered from Pre-eclampsia, a rather serious medical condition. I was in hospital for months and was very closely monitored. When the twins were born and we settled into a less traumatic but very busy routine I found myself being drawn back to writing, poetry in particular. I had one of those ‘life is short’ moments. I would pick up a book and read a poem in between feeds.My priorities felt very different.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

I’d like people to read these poems and feel they could relate to them. The poems are set in familiar territory, but with a surreal take on life.

Is your book self-published or represented by an agency?

Neither. I don’t think many poets are represented by agents. My book is published by Nine Arches Press. Matt and Jane had heard me read at various Open Mic events in Leicester and Nottingham and approached me with the offer of publication. I’ve been very lucky. My publishers are very supportive and given me some great opportunities for public readings.

My poets to tag are:   Nottinghamshire poet and publisher Alan Baker on Litterbug. Leicestershire poet and lecturer Pam Thompson on Heckle Poet and Canal Laureate Jo Bell on The Bell Jar

2012 - The Year I Read Even More Books and Even Wrote One

As an end of year sign off I thought I should probably write a few things about my reading and writing activities. I'll keep it brief. Firstly, on a personal note I should say this has been a mixed year. A lot of my family have suffered with various illnesses and I lost an aunt in February. However, my twins have kept me rather busy and entertained on the positive side.

In terms of books I've read here are some that have been key this year. I discovered Hilary Mantel this year; I devoured 'Beyond Black' and 'Giving Up the Ghost.' Next year I plan to read more. This year I also read new poetry by Kim Moore and loved her pamphlet 'If We Could Speak Like Wolves.' Another poetry collection that I enjoyed was Daniel Sluman's 'Absence Has A Weight of It's Own.' Daniel's book was launched by Nine Arches Press at the same time as mine. It's received some good reviews and I hope it continues to do well.  Will Buckingham's novel 'The Descent of the Lyre' was beautiful; a wonderfully conceived piece of work. Geoff Hattersley's 'Inside the Blue Hebium' was a quirky joy and Jacob Sam-La Rose's 'Breaking Silence' was a pleasure too. Through the serendipity of reviewing I was also impressed by Meredith Andrea's 'Organnon' and Chris McCabe's 'The Restructure.' In terms of not 2012 poetry Allison McVety's 'Miming Happiness' and the 'Making for Planet Alice' women's poetry anthology were good too. I'm scratching the surface with a teaspoon here, there was a lot of stuff I enjoyed. It was nice to get reacquainted with Danny Abse's 'Funland' which I read in ninety-ninety-something and forgot about. Carrie Etter's 'The Tethers' was also another fairly recent book which I read for the first time this year. Her reading at 'The Flying Goose' in Summer was terrific and being able to 'hear' the poetry on the page enhanced my enjoyment. Ian Duhig was another good reader at the Leicester Poetry Society in May, as was Ian McMillan around the same time. I wish I could cover everything on this blog, there's more I could mention. Of course I still have a long reading list so I will be reading more of 2012's books and previous years far on into the 2010s!

I said I'd keep this short. I can't. Obviously I was really pleased about my debut collection 'Melanchrini' out in July. It was long listed by one of the judges for the TS Eliot prize, I'd read about it by accident in The Guardian Review section. I nearly died. It's doing alright, some good, thoughtful reviews here and there. It was fabulous to launch it at the Ledbury festival in July. I've been lucky enough to do some buzzy readings this year and sell a few books! I loved doing the Wordsmiths & Co. reading with host Jo Bell in December. Also PROSE. Yes I realised I also write PROSE too (now and then). That's PROSE, not poetry. My short story 'A Daughter's Wedding' was a featured in the 'Overheard: Stories to Read Aloud' edited by Jonathan Taylor and published by Salt. Alongside some really strong writing by Hanf Kureshi, Vannessa Gebbie, actually look it up here if you like!

Crystal Clear turned into a poetry publisher of six excellent pamphlets (look here friends!) and we continue to run the mighty Shindigs in Leicester along with Nine Arches Press. Apart from the public readings I've been quiet, not submitting much, trying very hard to work on what I've got. I'll try and get back on the horse next year, but after the book I'm trying to get my next 'projects' (whatever they are) into some perspective. A year is not a long time in poetry, so I'm taking my time despite my natural impatience. I am following the words of Hilary Mantel: 'You may have to creep towards it...'

Let's finish with a song. As a teenager I was a huge Blur fan and only a week ago I'd actually found out they'd released another song this year. I'm slow! In the words of Damon Albarn 'But I am going to sing Hallelujah, Sing it out loud and sing it to you...' Sayonara 2012.

'Tasting Notes' by Matthew Stewart

I did entertain the notion of compiling a 'best-of-2012' book list, but the feeling quickly passed. Instead I'm writing about a pamphlet which had some pretty interesting launches this year. Here's a 'read-about-what-you're-drinking-while-you're-drinking-it' poetry book. Matthew Stewart's Happenstance pamphlet 'Tasting Notes' is exactly that. Matthew is a blender and exporter of Spanish wine, as well as a poet. What I liked about this pamphlet is the fact that some of the poems are written from rather different perspectives, including from the wine itself, such as the rosé or rosado, as it's known in Spanish, which 'hasn't got the guts for red.' While there are many poets who quaff bucketfulls of wine, there are few poets giving their drinks a voice. Spare a thought next time you drink a decent glass of wine for the voices in your glass, 'leaving arch after arch behind / a silhouetted cathedral / where you're worshipping yet again.' Read here for more details.

A Poem by Dennis O'Driscoll

A poem by Dennis O'Driscoll, who died yesterday, Christmas Day. As a nominal Greek Orthodox it speaks to me.

Missing God


His grace is no longer called for
before meals: farmed fish multiply
without His intercession.
Bread production rises through
disease-resistant grains devised
scientifically to mitigate His faults.

Yet, though we rebelled against Him
like adolescents, uplifted to see
an oppressive father banished -
a bearded hermit - to the desert,
we confess to missing Him at times.

Miss Him during the civil wedding
when, at the blossomy altar
of the registrar’s desk, we wait in vain
to be fed a line containing words
like ‘everlasting’ and ‘divine’.

Miss Him when the TV scientist
explains the cosmos through equations,
leaving our planet to revolve on its axis
aimlessly, a wheel skidding in snow.

Miss Him when the radio catches a snatch
of plainchant from some echoey priory;
when the gospel choir raises its collective voice
to ask Shall We Gather at the River?
or the forces of the oratorio converge
on I Know That My Redeemer Liveth
and our contracted hearts lose a beat.

Miss Him when a choked voice at
the crematorium recites the poem
about fearing no more the heat of the sun.

Miss Him when we stand in judgement
on a lank Crucifixion in an art museum,
its stripe-like ribs testifying to rank.

Miss Him when the gamma-rays
recorded on the satellite graph
seem arranged into a celestial score,
the music of the spheres,
the Ave Verum Corpus of the observatory lab.

Miss Him when we stumble on the breast lump
for the first time and an involuntary prayer
escapes our lips; when a shadow crosses
our bodies on an x-ray screen; when we receive
a transfusion of foaming blood
sacrificed anonymously to save life.

Miss Him when we exclaim His name
spontaneously in awe or anger
as a woman in a birth ward
calls to her long-dead mother.

Miss Him when the linen-covered
dining table holds warm bread rolls,
shiny glasses of red wine.

Miss Him when a dove swoops
from the orange grove in a tourist village
just as the monastery bell begins to take its toll.

Miss Him when our journey leads us
under leaves of Gothic tracery, an arch
of overlapping branches that meet
like hands in Michelangelo’s Creation.

Miss Him when, trudging past a church,
we catch a residual blast of incense,
a perfume on par with the fresh-baked loaf
which Milosz compared to happiness.

Miss Him when our newly-fitted kitchen
comes in Shaker-style and we order
a matching set of Mother Ann Lee chairs.

Miss Him when we listen to the prophecy
of astronomers that the visible galaxies
will recede as the universe expands.

Miss Him when the sunset makes
its presence felt in the stained glass
window of the fake antique lounge bar.

Miss Him the way an uncoupled glider
riding the evening thermals misses its tug.

Miss Him, as the lovers shrugging
shoulders outside the cheap hotel
ponder what their next move should be.

Even feel nostalgic, odd days,
for His Second Coming,
like standing in the brick
dome of a dovecote
after the birds have flown.

Wordsmiths & Co. at Warwick Arts Centre

Last night I did a reading with a difference. I read along with Lemn Sissay, Jacob Sam-La Rose and Laura Dedicoat. This was one of a series of collaborative events between Apples and Snakes and Nine Arches Press, with support from Bloodaxe Books and Warwick Arts Centre. So why was this one different you might wonder? We’ll all used to the standard format of a poetry reading, aren’t we? A) Poet gets up B) Poet reads poems C) Poet ends, applause, sit down. What made the Wordsmiths & Co. reading different was that all four poets were interviewed on aspects of their work by a host, in this case the host was the wonderful Jo Bell. Jo asked some very thoughtful questions after reading and getting acquainted with our work. It’s a format I’ve seen here and there, but this reading didn’t just feature the questions as an afterthought but as an integral part of the performance. I was really impressed with Jo’s ability to ask questions which were suited to the poetry and the poet and do so in a very sharp and structured fashion. She must have really done her homework on us!

The readings were great. In many ways all four of us were quite different writers, but I felt along with most of the audience it seemed, that there were common threads uniting the work. Mainly there were links in terms of identity, self-perception and personal history. Laura Dedicoat is a young performance poet, one of the Nottingham based ‘Mouthy Poets,’ even though she lives in Birmingham. Her commitment to poetry was startling, her approach was warm and approachable and I’m eager to see more. Jacob Sam La-Rose read from his brilliant first collection ‘Breaking Silence.’ His work seemed to have a biographical focus and was full of imagery and inventive used of language. The poems about mothers, families, traditions and city life immediately appealed to me. I brought a copy and it’s a welcome addition to my reading. Here’s one of Jacob’s poem on the Poetry Archive site that we all enjoyed last night on the curious subject matter for dreams. Click here for a treat. Lemn Sissay is obviously very well known and his performance was theatrical and super-charged with energy. He made for a fascinating interviewee and I found his comments on poetry and using the Internet really thought-provoking. At one point he said that he kept a blog for the love of writing and didn’t care if no one read it; a blog is a personal record. I was asked about not only my poetry but about my other writing; prose, reviews and blogging. I often think of blog posts as open diary entries which are written out of enthusiasm rather than simply for the sake of saying something.

I am so proud to have been part of this event and look forward to forthcoming events from Wordsmiths& Co. After 4 weeks of the Taylor household being pursued by virus after virus it was a welcome source of inspiration!