No Imagination

by Ashley Lister

When it comes to the subject of location, I am beginning to suspect that I have no imagination. I used to work in an office. Where did most of my fiction occur?

In offices.

Admittedly, they were very exciting events that occurred in those fictional offices. Far more exciting than the world of processing-invoices-for-purchase-ledger-accounts. But then again, watching paint dry is far more exciting than the world of processing-invoices-for-purchase-ledger-accounts. I worked with people so dull, if there had been a resident psychopath poisoning the coffee cups, I would have ordered seconds. I worked with people who were so lacking in personality they had signs on their desks saying: YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE CRAZY TO WORK HERE – IT’S A VIOLATION OF EQUALITY AND DIVERSITY EMPLOYMENT REGULATIONS TO INSIST ON SUCH CRITERIA. And, again and again, I would see offices occurring in the stories I wrote. And, again and again, I’d think: Lister – you have no imagination.

I wrote a book called Death by Fiction. It’s a story about writers in a writers’ circle. Do you know what I was involved with when the idea came to me?

A writers’ circle.

And again, I hear the echo of that phrase coming back to haunt me: Lister – you have no imagination.

I did write a trilogy of books each based in a different European capital (Rome, Paris and London). I mention this because I have never visited Rome or Paris and it had been twenty years since I visited London before writing about it for the final book in that trilogy. But I’m not sure if this constitutes imagination. I researched all three cities with the thoroughness of an OCD-driven guidebook compositor. To show how much effort I put in, by the time I’d finished writing about Paris I stank of sweat and garlic and I’d forgotten how to brush my teeth. And the dog was pregnant.

But that trilogy was the exception rather than the norm. I do feel as though my immediate environment severely influences too many elements of my writing. And, whenever I make that realisation, I’m struck by the thought: Lister – you have no imagination.

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Escape

I was a swine as a child. But I always loved stories. I’d sit next to my grandpa at family parties and he’d tell me stories of growing up in working class Glasgow. My dad would tell me funny tales of his youth; like the time he fell of the cliff and sat up, shocked that he was unhurt, rolled over and fell off the rest of the cliff. My mum would sing me funny Scottish songs like ‘Ye cannae shove yer granny off a bus’. It’s a cliché but everyone has a story, most have more than one. I am from working class stock in the 80’s, a child of Scottish migrants to Blackpool. For me language is a method of conveying a story, or the contents of the mind of someone interesting. I attract the strangest looks when I unconsciously switch to my Scottish accent and dialect with my mum. It taught me that words don’t need to be verbose or contrived to be remarkable; you just need to choose the right ones and knit them together well to create your narrative.

I’m not keen on puns, I appreciate clever word play but not for the sake of it, just doesn’t do it for me like a good story. Stories can effect. I remember being teased by a particularly evil girl from my street. My revenge? I took her and a group of friends to the back of my dad’s removal van at dusk, and we nestled between the cardboard and told ghost stories. Now being the precocious little smart arse I was I’d read loads of them, and they hadn’t. I decided to make some of my own up. The horrible girl ran from the van home screaming and had nightmares for weeks. Stories are powerful. She backed off after that. Poetry is a powerful story in a similar way. It’s a moment in the mind of someone else, a concentrated image painted with words.

For me the writing is the new environment and location. I grew up off central drive in Blackpool and there was (and still is) not a great deal to do. So I took myself off out of there by reading. I was never bored, I always had a stock of stories to involve children in whilst we all played, tales of forests and fighting, princesses and adventure. I enjoyed it, and there emerged that little bit of ambition that one day I could bring people out of one world and into another, even for a short time. I’ll never be an oral storyteller, I’m just too shy. But writing, well who knows? I don’t need a particular place to write, just somewhere quiet. I’ve plenty of stories to tell. Maybe I’ll be able to change someone else’s location through my own writing someday.

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Tog (Treasury Opus Gadget)

Duvets will soak up anyone's language
Paradoxical coverings

Greedily munching tidbits
from
a book that
fell
on your
face

Puffed up with great literature
Pockets of air from the best-seller list
Tangled fibres wrestle around a villanelle

At night the language roams between the threads
Nomad quotations from dead philosophers

By day the language rests; empty patterns
communico ergo sum

Evening brings the woman's solitude
Warm flesh pressed against cool cotton
Sanctity

Unreliable biro traces frameworks
Decorates with memorable trinkets:
Spurts of clarity in a marsh of entropy

The duvet gives up its language




Obviously a work in progress. Thanks for the inspiration Steve.

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My Five Favourite Places to Write

When people find out that I’m doing an M.A. in Creative Writing, I tend to get asked the same sorts of questions. With naivety they’ll say, “So you want to be the next J. K. Rowling?” My unvoiced response is a long drawn out sigh followed by: Is that the only writer you are capable of naming? However, fearful of offending, I just shrug my shoulders and say, not really. Once they discover that I write poetry, they have a wealth of other questions to ask. “Do people still read poetry?” Yes. “Aren’t poets a bit crazy?” Not all of them. “Do you lock yourself away from the world and just write all the time?” No.

This week’s theme is ‘Location/Environment and Writing’ and, therefore, I thought I’d attempt to dispel the myth that poets are reclusive (slightly agoraphobic) creatures who sever all connections with the outside world. Yes, I like to shut the world out at times. Yes, I like my own company. And yes, I quite like solitude. But, I also like the outside world. I like the freshness of it – the way it changes. I like the ideas it contains.

With that in mind, I thought I would share my five favourite places to write:

1. On the floor
   Despite having two desk, I always end up sat cross-legged on the floor. I like the space. I like being able to spread my drafts out. I like feeling grounded. I like being able to reach my poetry bookcase without having to move.
   
   
2. At Barista
   A small coffee shop down Birley Street (Blackpool) that is only a short walk from my house.
   I go here when I need a change of surroundings. When my flat starts to feel like it's suffocating my mind. When my ideas have decided to hide from me. When I'm looking for something, this is the first place I look.
   
   
3. At the Allotment
   Occasionally, I need a break from the modern world. I need to disconnect from technology. I need to walk away from the distractions of Facebook and Twitter.
   I don't always write when I'm here. Sometimes I just think - weeding and thinking. And recently, it has been this environment that has inspired many of the poems that I'm currently writing.
   
   
4. On the tube/train
   I don't get to write on the tube/train very much at present. But when I lived in London, riding the tube offered an unlimited source of ideas. The rhythm was soothing. The people kept changing. There was always a new fragment of overheard conversation to jot down.
   
   
5. Somewhere pretty
   It might be a quiet spot on the beach, a walk up Nicky Nook (Scorton), or somewhere in the Lakes. It doesn't really matter as long as nature is the dominate force. Yes, it does sound clichéd. But in reality, these types of places allow my mind to feel free and calm. I can leave the stresses of life behind, and as a result my writing feels more able to write itself into existence.

Where are your favourite places to write?

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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Boy.

Monday morning. The constant string of whirrs and whistles from my phone ensures that absolutely no more sleep can be had here and so, reluctantly, I am out of bed. Today is my 25^th birthday. I am, for the first real time in my life, aware of my own existence and one day eventual demise. To this point in my life, it is becoming increasingly apparent that I have achieved precisely sod all. And I’m late for work, which comes as nothing of a surprise.

It is fair to say that, as with most birthdays post-eighteen, it means little to me. Other than a reluctantly ticking time bomb poking and prodding me from the inside out, you wouldn’t really know I was in my late twenties (optimism there, see). I get asked for ID on a weekly basis, still work part time and to be fair, could be any student you happen to cherry pick from a bar. In reality though, I’m starting to become an old man.

This time last week I was the most inspired I have been for weeks. Returning from Latitude with a clutch of ideas just waiting for a paper home and I’m happy to say, some of those refugee thoughts made it out alive. ‘Location/Environment and Writing’ is a theme that fits most appropriately with my thoughts and, to be honest, I wish I was back under canvas. Or, actually, in my shed. Or in my car. Basically, I will write if I’m somewhere pretty. Here, I can’t find the motivation.

The great post yesterday from Fiona Pitt-Kethley got me thinking. I’m not in a position to move. The writing isn’t jumping out at me and so, how the hell can I do all of these things. I don’t quite feel a novella coming on- I don’t really know what direction I’d take that. So, in true Apprentice style, I’m going to try and print some money. Whoring myself out to the world of the ‘ooh, there is a gap in the kindle market there’ - I’m going to see just what happens with a little bit of effort and a lot of carrot-stick-chasing.

I figure, if six of the country’s worst business brains can impress Lord Sugar with some meowing and giggling, I can fill a gap in the market selling some e-books. I don’t know yet what the market is. I don’t know what I’ll write but, with experience as a football journo behind me, I am more than willing to plough out some rhetoric in search of a $0.49 profit.

I’m aiming for a vegan ice-cream out of the experience and any gain over and above that will be kept aside. Maybe, I’ll be in Spain one day. Maybe a new shed. All I know is that any kind of writing beats twiddling thumbs waiting.

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Finding Inspiration

by Fiona Pitt-Kethley

In order to find inspiration easily it may be necessary to rearrange your life. Does the place you live in inspire you? If not, it may be time for a move. Do your hobbies inspire you? If not, it may be time to get some new interests. Embracing the new and moving on are two essentials for an inspiring life.

Look on many of the things you do as research for poems or prose. I have eventually found an inspiring place to live in – Cartagena in the South of Spain. It is inspiring partly because it has about 3000 years of history behind it if you go back to the days when it was Mastia, a city of Tartessos, long before the Carthaginians and the Romans arrived. It is inspiring also because it is set in wonderful countryside, something I can discover gradually on bike or on foot. Part of its charisma is the fact that some of this is under threat. A part of my life is taken up fighting with other like-minded people to save antiquities and threatened stretches of countryside. There is a perpetual conflict between industry and nature. Ironically, some of the architecture associated with industry is part of what we want to save. Since moving here I have spent a lot of time hunting minerals, going down mines and up mountains. I am becoming familiar not only with the outside but also the inside of the world I live in. It is all part of nature, something that many naturalists forget, emphasising only the importance of flora and fauna.

Grasping new opportunities is another part of finding inspiration. Recently I worked as an extra on a film by Alex de la Iglesia, one of my favourite directors. It was physically very uncomfortable as all the filming was at night in a freezing Roman Theatre. On many occasions we were sitting in puddles of dew by three in the morning. I had just got over pneumonia so it wasn´t exactly what the doctor would have recommended. But, it was inspiring. I have written both prose and poetry about this bizarre experience and made a whole new group of friends amongst the extras.

If you are finding inspiration difficult you must change your life and grasp at new opportunities and new friendships, surmounting whatever difficulties lie in your way.

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Under Construction

by Ashley Lister

"Before I read this poem, I’d like to tell you all some interesting and relevant information about the current programme of road improvements in Blackpool, and the surrounding areas of the Fylde coast, that will help develop cycle routes in the town…”

At a recent meeting of the Dead Good Poets I read an original poem about the excessive amount of roadworks in Blackpool. The idea was inspired, not unsurprisingly, by the excessive amount of roadworks in Blackpool. I drive a car and, for the past few months in Blackpool, an abundance of roadworks has made driving problematic.

Welcome to Blackpool

Come drink, dine and dance.

Please relax and enjoy

All the road maintenance.

There’s more roadwork than road

In this north-west resort

And surviving the rush hour

Is now our local sport.

What once took two minutes

Now takes two hours at best

As they make the roads faster

For the town’s ONE cyclist.

The idea to write about the roadworks came to me when I was stuck in a traffic jam. This idea was followed by the concept of presenting the verse as a welcome to the town, promoting the roadworks as though roadworks are another of Blackpool’s many tourist attractions rather than a reason to avoid the resort.

That struck me as a sufficiently quirky approach that suited the tone I wanted to adopt. I figured it would make for an amusing poem that could address the point that excessive roadworks really are a nuisance and inconvenience, but without that sentiment coming across as a vociferous diatribe or a rant.

We have beautiful sunsets

That enrich the twilight

And we watch them across

The prom’s construction site.

They’ve fenced off the seafront

From the trams there’s no movement

And we’re told it’s being done

In the name of improvement.

And there’s millions of signs

Showing men in hard hats

The signs say: DANGER MEN WORKING

But there’s no danger of that.

I was pleased with the forced rhymes in this verse. As most of the regular contributors to this blog will know, I am a huge lover of rhyming verse. But I also adore the postmodern amusement-value of forced end rhymes. Consequently dance rhymes with maintenance in this poem, and best rhymes with cyclist.

Similarly, the irregular scansion adds to the suggestion of a poor construction within this poem – almost as though the form is mimicking the poor construction being described in the content. (That’s not really why the irregular scansion is there – I just happen to have written this one whilst I was in a rush – but I thought that explanation was worthy of English Literature studies).

You’ll see six of them standing

With five of them shirking

There’s one drawn a short straw

And he’s THE one who’s working.

And the others do nothing

They’re all on a fag break

And they’ll only do work

If it’s done by mistake.

And this is our town then

It’s all construction sites

Not designed for car drivers

Who’ve come here for the lights.

Obviously some parts of this poem are completely untrue as I suggest that the construction workers employed on the road improvements are not diligent, hardworking and industrious individuals. This scurrilous suggestion was included for comic effect, based on the stereotype of the traditional construction worker and bears no relationship to the real construction workers who have put so much effort and hard work into swiftly renovating Blackpool’s roads over the past five years.

So welcome to Blackpool

Come young and come old

Come see Blackpool tower

Wrapped up in scaffold.

We’ve got roads drenched in roadworks

As many as you like.

It should improve your journey

As long as you’re on your bike.

On top of the above motives, I should add that part of the inspiration for this one came from the knowledge it would be read out to the DGPS audience. Knowing that the poem would be delivered to an audience who were familiar with the roadwork situation made it easier to write about the subject. For any audience outside the area I would have had to preface the material with a tedious explanation about Blackpool’s road renovation programme and the issues developing from it.

And what could be less fun and inspiring than to hear someone introduce their poetry by saying:

“Before I read this poem, I’d like to tell you all some interesting and relevant information about the current programme of road improvements in Blackpool, and the surrounding areas of the Fylde coast, that will help develop cycle routes in the town…”

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Meat and two veg

Inspiration. Not the process of diligently excavating a written artefact from a dusty pit with a fuzzy brush. For me it’s usually a spade sideswiped to the head of a Tuesday afternoon whilst hanging greying underpants on the line. I don’t believe there is inherently spiritual about inspiration, but it does feel like magic when it all comes together so beautifully. Inspiration to me is the desire to create something, the transformation of a thought into an idea. For me it is an urge, rather than anything ethereal.

It needs to be fed regularly though.

Feed it a diet of trash and that is what it will assemble and place at your feet. It needs quality feed, and a varied diet. It’s no good feeding it only the tabloids, catalogues and Heat magazine. It also isn’t healthy to stick with the classics alone, too much highbrow and it can get bloated. A healthy mixture of roughage and nutritious input is what brews and reacts, bubbling away until an idea floats to the surface. Sometimes it’s fully formed, sometimes it isn’t, but it is quality.
It is at its optimal temperature in the early hours for many, evenings for some; get to know when yours is at its peak. Some simmer slowly, others are more productive. It will occasionally need a stir, or at least a little agitation to shake it out of apathy. This is essential, or the flavour will be bland.

An often overlooked part of this process is the time to blend. A watched idea never boils. Physical action, jobs which require little mental effort are perfect to allow the juices to bubble and at these times it can be very productive, so I try to keep a pen nearby.

It can be accelerated by viewing talent in close proximity, and can progress beyond a simmer to a full boil. But you have to be quick; it has a tendency to slip through your fingers and can lose its shape under pressure, so handle carefully and quickly.

Come along to the next Dead Good Poets’ Society event in August; and give your inspiration a little extra seasoning.

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Masochism - yes, inspiration - not so much

THE greatest creation of this millennium to date, Wikipedia, describes this week's theme thus:

"Inspiration refers to an unconscious burst of creativity in a literary, musical, or other artistic endeavour. Literally, the word means "breathed upon," and it has its origins in both Hellenism and Hebraism. The Greeks believed that inspiration came from the muses, as well as the gods Apollo and Dionysus. Similarly, in the Ancient Norse religions, inspiration derives from the gods, such as Odin. Inspiration is also a divine matter in Hebrew poetics. In the Book of Amos the prophet speaks of being overwhelmed by God's voice and compelled to speak. In Christianity, inspiration is a gift of the Holy Spirit."

I don't believe in inspiration. I believe in neural pathways, opportune observations and memory triggers. I believe in themes, deadlines and writing exercises. I believe in bouncing off muses, emotional responses and intrigue. I don't believe in prophetic ability.

Writing is an urge. The act of tying thoughts down to signifiers and culturally agreed definitions turns me on. I want to drink in my surroundings - present and past - and observe as they settle down, embedding themselves into the walls of my mind. The walls of my inner cave are constantly in flux, like drawings in chalk that blur and sharpen as you watch. Some days bright light illuminates specific ideas, other days it's dim in there and there's a bad smell. But I don't expect the drawings to jump down from the wall and organize themselves elaborately on a computer screen. I don't want them to do that. I want to notice elements of the drawings, make connections between separate parts. I want to try to recreate the drawings for myself but in a different format and from a new perspective. Mostly, I long to practice doing this. I want to describe the images on the walls of my mind over and over, in a multitude of fashions and in a variety of lights. I want to create again and again, sometimes improving and sometimes slipping into obscurity. Occasionally I want to form something exquisite. Sometimes I want to know that I have formed something exquisite, sometimes I want you to know but keep it to yourself.

But I don't believe in inspiration. I believe in tired eyes and dirty fingers. I believe in running myself into the ground because it's the only way I know I'm putting everything into this messy effort. This is because I'm a masochist. It's also why I'm a writer.

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No. 005042

It’s late on Monday night. My trousers have mud-prints down each leg. My hair has started to weave itself into dreadlocks. My nails have small pieces of campsite dirt stuck in the corners. A cloth wristband – fastened with a pressed metal ring – is still attached to my left wrist. Beneath my eyes there are long, inspired days and late, inspired nights. This is the Latitude effect.

It’s left my mind impregnated with ideas. Glowing germs on a soil sky, waiting to grow into sparks. Waiting to shower and scatter onto the blank land. Scorch words into the grass. This is what matters. This is what you search for. This is what (once found) you want to keep. You want to seal it inside a Tupperware tub and freeze it. You want to tuck it at the back of your sock drawer. You want to lock it. Alarm it. Put an electric fence around it. You want it to stay. Forever.

But it leaves, forgets to close the door on the way out. A draught stirs the dust. Particles of doubt stand themselves up tall. Look menacing. Fear dots every unwritten ‘i’, crosses every unwritten ‘t’. And you wonder. You wonder if it is gone without a goodbye. Another once defined face chiselled by the water. Unrecognisable. Lost to a sea of strangers. Murky. Blue. Green. Bottles. No coastline. An expanse of bobbing corks and glass. Unread. A smudged ‘return to’ address. Everything says it shouldn’t come back...

...And when you want it to, it usually doesn’t. It plays the stroppy teenager better than Harry Enfield. It can make a game of hide-and-seek last days, even weeks. It can push invisible pins into your eyes. Cause a pen to click for an hour without pause. Force you to stare at emptiness as if it contained something profound. It’ll bring you to the ground. Have you pleading like a Lib Dem canvassing for votes. Nothing. It refuses to be bought with promises. It makes you wait. With no guarantee.

101 hours ago I walked into the poetry tent at Latitude. Found that thing you just want to keep. Packed it in my backpack. Brought it home. For the moment, at least.

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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Finding Inspiration.

I'm not here.

I'm not here to make a half-arsed remark about the demise of the Murdoch empire, the weather over the weekend or even the things that inspire me, with poetry. In fact, there is every chance I am still a little drunk- I'm at Latitude.

Last night I saw Saul Williams and Jo Shapcott. I hope they were amazing. On Friday I saw Linton Kwesi Johnson and Saturday may just have seen me squeeze in Tim Key. Don't be rude. I've seen other things too; probably music, cabaret, groundbreaking new theatre, woodland art, a couple of film stars and the usual array of festival novelties not really worth a mention on a poetry blog.

So there we are. I haven't really blogged at all. You aren't really reading this and, by the time I come back from the festival, I might think of something worth telling you- in which case I will post a further comment. Those of you that don't bother reading titles will not know that this week's theme is Finding Inspiration (chosen by the lovely Lara) and so for that, I feel I am letting the side down a little. The truth is, last minute as ever is probably all about finding inspiration for me. The idea that pops into your head just when you're already running behind... There is so much to do before Latitude, I'll leave you with this:

For me to write down,

All of the stuff in my head.

An impossibi...

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Considering Audience

By Danielle R Smith

When asked to write a post on 'Considering Audience' I was initially struck with memories of classes in which we were told repeatedly that you must always consider your audience. You must write to fulfil the needs of the audience. You must understand your audience. Now, years on and free from the classroom, I disagree.

Okay I’ll explain. I’m an incredibly selfish writer and unless I am being paid (or hoping to be paid) the only person I am going to consider when writing is me. I’m sure I can’t be the only one?

My poems are about things I relate to. Things that inspire me or things that make me smile. When I write fiction I have a sneaking suspicion the protagonists, be it a man, woman, child or tree have a little bit of myself (or at least who I wish I was) in them. When I write my blog I try and write a blog I would like to read. I do this because I’m a writer, a reader, a girl who loves shopping and sleeping I’m not a psychic and I’m not very perceptive. So rather than worrying about my audience I write for the one person I know best, myself. It’s not that I think I have great taste because I’m very sure that I don’t. In fact I have been called tasteless on many occasions. But writing for an audience seems fraught with stress, presumptions and second guesses. Not for me.

Whilst I understand that this is probably not the best way to go about writing I am resistant to change. Writing for an intended audience of one means that my work is often similar but I like to think that this just means I have a distinctive style. And at least when I stand up at the next DGP meeting I know that I will enjoy my work. If anyone else does I count that as a bonus.

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A Different Audience

by Ashley Lister

Don’t take this the wrong way. And, if you’re a regular member of the DGPS audience and reading this, then you can be 99.99% sure that I’m not referring to you in the rant that follows.
But the truth is: I sometimes yearn for a different audience.

I’m not talking about a completely different audience. I’m not talking about every person who turns up at a Dead Good Poets’ gig. There are many people there whom I like and I want to see again and again. There are a few people there whom I love. And there are others that I’m always delighted to see even though I haven’t yet worked out whether I simply like them or whether I absolutely love them.

But I want to get rid of the cheap ingrates. I want to get rid of the tight-fisted skinflints. There are some parsimonious, penny-pinching pillocks who attend our events and I’d happily hurl them out of the door.

(NB – don’t get me started on hurling people out of the door. That’s another rant for another weekend. Seriously, who goes to an open mike poetry event to cause the sort of problems that merit them being physically ejected from the premises?)

The cheap members of the audience really annoy me. They don’t just want something for nothing. They want something for nothing, as well as the bonus added value pack of something extra for nothing to put in a doggie-bag and take home. And they also want to take advantage of the cashback offer at the same time. And all of this with extra sugar on the top. And a dollop of cream.

The Dead Good Poets perform free of charge. When you reflect on the quality of the writing, the diversity of talent, and the breadth of experience involved, that’s one hell of a lot of substantial entertainment that is being provided free of charge.

Yes, you might have to buy a beverage. It’s not compulsory, but we encourage purchasing snacks and beverages because the proprietors of the No. 5 Café are kind enough to host us for the evening and they have to pay for overheads such as heating, lighting, staff, insurance and all the other sundry costs associated with running a café. Increasing their takings helps keep them amenable to hosting our events.

But snacks and refreshments are the same price whether it’s an open mike night or not. And refreshments are the only cost incurred to audience members at a DGP event.

However, whilst the majority of audience members appreciate this is the bargain of the century, there are still some churlish curmudgeons who believe that free high quality entertainment should offer more value.

At a recent event I had one person ask me to help them find some outlets for their poetry. This is not an unusual or unexpected request. And I’m never averse to helping anyone if it’s within my capabilities.

My response on that occasion was, “Sure. Give me your email address and I’ll send through a list of links.”

“I don’t have email,” came the reply. “Can you print out the details and bring them to the next event?”

The short answer to that question is, yes I can do that, but it’s a huge imposition. Seriously, if you don’t have email, why don’t you go back to the middle of the nineteenth century and see if they want to read your poems there? Have you been writing your work on parchment, with a quill? Or are your poems chiselled on slate tablets in cuneiform Sumerian?

Another audience member observed that I’ve written novels. “Could I read one of your books?” the person asked.

I shrugged and said sure. The only people forbidden from reading my novels are minors and nuns of a nervous disposition.

“Would you bring me a free copy to the next meeting?” the person asked.

It’s not much to ask for, is it? I only worked for twelve months on that last title, and it was then edited by three professionals and a team of publishing industry specialists. Of course I’ll give you a free copy. Would you like me to gift wrap it in the shirt off my back? I might even find the time to come and kiss you goodnight after you’ve finished each chapter on an evening…

Don’t get me wrong. I adore our audiences. And the vast majority of audience members at the DGP events are fun to work with and make the performing poets enjoy the appreciation they deserve. But, if I could bring in a policy of barring the tightwads, it would be a different audience.

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A stick

Audiences are like chickens and foxes. On the one hand we have the cunning, intelligent and astute fox who will likely heckle you given half a chance, and the loveable chicken who will cluck away with encouragement and enthusiasm. The trick is to stop the fox eating the chicken. Ahem the trick is to say something which appeals to them both. They may respond differently to what they hear or read, but there should be enough to keep them both entertained.

Well, that’s what I’d like to think, but they aren’t really like that. An audience is far more complex than I could possibly pretend to know. We’re a funny species, we human beans. We can try and aim our work in a particular direction, but there’s no guarantee it will hit. There are the main considerations: age range, sensibilities and political views. You wouldn’t present to the Scottish Rangers football club a poem entitled ‘Rangers sucks sweaty arse tubes’ unless you fancy looking at your own brain matter.

Yet after giving a great deal of thought as to what our audience would enjoy, and adapting our work accordingly, we still really don’t know whether it’s going to go down well or not. But isn’t that part of the fun? The risk, the anticipation of the unknown is somehow appealing.

So, who are my audience? I’m a juvenile sod, and because of this my leaning is towards children’s writing. But I’m not alone. There’s a little juvenile sod in us all, and I’m determined reach in and ask that juvenile sod what’s brown and sticky.

I’m no expert but I know what I like, so when presenting an idea, try not to bore folk. I write what comes naturally, try not to be a cliché and if it appeals to others then smashing. There’s no real formula to engage your audience as far as I’m aware. Just keep self-pity to yourself, don’t lecture, bugger off with any proselytising and if in doubt, make them laugh.
Oh and don’t let them eat each other.

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Why you came

You arrive at a party. It's only a small gathering but you've spent some time over your attire and you smell at least 10% less sweaty than earlier. Your hair is a little less shabby and you practiced your smile in the bathroom before you left home. You've made an effort. The party is at the house of an acquaintance. They greet you at the door. Your £3.99 bottle of wine disappears to the kitchen and you are shoved unceremoniously into the living room which smells of vinegar and cheese flavouring.

As the newcomer to the room, all eyes turn towards you. You recognise 4 human beings who all appear eager to talk to you, having reached the limits of tolerance with each other. On the small sofa directly to your left is Bonnie. She is terribly nice but tends towards the trite and although her utterances are packaged very neatly, you are frequently left with the impression that they lacked actual content.

Standing by the mantelpiece with an empty glass is Barrie. He, you remember, has a knack for throwing obscure references into the conversation and passages from books which you haven't read. Once he starts talking he doesn't know when to stop and the last time you conversed a small amount of drool escaped your mouth.

Huddled beneath a massive yukka plant is Bella. Wow, she's kookie. Isn't she though? Isn't she just so mad? She must be, she tells you so every time she opens her mouth. You'd better believe her. It'd be good if you started the conversation by reminding her how crazy she is, that way she might go easy on you.

But wait. There's Buddy. Slumped in the corner, tears streaming down his pearly cheeks. Aww. Poor Buddy. Look at the pain in his eyes. Life's too much for this fella. Don't you just want to sit next to him and let him tell you how incredibly tortuous it is to exist from day to day? No?

You consider backing away, cutting your losses. Nobody would blame you. The door is right behind you.

Too late. Bonnie has taken your hand and has pulled you down beside her. Was your sigh as loud as you imagined? Bonnie has begun to divulge her observations to you, softly, quietly. Before your mind begins to wander you are caught by a flirty snippet of rhyme, a saucy metaphor. She proceeds through a series of robust plosive verbs and you are ensnared. There's a nugget of disgust cradled in a web of tight, careful sounds. She's exploring new territory, stabbing at precious, large-eyed values and wringing the blood from shy concepts with a greed that's as unavoidable as streakers, attractive as arrogance. Bonnie's face contorts as life spills from her eyes and her mouth and she laps up your reaction to feed her channel of sound so that you are as much a part of this as she. Without you, this wouldn't be happening. A little of her, a little of you and the meeting. That's why you came. That's why you continue to go to parties.

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When you forget to consider your audience...

Disclaimer: The post that follows is fictitious, and any similarity with real events or people is merely coincidental. The views presented are not necessarily shared by the writer, but have been imagined so that the piece can achieve its purpose in the most effective way.

It’s a Friday night in Blackpool, and a tucked away coffee shop is full. Poetry is everyone’s reason for being there – for braving the stormy conditions that ride in on the Irish Sea, and rattle every hoarding in the seaside town.

It’s about halfway through the evening when a man (who’s never been before) is invited up to read.

Host: Our next reader is...

The host looks puzzled (as if he’s just been asked what (304 × 105) ÷ 12 equals), he scans the running order then stares at it. But the calculation, rather than becoming simpler, becomes more challenging.

Host: ...Please welcome Gandalf to the microphone

Hands clap. Necks stretch as a man in a purple velvet suit and matching hat weaves through the audience.

Gandalf: Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about. Appreciation when I’ve done nothin’. Like the dude over there said...

He points his finger and waves it like he’s about to cast a spell.

Gandalf: ...I’m Gandalf. Well, not really, but it sounds better than John. So yeah, don’t live here anymore – thank God – just visitin’ a poor sod that does.
Wrote this poem this mornin’ on the train and thought I’d read it. Don’t know what all the fuss is about, people always complainin’ that poetry is difficult. Rubbish. Piece of piss, if you ask me.

At this point, sets of eyes begin to glaze over – like parasitic symbionts have just crawled inside the audience’s ears and implanted themselves within the frontal lobe of everyone’s brains. John (aka Gandalf) fails to notice that he’s not only losing the audience, but also offending them.

Gandalf: Yeah, so bein’ in Blackpool and all, I thought I’d write about Blackpool. Not hard to come up with ideas really, is it? Even the title was easy to come up with - just came straight to me. Like I was bein’ charged by a divine force, or somethin’. So yeah, it’s called Blackpool...

The audience begins to fidget uncomfortably in their seats. A few people turn to those sitting next to them and whisper, ‘This is going to be bad’.

Gandalf: You’re Tracey Emin’s pop-tent,
absolutely shite.
You’re full of sluts with STDs
and pissed up stags at night.

The host, who seconds earlier had taken a sip from his Americano, splutters out coffee and proceeds to choke. But John (aka Gandalf) continues undeterred, speaking his lines with the same ease as which David Cameron spins a lie.

Gandalf: You’re week-old Chinese takeaway,
better in the bin.
If London’s streets are paved in gold
then yours are lined with tin.

The normally placid audience begins to slowly revolt, fists bang on tables and a chorus of ‘OFF, OFF, OFF’ attempts to drown out the slanderous verse. However, John (aka Gandalf) chooses to ignore the audience’s request and merely increases the volume at which he’s speaking.

Gandalf: You’re Tesco Value lemonade,
cheap but lacking fizz.
You’re certainly the weakest link
in every T.V. quiz.

The coffee shop becomes like the inside of a theatre at Christmas – filled with boos and hisses.

Gandalf: You’re the ‘crap’ in every scrapheap;
a town of utter hell.
You’re the tacky Poundland reject
that no bugger can sell.

Before John (aka Gandalf) has even finished reading his poem, the host leaps from his seat and grabs the microphone.

Host: Err. Thanks Gandalf, but I’ll take it from here...

The audience cheers.

* * * * *

RULE ONE (to being a good poet or performer): ALWAYS remember to consider your reader/audience.

Thank you for reading.
Lar

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Bombing out: The difficult second post.

We’ve all been there. It has been a great idea. The most heartfelt piece you’ve ever written- and it bombs.

Tragic? Yes, for the time being but, if there is anything I have learnt from writing and regularly performing /reading aloud, it is that the audience can change. A lot. Somewhere amongst the drunks at the end of the night (which obviously, as fate would have it, is your allocated slot), great lines can go unheard. A soft spoken voice can be muffled by the clinking and if, by some miracle, it is comprehended, is that the kind of person that is going to speak up in support of your new ‘best ever poem’? No.

Yet, in following that point through with minimal disagreement, you reader, yes, I’m talking to you, have just run the risk yourself of being heckled, ignored or simply put up with by the audience... You assumed.

I’ve assumed and it isn’t nice when it all goes wrong. I’ve since started to consider just who my target audience is before getting down to writing poems. Back when I was reporting on the football, this was a given- a Scottish tabloid, not surprisingly, wanted all the juice on Mr Charlie Adam and so I wrote generally about girders, Glasgee and tough tackles amongst other things. Snippets of action and actual match facts amongst a blanket of pro-Jock hyperbole and rhetoric. Line after line of it, and they gobbled it up. The trouble I found is that, when facing the blank page, the easiest things to flow out are often the worst to read out.

With an event coming up, wit can be hard to come by and if, like I did, you are just starting out writing as a hobby, something fun can be the last thing you feel compelled to push a quill over. For a lot of people, poems aren’t the first thing to write in a moment of inspiration. They instead come at sombre times, times of importance to a person and often, with mixed feelings or in the heat of the moment. Some of the best work comes from here but also, we get these (of which I am frequently guilty):

1. Dead people- pieces from the heart, the crux of life and yet rarely all that popular at an open mic.

2. Emotions & Relationships- most notably, our old friend the sonnet. I’ve seen crowds turn faster than milk in student digs.

3. Protests- serious animal rights, contentious issues and religion. Really, I’m quite liberal. I’m bloody vegan but don’t tell me about dead bears and fur on a Friday.

In the right place, at the right time, 'proper poems' fly. I’ve had people coming up after quiet events to ask about lines (they obviously didn’t hear, did they). I’ve stood three weeks later somewhere different, read the same poem and had a room of empty faces not so much looking as facing back at me. In hindsight, visual metaphors were always going to be tough at the Blind Society but that isn’t the point.

As I’m on the first day of the theme, I’m leaving this post short of all the things I actually wanted to write about in the hope that, come Sunday, the marvellous team will have covered things like rhyme, form, meter etc but for now, I’ll just leave you with this.

We made a visit to Hodgson School on Thursday- 90 kids all high on pop and sweets and to be honest, we were fine. Interest remained strong, some even looked like they were enjoying being read to and afterwards, Lara, Vicky and myself enjoyed the rockstar treatment with teenagers queuing, yes, bloody queuing for autographs! I don’t know why I’m surprised at this though- Lar selected some of her most accessible lines, Vicky blasted in with wit and snappy haikus and I went with some tried and tested short pieces (even touching on some sentiment once they’d accepted me). All you doubters out there- we got through without a cock joke, racist slur or profanity in sight. A tough crowd it might have been- the point is, we’d simply considered it.

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Dead Good Poets’ Society

by Katy Evans

Picture the scene.

Lunchtime. A classroom at Blackpool & The Fylde College. A small group of people, a mix of students and teachers alike are sitting and listening or standing and reading poetry, their own poetry.

Fast forward three years, standing room only. That inaugural meeting of what would go on to become Blackpool’s Dead Good Poets’ Society flails in comparison to the events of today.

I don’t think any of us really knew where this would lead when we first met back in 2008. We were, in our minds, simply a group of friends, with a passion for poetry, whether it be writing it or listening to it. We were a compendium of faculty and alumni, mainly the latter. I, amongst many others, hailed from the BA English course, and was simply happy to have an outlet, a captive audience, and a platform for me to perform my work on.

The lunchtime meetings quickly grew in popularity. Soon an hour wasn’t long enough and a classroom not big enough to accommodate all the poets and their audience. A plan of action was required. A plan that was to be formulated by a skilled team of individuals willing and ready to take over the world... Well, we formed a steering group if that counts! But a plan was made and the evolution of The Dead Good Poets began.

Our first mission, if we were to accept it (which we did, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this now!) was to secure a venue large enough to house our ever growing collection of participants and followers. We were lucky enough to find the perfect place to hold our events and for me, having attended every meeting at this venue, it will always be my favourite. I know you will all join me here in a moment of silence for Chester’s Tea Rooms.

R.I.P Chester’s

From here on the group was free to grow in whichever way it wanted, we had become independent, flown the nest as it were (The nest being the classroom at the college of course!) The fledgling had found its wings!

A society built on inclusion and entertainment for all – Everyone deserves the chance to fly!

I am proud to be able to call myself a founding member of The Dead Good Poets’ Society (I even have the t-shirt!). I may no longer be geographically able to attend every event, and some of the things I see you have planned I would simply LOVE to be a part of, but with the aid of Facebook I know I will never be left out of the loop and would be welcomed back at any time – which I hope will be in the not too distant future!

DGPS is more than just a poetry group, it’s a chance to make new friends and be a part of something special!

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The weekend starts here

Call me Ash.

I’m a writer. I write fiction. I write non-fiction. I write book reviews. I write an online column and I write some poetry. Like I said, I’m a writer.

(Soon I’m going to boast about my latest project. It’s very exciting. But I won’t mention that today. Today is for more important things.)

Aside from being a writer, I'm also a proud member of the Dead Good Poets. I’ve been fortunate enough to work with the Dead Good Poets since they began writing and performing together in a college classroom at Blackpool.

I’m not sure if anyone else will remember, but they used to serve us free cake and drinks back in those halcyon days. It seems the rewards for our services are slipping because, now that we perform in public venues and local cafes, there is scant sight of free food or drink.

Just saying.

Anyway, I’m a writer and very excited to be here with the Dead Good Poets. Over the next few weeks I know this blog is going to grow and, from what I’ve seen so far this week, I know it will truly rock.

If you enjoy what you read here, please tell your friends. If you don’t enjoy what you read, come back later – it will likely have improved.

There will be regular bloggers, guest bloggers, discussions, poetry, fiction, notification of forthcoming events, reminders about submissions and themes, and probably lots of other things that I’ve forgotten to mention.

I’m also hoping this blog will be a good space where we can keep contact with old friends and new members, so that the Dead Good Poets can continue to grow and thrive despite the way the real world keeps interrupting.

I suppose it sounds like I have high expectations but I know the other writers in this team have exceptional talents so I think my high expectations will be justified.

And, whilst I’m aware that 99% of dull poetry blogs give all the others a bad name, I feel confident that this blog is going to be the exception to that rule. I sincerely hope, over the forthcoming weeks, you decide to return to the Dead Good Blog.

Ash

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There's a noise coming from....aaaaargh

Good morning. Who am I? I am a poet with a fear of writing. Why? The awful little voice. Not one attributed to mental illness thank goodness, and I’m not referring to my children either. At creative writing class I was asked to describe my inner critic. That’s the one. It’s there in most of us, and I think I’ll tell you a little about mine.


“Well there my little rat dropping, what’s this you’ve written?” The voice slurs. Miss Hannigan stumbles to the cupboard and pours herself another gin. She dots the air with a bony finger. “You’re not a writer, you’ll never amount to anything dearie. See that nonsense you’ve written? Everyone’s going to laugh at it my little rat dropping. You may as well do something else.”


She reaches for the worktop and misses, catching herself with her elbow. She salsas badly across the room trying not to fall. She sits across from me now, gin in hand. She tries to cross her legs, knocking the gin on the carpet. “You’ll have to clean that now. No time for this. People just feel sorry for you; they’re just being polite.” She tries to gather tendrils of the mop on her head, patting and smoothing. The result makes her look like an explosion in a wool factory. “It’s a hard knock life sweetie. This is the real world we live in. Stop being a dreamer. You’ve got a family to support now, just close the laptop and do something else, you’ll feel better.”


For those unfamiliar with Miss Hannigan’s character, she was a drunken orphanage owner in the 80’s musical Annie. She was comical, yet cutting and cynical. And she’s in my head. She picks her moments well, just when I’m about to begin something usually. Or she hovers over the delete button pointing and cackling. Many have their own critical voices, something which tells us our work is rubbish, and sometimes it’s right, but not always. It can help us write better. But sometimes it can hinder.


I do write poetry sometimes, Miss Hannigan might be right, but I can’t always take her seriously.

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A bag by any other name

Would you like an empty bag? Are you sure? It's quite a good one actually. It's a bag for life. This bag comes from an upmarket shop where the staff don't so much walk as stalk between shelves of shiny objects with insincere price tags. Clean bags are awfully important aren't they? There's nothing worse than a shitty bag. Well this bag is brand new. No egg, ice lolly or potato dirt has spoiled its interior. No cigarette ash corrupts the tasteful logo which puts you in mind of fresh air and humming. The handles are soft and wide, they fit neatly into your palm. Designers in Paris created the pattern which enhances the seams, engineers in Berlin worked through the night to produce a bag which is reliable, strong, smart.

Or

Would you like a bag full of cakes? It's a shitty bag. I found it in the bottom of a drawer. I don't know what I used it for last time but there's a small cluster of gooey nuggets in the bottom. Oh, there's a slight tear in this bag and the handles cut into your flesh if you put heavy objects in it. It'll hurt you if you overload it. But cake's OK. Cake never hurt anyone. This bag is white and slightly transparent. It has a funny smell. It cost less than a penny to produce and it's probably only got one more use left in it. The cakes are safe. They're wrapped in clingfilm. The cream is fresh, the icing made with cream cheese. It's not a bag for diabetics.

...

Pub in Clitheroe. Three weeks ago. I was standing at the bar at lunchtime on a Monday. In my hand I had a small box containing a new pair of earrings which were quite expensive and a gift. I didn't want to put them away because I was a little bit in love with the earrings at that time. My partner kissed the back of my neck, sneakily, and its message went straight where he intended it. Good for us eh? A woman of late middle age was bundled up in a wheelchair at a table behind us. She was alone, drinking a large glass of wine at lunchtime on Monday. She said loudly 'I saw that'. We turned and smiled, a little embarrassed. She said 'Enjoy those kisses, you'll miss them when they're gone.' Awkward silence while I tried to think of either a witty response or an honest one that didn't make me sound like a twat. She beat me: 'I miss them.'

There. Job done. I now know more about her than most of my extended family. The moral? Introductions suck, be yourself. Speak your mind. Like what I have done. See?

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Everything Starts with a 'Bang'

I could start at the beginning. There was a ‘bang’. A small, dense state that expanded rapidly. But in the shadow cast by such a creation, I’m almost certain to get lost. To be reduced to a condition of insignificance, like a single ant in a colony of millions. I would fail to communicate with you, the reader, about who I am, why and how I’m involved in this blog. And in the online scheme of things, it would seem that these are the important questions.

Words have the ability to be either crumbs or pheromones, and the writer has the potential to either create a trail that is easily erased (by hungry birds), or one that leads to a pool of raspberry jam – necessary, important and addictive.

I’ve always had a liking for words, a growing dependency to read the musings and imaginations of others, and a need – which is almost inarticulate – to place my own mind on paper. Generally, I write poetry, occasionally, I stray into prose but I always find myself wandering back to line breaks and stanzas.

In the beginning, there was a ‘bang’. A B.A. in English: Language, Literature and Writing at Blackpool & The Fylde College. A poetry group, that started in a classroom and expanded rapidly. In the end (which is actually somewhere in the middle), there was the opportunity to enrol on a Creative Writing M.A. at Lancaster University.

A year into the M.A. and I can already see a change in my poetry; a greater awareness of the reader, poems that are less opaque, less cryptic, and which seem to be moving towards something with real purpose. Hopefully, in future blog posts, I’ll be able to share some of the things that I have learnt (am learning) on the M.A., and discuss some of the issues / difficulties that I’ve encountered in my own poetry. I don’t claim to have all the answers; however, I do believe that instigating discussion allows different perspectives to be considered, and gives us the opportunity to learn something new. With six regular writers and a different guest blogger every Sunday, this blog will offer a range of opinions and insights – giving us all the chance to see poetry from a fresh angle.

At the beginning of all beginnings, there’s a ‘bang’. An explosion of imagination, and countless possibilities.

If you’d like to find out more about me, then please feel free to read my profile

Lar

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An introduction.

It seems I have been ‘blessed’ with the task of kicking things off on the blog proper and I must confess that, sitting here the afternoon before you read this, I have no idea what you can expect to read on these pages.

You may be aware of the group already; you may have been to a meeting or simply just been harassed in a college lobby before now- however which way, you know what we’re about a little bit and so to you and all those we’re just reaching out to, thank you. That comes from me, personally because I know for sure that without this group and the opportunities that it has given me, I’d be a very different person.

Poetry for me is just that, poetry. There is no smart way to put it, no long and short about it, it is just something incredible. Where else can a point be made in sixteen concise lines, in rhyme and deliver strongly on paper and aloud. Where else can an emotion be clarified, condensed and shared so easily. Where else can people grow from shy, retiring types into punchy wordsmiths that really have something to say. That is what this group for me is about- it gives us somewhere to share the things we love writing so much. We have venters and weepers, comics and traditionalists and for a group like that to come out of Blackpool, I’m sure we’re proving a lot of people wrong.

As for me, I’m a vegan, a Blackpool season ticket holder, a bit of a bigmouth and really should get a full time job... I’m sure I’ll have plenty more to say come next Monday.

Shaun

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