I wish I could have a pint with Patrick Hamilton

Patrick Hamilton

It started with Enid Blyton, my long love affair with books. I went through the card, read the lot, then moved on. Louisa May Alcott followed, then Susan Coolidge. One by one I picked off all the children's classics, rampaging through that series of red-bound books you could buy in Woolworths in the 1950s.  At the age of 11 I graduated to the occult books of Dennis Wheatley. (Goodness knows what a good Catholic girl was doing, messing about with them.) And it’s carried on ever since, down the decades. If I like a writer’s work, if I really like it, I have a compulsion to read all their books.

How do I choose what to read? At the moment my reading material is prescribed for me by the College and will be for the next two years – the only downside to an otherwise glorious experience. (A degree in English does not permit any frivolous reading for the pleasure of it!)  Ordinarily, I may hear an unfamiliar name mentioned on The Book Programme and decide to investigate; or I might read an enthusiastic review in the Guardian; maybe a friend recommends something that has appealed to them; or I can be browsing in a bookshop and choose something unknown on a whim. 

There is nothing quite as enjoyable as ‘discovering’ a writer hitherto unknown to me. An example is Patrick Hamilton, whose ‘The Slaves of Solitude’ was recommended in the Guardian a few years back. Patrick Hamilton was a successful writer in his lifetime and a fairly prolific novelist and playwright  from the 1920s until his death in 1962. His work was largely consigned to oblivion after his death, as the London, or near London, that he wrote about – its dingy boarding houses, rationing, the dirty streets, the grey monotony of working class life – gradually improved and the cheery pub life that he described so evocatively, with its ‘characters’, spivs, prostitutes all battling against life and fighting for survival was no longer recognised by the newly upwardly mobile. Several decades later, his worth and stature as a writer is at last being rehabilitated and his books are being republished.

‘London, the crouching monster, like every other monster has to breathe, and breathe it does in its own obscure, malignant way. Its vital oxygen is composed of suburban working men and women of all kinds, who every morning are sucked up through an infinitely complicated respiratory apparatus of trains and termini into the almighty congested lungs, held there for a number of hours, and then, in the evening, exhaled violently through the same channels.’ Thus begins ‘The Slaves of Solitude’ and I was hooked.

Patrick Hamilton’s novels are extraordinarily satisfying, larger than life, brimming with pathos, packed with low-key unrequited love for unsuitable, unreliable, unattainable objects of affection, teeming with indestructible stoicism and forbearance. He was also a writer decades ahead of his time in some respects. There is something in his style of writing that is fresh and contemporary; it could be written today.

When I really, really like a writer’s work, I have to know all about them, which leads me on to their biography, of course. Through the excellent Through a Glass Darkly by Nigel Jones, I learned of Hamilton’s hopeless alcoholism, his failed marriages, his socialism, his bonhomie, his generosity, his torment, his love of pubs. I’d love to have a pint with Patrick. In the words of the Saw Doctors ‘I never even met him, but I know we’d be a pair. We’d have sat in any pub in town and had a good time there.’ Cheers, Patrick.

BS Johnson

Jonathan Coe is one of my favourite contemporary writers, for his sane, matter of factness, his beautifully understated style and his social perspective. I buy all his books on publication and have never been disappointed. We went to one of his book readings in Manchester and he was asked which of his books most reflected himself. He said that he had put the most of himself and seven years of his life into Like a Fiery Elephant, his biography of BS Johnson, an ‘experimental’ novelist, poet, stage writer, broadcaster, journalist and football reporter in the 1960s and 1970s. Who? My mystified question exactly.

Coe’s biography is probably the best single book I have ever read to date. It is an object lesson in meticulous research, deep humanity, epic empathy, warmth and humour. It’s worth reading for Bryan’s replies to publishers’ rejection letters alone! He was a gregarious, affable, larger than life character, with all the insecurities of someone who writes for a living. Having lived Bryan’s life with him I could hardly bear to read the ending, veering as it did to the inevitable suicide.

Naturally, I had to investigate Johnson’s work after reading such a tour de force. Courtesy of eBay, I acquired a prized copy of The Unfortunates, his ‘novel in a box’, which is in 27 different parts, almost like pamphlets, to be read in any order preferred by the reader, apart from the first and last chapters. It covers a semi-autobiographical account of Johnson’s trip to Nottingham to cover a football match. Crowding into his mind as he walks through Nottingham are the poignant memories of his friendship with someone who has died of cancer, his illness, other relationships, football. The format of the book lends itself to this sort of rambling reminiscence and I loved it. Which led on of course to the acquisition of various other Johnson novels and poetry books, all stashed away for the glorious day when I can again read freely once ! I’d like a pint with him too – cheers, Bryan.

The walls of our house are closing in on us, as the books threaten to engulf us and there’s no place to go with more bookshelves. I can’t really answer a question as to who is my favourite writer. The answer is, it depends. Depends on when you ask, how I’m feeling, what’s on my mind at the time, my age at the time of asking. And I don’t want to answer it either, as to do so would imply that I’ve read enough, don’t need to carry on discovering new writers, am comfortable with what I’ve already read. Never!

Sheilagh Dyson

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The beginning was simple to mark.

I was sitting in a darkened classroom, lights off and blinds shut. This was me, taking my first Lit class. I remember being early. I remember being eager to find out about things then, having only chosen the A level on the back of a GCSE the top set were forced to take. I remember the humming of the flourescent lights. I remember the door being propped open and me trying to look excited. Then, I remember the girls coming in, one at a time in what seemed a never ending chain of potential partners. I stuck around, and not just for the hugely attractive female:male ratios. There seemed to be something interesting going on in the English department, a feel in the air that the teachers knew and loved the material, a feel of expectancy, should I say.

We're discussing favourite writers this week and, whilst that subject itself is something I am coming back to, if I was going to pick at some, I'll take two straight from those college years. Ian McEwan sits on top of my list. He sits there for the simple reason that without him, I wouldn't be writing this blog. I wouldn't have read Enduring Love and, if you'll excuse the pun, wouldn't have developed one for the subject. I certainly wouldn't have taken an English degree. I adore his attention to detail, the realism and the most tremendous tension he creates from the most mundane of situations. His book covers say 'the master of disaster', and I can't beat that for high praise.

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Editing the Great Writers #1

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The Blackpool Lion

 By Ashley Lister

 As many of you know, I’m a fairly peaceful type of person. I don’t advocate cruelty to any living creature (unless it’s Tory). And I find mindless violence to be distressing and usually unwarranted. Yet these lines, taken from the centre of Marriott Edgar’s The Lion and Albert, always makes me smile.

There were one great big lion called Wallace
His nose were all covered with scars
He lay in a som-no-lent posture
With the side of his face to the bars.

Now Albert had heard about lions
How they were ferocious and wild
And to see Wallace lying so peaceful
Well... it didn't seem right to the child.

So straight 'way the brave little feller
Not showing a morsel of fear
Took 'is stick with the 'orse's 'ead 'andle
And pushed it in Wallace's ear! 

In this poem (invariably and inaccurately described as a monologue) we have animal abuse at the end of that stanza and, in the rest of the poem, there is a strong suggestion of child neglect that borders on blatant cruelty.

I won’t discuss the dark nature of comedy here, or Freud’s distinction between humour types of innocent and tendentious. I’ll just say that I still find this hilarious even though I’ve heard it many, many times. It’s stylish and funny.

And, whilst many people are familiar with The Lion and Albert, I think it’s fair to say that there aren’t many who know there was a follow-up story to this classic tale.

You can find it at this link and, personally, I think it's just as funny as the first monologue.

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He will roar

I don’t believe in Astrology, the whole concept of someone who deludes themselves that they are ‘psychic’ looking at some stars and calculating that swathes of people who were born between certain times of the year are going to experience the same things seems insane.

This is my Leo the lion. He’s seven years old, likes the words ‘fart’ and ‘poo’. He recently thought it was hilarious to turn the lights out in Morrison’s toilets when some poor bloke was in there and leg it. His star sign is not Leo. I don’t know what his star sign is but some daft person somewhere will be calculating his temperament based upon it. He is a bit of a daydreamer, likes brussell sprouts and refuses to read books which aren’t factual. He likes Dr Who obsessively. He writes most of his letters backwards and some numbers. He’s a little bit of a mystery to me really as I love reading and writing and he’d much rather be doing something else. Not that he’s stupid, his teacher says he’s very bright, but she can’t show it unless he displays his findings in textual form. It makes me wonder just how much emphasis on intelligence is based on literacy results, and whether it is the right way to gauge whether someone is intelligent. He sees things in a way I don’t and sometimes finds my blind spots at only seven years old. He’s unwaveringly curious and has to investigate everything constantly, with a keen interest in science. I find him fascinating but I worry about how he’s going to get on without any interest in writing even basics. My eldest son Quinn developed literacy in such a textbook manner I was able to use his writing in one of my degree modules. But Leo isn't textbook, he's a rebel with toxic farts. I suppose I’ll have to just keep at it and try not to put him off. I’ll keep buying the joke books and fact books he will look at. I’ll keep helping him write his number 5’s the right way round. He’s my little lion.

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Play On

In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight...

Aaaaooooooooooooooaaaaaoooooaaaaooooaaaaabumbawehhhhhhh

Aaaaooooooooooooooaaaaaoooooaaaaooooaaaaabumbawehhhhhhh

You can stand under my umbrella
(Ella ella eh eh eh)
Under my umbrella
(Ella ella eh eh eh)
Under my umbrella
(Ella ella eh eh eh)
Under my umbrella
(Ella ella eh eh eh eh eh eh)

It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I tell myself too many times
Why don't you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut
That's why it hurts so bad to hear the words
That keep on falling from your mouth
Falling from your mouth
Falling from your mouth
Tell me...
Whyhyhyhyhyyyyhyhyhyhyhy
Whyhyhyhyhyyyyhyhyhyhyhy

We simple creatures love our catchy, repetitive hooks.  Ask the big religions (Glooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooria!).  Ask the advertising posse (I'm loving it...Moonpig.com...Go Compare...Terry's Carpets, Terry's Carpets).  Ask the football fans (You're -insert insult - and you know you are).  

Oral language is the home of this repetition, of sound.  Literate, written, language scoffs at such simplicity.  Repetition is acceptable if used in moderation but ideally you should avoid using the same word, the identical lexeme, the matching term, too often.  I believe that this is the result of literacy being the new kid on the conceptual block.  It's still struggling to assert its independence against a background of sound which is as old as the landslide.  The simple and obvious is deemed puerile while the cynical and ironic is oh so grown-up and worthy. 

There's a lot to be said for a complex line of poetry which can be pored over - multiple meanings being drawn from the crafty juxtaposition of ideas.  Yes, sometimes I want a poem to come to me brimming with philosophy.  I'll bring my own perspectives, the light and shade which dresses it to my pleasing on that day, at that time.  There's a balance between poet and reader.  If the poem has a clear agenda, for example Kipling's If, then the ratio is 75% poet to 25% reader.  You have your own perspective but the general sense is clear cut.  In more chewy poems, such as Jean Sprackland's Ice on the Beach, I feel the ratio is closer to 50-50.  The reader can make of the poem what they wish - there is no explicit philosophical stance.  And then there are the umbrella-ella-ellas.  The memes, the expressions, the refrains which are so familiar that the reader/listener can bring whatever meaning they wish.  The poet/writer is, effectively, dead or irrelevant.  The words can be re-contextualised, re-quoted, re-blogged, re-tumbled.

The meaning might have become muddy.  The metaphor might have popped its meta-metaphorical clogs.  Think 'Roses are red, violets are blue'.  Think 'If music be the food of love'.  Think 'I wandered lonely as a cloud'.  These phrases have become common.  They have been ingested into orality.  Once they were hard won with pen (quill), paper (parchment), and midnight oil (tallow).  Literacy has its moment to shine.  Complex chains of thought can be pieced together in a way which orality alone struggles to allow.  But once those words are freed, once they are read and shared, performed and reiterated.  Then they belong to us all.  The words are ours to use whenever and however we please.  Sure, they lack something of their early pizazz.  The shine of the newborn gradually becomes the charm of the ancient.  An entire play is whittled down into a single phrase: 'My kingdom for a horse'. 

This desire we have to break things down into manageable chunks, like so many leaf-cutter ants, is why we can enjoy a single word (or sound) chorus repeated day after day.  Whhhhhyyyyyyyyyy?  Asks Anne Lennox.  Disregard the verses of that song and you've got a chorus which can apply to anyone on any day of the week.  A plebeian tourist walks into the road in front of your car...'Whhhhhhhyyyyyyyy?'  A thunderbolt strikes the roof, of a church, which had just been replaced after 15 years of fundraising... 'Whhhhhyyyyyy?'  The snails consume every last marigold you planted in one night...'Whhhhhhyyyyyy?' 

Entropy.  Universality.  Globalisation.  Call it what you will.  It's me driving the car, with the window down, singing Aaaaooooooooooooooaaaaaoooooaaaaooooaaaaabumbawehhhhhhh, and remembering a moment.  That's why I'm smiling.

 

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Three Lions on a Shirt........Shivers Down my Spine

by Sheilagh Dyson

Call me a sentimental, idealistic, over-optimistic, unrealistic fool, but there’s a song that sends shivers down my spine. It did at the time and it still does now. Three Lions, the magnificent opus created by the Lightning Seeds, Baddiel and Skinner in anticipation of Euro ’96, when football was coming home to England. It fades in, rising to a crescendo – ‘It’s coming home, it’s coming home, it’s coming, …..football’s coming home.’ This time was going to be different. Thirty years of hurt never stopped me dreaming. All the bitter disappointments, the ignominy of non-qualification, the Hand of God – all would be swept away this time in a glorious climax at Wembley, when England would at last reclaim the mantle of champions, the three lions passant would again tower imperiously over the football world. Football was coming home to our country, where it all began. Nothing could stop us this time. (Germany, on penalties, in the semi-final, actually. They could.)

            It is in the nature of a football supporter to be a blinkered, romantic who has an unshakeable conviction that it will be better next time – a triumph of hope over experience, if ever there was one. This is applicable to all levels of football, but most of all to England, whose long suffering supporters face each tournament with renewed certainty that this time……Meanwhile, the over-hyped, overpaid, mercenary primadonnas who carry all our hopes and dreams once more flatter to deceive, let us down and another two years of national navel-gazing, anger and resentment beckon – but only till next time, when the hopelessly misplaced optimism ramps up again.

‘All that I know surely about morality and the obligations of man, I owe to football.’ Albert Camus said. What would he have made of today’s game, with its gangster chairmen, culture of celebrity, grotesque unaffordable wages, the diving, the cynicism and the bloated agents calling all the shots? It’s still a beautiful game though, for all that, but sadly one that is now far removed from its grass roots. For anyone interested, please try Gary Imlach’s excellent book ‘My Father and Other Working-Class Football Heroes’ which tells the story of his father’s experiences as a professional footballer in the 1950s and early 1960s, when footballers received the wages of a worker and lived in the same streets as their supporters. Compare and contrast!

I will finish with two poems. The first is a haiku I wrote in anger about Blackpool FC’s relegation from the Premier League. The second is a commentary on the game today and is by Ivan Donn Carswell.

Lament for Blackpool FC

The tangerine dream-

Smashed by a dark juggernaut

The Premier League

To win a game

by Ivan Donn Carswell

How do you win a football game? Not by skill alone or clever plays,
in modern days the game has changed and subterfuge and actors
ways will pave the path to glory. Fitness pays a fair reward to keep
a fleetness in the feet, a clearness in the head, and special food
and clever drinks recharge the cells when batteries are low or dead.
But referees are certain keys to all the famous victories.
Linguistic tricks of lunatics in soccer strip are even matched by
hieroglyphs from coaches dressed in two piece suits, with
hearts on sleeves, grieving for the chances missed, pleading
with the referee for plays he did or didn’t see, for ploys that failed
to turn his head, for verdicts made and judgements dread.
And referees are equal keys to infamy or certain fame.
Then there’s the crowd, a seething throng of attitude and energy,
baying for their chosen team, living in a plastic dream of cinematic
death or glory; dressed in kind and cheering on, drinking, singing,
chanting long and loud the songs expressing hopes and fears of masses
pressed in servitude, praying for a famous win, praying to the soccer rood.
But referees are willing keys to all the prayers and eulogies.
How do you win? Why do you care? Theatrics grimace everywhere,
a game so crafted for the stage with pathos, bathos, great despair,
actors playing parts and reading scripts with human traits, protagonists,
antagonists, depicting gallant characters with artful flair,
it’s all encompassed there, entwined in referee maturity, so grin
and bear it friend, you see, it looks so good on home TV.

© I.D. Carswell

     

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Lions.

Rarr.

Today is Leo day. The day for all my fellow summer borns to rejoice in having our star sign in power. Or something like that.

I don't believe in star signs really. They probably have more significance than I think. They probably also have more significance than a lot of the religious stuff people live their lives by. I still have to be a little pessimistic though- after all, the last place I want to be is a drunken dial away from a Psychic hotline and major phone bill.

That said, I had to find something to write here for the blog. Something about characters and how star signs could be an interesting way to develop them- for traits and whatnot was the first idea I had. Then the golf started and, in truth, I couldn't be bothered. I barely found time to get to my allotment, despite having a constant reminder of how perfect the conditions were courtesy of BBC's live coverage from down the road. I did start to develop a poem idea though- something along the lines of big game hunting is the thinking so watch this space.

So that is me really. I'm a Leo and, in reading back over those bits at the top, reckon that pretty much sums me up- strong willed but very much an 'I'll do it when I want' kind of person. Well, unless the phone rings tomorrow and something I would actually like to do happens (hint hint ANYONE!).

Whilst researching my meagre blog post, I did find this peach in Take A Break's Fate and Fortune Magazine. You'll be surprised to know it also applies to pets, not just Shauns.

"...born under Leo are masters of all they survey. Proud, loving and loyal, your Leo pet likes to rule the roost, loves being the centre of attention and adores cuddles. They're sunny, cheerful and can seem lazy- but a snoozing Leo pet is a happy one.
DO: Groom them often. They can't get enough of being pampered. If there was a pet spa, they'd be first in the queue.
DON'T: Laugh at your pet if they do something silly. They're very proud."

(taken from: TAB Fate & Fortune, issue August 2012).

Thanks for reading,
S

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Then the day came...

by Colin Davies

It's about 5 days before when I actually start to think about it. I’ve been mulling it over in the back of my head since the date and theme were announced, but to actually think, deliberately, and with purpose, 5 days. That’s 120 hours from the speed of the idea to standing up with my smart phone throwing caution to the wind.

It works like this. I suddenly realise I haven’t got a clue what I want to write. I know I want to stay on topic, I’m very anal about that. No matter what the subject I must deliver at least one poem that hit’s the theme, however tenuous. So hour one, realisation, rabbit in the headlights, an idea is needed.

I stare out of the window at the passing world and create two lines. These are going to be the basis around which the whole work is created. I smile and know I now have 119 hours to make it work. Hour two, slight panic.

Everything in the next few days is simple and carefree, I have four, three, two days to come up with something else, not an issue, I’m throwing words away in this time, like they mean nothing.

Then comes the next momentous event in the process, I’m an hour from going to bed on the Thursday night. Less than twenty four hours from now I will be sat in the Number 5 Cafe listen to the works of other truly talented poets and it hits me, “I want these people to like what I do.”

The carefree attitude that has caused me to be so disposable with my scribblings changes. Ego has come for a visit and told me to pull my socks up.

“How can you be taken seriously by these people” he says stretching his hand towards an imaginary photo of the Dead Good Poets dressed for graduation as if they had just stepped out of a John Hughes movie “They know what they’re talking about, you must try harder, for my sake.”

“Ok, Ego,” I reply somewhat in shock, “I’ll make a sandwich and get on with it.”

Ego smiles at me, but not in a happy way, more a kind of “You’d better” sort of sneer.

I go to the refrigerator to gather everything required for the assembly of a cheese sandwich. I pick up the butter, bottle of salad cream and pull the draw open where the cheddar lives. I notice a couple of bottle of Beck’s Veir hiding at the back of the middle shelf.

“You alright there fellas?” I ask greeting them.

“We are too there sir.” replies to one on the right in a West Country accent, “writing poems again?”

I smile, “Am I that obvious?”

The Veir on the right just smiles while the more Welsh sounding bottle on the left pipes up, “The theme for this month, what is it?”

“The Olympics?” I shrug.

“And what have you got already?”

I have an overwhelming feeling of embarrassment which I try and hide from my hopie friends by looking down at my feet and mumbling.

“What was that?” said Left.

“Speak clearly?” demanded right.

“And that is how I won gold...” I pause, breathe, “at the sexual Olympics.”

Some people say that the cruelest sound in the world is the echoing howls for an animal in pain that you have no chance of helping. I argue that your beers laughing at your humble attempts at verse from the inner sanctum of your own fridge can make you feel worse.

I slam the door shut. It’s doesn’t stop the sound of the chuckles, just reduces the volume. I continue with my bread and dairy composite and return to my laptop. I want a glass of milk to help, but the bullying I know that would come from the beer is too much to handle.

Now, I have to make this work, Ego is relying on me. I finish my sandwich, put on my headphones, select something I think will help, at the moment that always seems to be David Bowie. For this task, it has to be Diamond Dogs.

Stretching my arms out, interlocking my fingers and cracking my knuckles I breathe deep. The keyboard looks slightly blurry. I begin to type, pushing the flashing black cursor over to the right giving this new work a title “The Sexual Olympics.”

The blank page looks bigger than the room, I blink, take another breath. It’s this next moment that I can never get used to, as part of my preparations, my routines, I always take this opportunity to fall into a very deep sleep of which I am unaware until my partner Heather, taps me on the shoulder at 4am to ask me if I’m coming to bed.

I look up at her with surprise and notice the look on her face. She has just read the title and is wearing disapproval very well.

“And what did the beer have to say about this?” she asks.

“I think they’ve stopped laughing now?”

She shakes her head, “You’ll be fine, do what you always do and write it at work tomorrow.”

 

Her trusting tone makes everything calm, Ego smiles and nods in agreement.

The preparation is what you have to do for you. Everything you read is just an opinion, you have to try them on and see how they look, and what works, works. For me it’s being remanded by my ego and ridiculed by my beer. Everything else is just my own fault.

***

Colin Davies is a local author, regular contributor to the Dead Good Blog and a highly respected poet.

His incredible book, Mathamagical, is available from a variety of sources, including Amazon.

To find out more about Colin and his writing visit the Mathamagical page on FaceBook.

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Ronan Keating

by Ashley Lister

Once again, I was wanting to experiment with form. This piece came about from the idea of addressing ambiguous song lyrics. Ed Byrne had some legendary fun at the expense of Alanis Morissette's Ironic in his act. Timothy McSweeney also did some cool stuff in response to Axl Rose's Sweet Child O' Mine.

One song I've always thought sends out mixed messages is Ronan Keating's You Say it Best. Consequently I spent an hour or so addressing the chorus in this fashion.



The smile on your face

Lets me know
That you need me

As opposed to the smile on which other part of her anatomy, Mr Keating? The smile on her bum? The smile on her armpit? Try not to over explain these things. Your listeners are not idiots. Well, not all of them are idiots.

There's a truth
In your eyes

Saying you'll never leave me

A truth in someone’s eyes? Truth is an abstract concept. It’s unlikely someone could have an abstract concept in their eyes. Most likely it’s just gowl. If it’s that syrupy, dirty yellow stuff that’s there after someone’s been asleep, or when they have an eye infection, or a heavy cold, then it’s definitely gowl. Perhaps these secretions are not a fitting subject for a love song?

The touch of your hand says
You'll catch me
Whenever I fall

Are you likely to fall? I appreciate there is a horrible stereotype of Irishmen being perpetually inebriated and prone to falling over. I think this line plays on that stereotype and does not do anything to suggest Irishmen can be perceived as sober upstanding members of the community. Revision is needed here if you want yourself and your fellow countrymen to to move away from the image of being drunken bogtrotters.

You say it best
When you say
Nothing at all

I really don’t like this line. You’re telling her to shut up, aren’t you? I’m surprised some feminist hasn’t picked up on this already and put out the cry for your castration. Assuming you’re singing this song to a woman, and assuming you’re a man, then you’re telling her to shut up because she says things best when she’s not flapping her big, fat stupid mouth. I hardly think this is a fitting sentiment for a love song. I think this suggests you have issues with women. Did your mummy not hug you enough when you were small?

All day long
I can hear people
Talking out loud

This strikes me as though you’re going off on a tangent. And a rather mundane tangent at that. You can hear people talking out loud? It’s not worth singing about, is it? Unless you’re trying to contrast this with the voices you can hear inside your head it’s certainly not worth mentioning in a song lyric.

But when you hold me near
You drown out the crowd

Can you see what’s happening here? This has become rather pedestrian now. You’re telling her that when she’s close to you, you can hear that voice of hers – the one that was making you want to hit her a stanza earlier. This is not really such a spectacular thing. When people move closer to us, we can hear them more clearly than those who are further away from us. Why are you making a point to sing about something so obvious?

Try as they may
They could never define
What's been said
Between your
Heart and mine

No, Mr Keating. I’m not sure who this mysterious THEY might be, but it’s unlikely that even the most accomplished linguist could define the content of a conversation that has occurred between your heart and someone else’s. The heart is an organ without vocal chords or the ability to articulate. Was there some 'chemical inspiration' when you came up with these lines?

You say it best
When you say
Nothing at all

You really don’t like her talking, do you? Is she louder than those voices in your head? I’m not a counsellor, or a psychiatrist, but I would honestly suggest some sort of break is needed between the pair of you whilst you sort out your anger issues with appropriate therapy. It strikes me that you’re having too many ups and downs with this relationship and you have to accept that life is a roller-coaster.  Perhaps you could write a song about that instead?

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Ahem, how do I prepare for poetry performance??

What I do in preparation for a poetry open mic night.

1)      Ensure husband is well enough for an evening of child wrangling alone.

2)      Get changed out of the clothes I’ve worn for child wrangling all day.

3)      Go into town.

4)      Sit down with a tea/wine/cider inside the Number Five Cafe in Cedar Square.

5)      Relax and listen to everyone else perform.

It’s no secret that I’ve been to a huge number of Dead Good Poets’ open mic nights and not performed. I have read other people’s work though. It’s just my own I seem to have a problem with. Poetry has never been easy for me. It’s not something which comes  naturally. The only poem I have ever written outside of an academic or workshop environment (or school for that matter) was after the birth of my second child. He had just finished feeding and it popped into my head that I would write a poem. I actually liked it too. It was only about four lines long, and I haven’t kept it. But I didn’t force it. 

I want a poem to come to me in the same way that did. Without judgement, for my eyes only. My naivety at the time didn’t know whether it was academically worthy or the metaphors were pleasing on a literature level. I felt the same way about the sketch I did of him sleeping. This has also gone; I don’t tend to keep my work. The only reason I have some my writing is because computers are handy like that. I didn’t use one then.I think I liked it because there was no pressure. No rules. I just enjoyed it. I’ve struggled writing for the past year. I am hyper-aware of my language use, because I am studying again. Partly through low mood. But I think I broke through a little last Wednesday. I signed myself up for a project that Standard has been running, Haunted Blackpool. We have to submit ghost stories (the clue’s in the name) and I had one ready from another project I was involved in and had planned to submit that. But when the pressure of having to write went  I had an idea, and I actually enjoyed writing it. It wasn’t the pulling teeth rigmarole I’ve been subjecting myself to for the past year for Uni and the blog. It came quickly and I loved every second of it. It may be rubbish but I remembered why I want to write.

At school I wrote every break time, lunchtime and after school. It was mainly crap, shitty metaphors jumped from wild plot twist to formulaic bollocks but I loved it. I hope to reach a balance between good writing and enjoying it one day. Then I will read something at the Dead Good Poets, but I want it to be something I enjoyed writing, not something I forced myself to for the occasion. But I will do it. Whether or not my voice will croak or I will shrink into my coat or possibly die of stage fright may be another matter.

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Daedalean Exchange

There's been some great advice on the blog this week.  I can get behind everything the smarty-pants on here have shared, especially the merits of enjoying your audience and memorising the words.  In addition, I have a few tips for performance which I have picked up at workshops, from fellow poets and through practice:

• Walk through your poem - pace as you read it in practice.  This will allow you to find the natural breaks and rhythm of the piece. (courtesy of Sarah Hymas)
• Ensure that you are well hydrated (beer works) before you read.  There's nowt worse than spitting feathers and struggling to get the words out.  This happened to me in January and I looked rather strange constantly licking my lips in a vain attempt to lure my salivary glands into action.
• Visualise the images in your poem and make sure those images are clear for the audience.  These will act as hooks for the minds of your audience when they try to understand and remember what you said. (courtesy of Ann the Poet)
• Slow down.  Don't be afraid to be.  When you appear behind the microphone the air is heavy with expectation.   Allow that moment to hang.  Use it to collect yourself, to consider what you are about to perform.  Feel your way into the poem.  Let the emotive thread unfurl naturally.  Deliver every sound from your lips with love.  These are your word, painstakingly crafted, meaningful, exquisite.  Push them out into the room with confidence.  Bring them to life in your voice in the same way they live for you on the page.  
• Love the audience.  Respect the relationship you have with that room full of people in that moment.  They are giving you a small portion of their life in the hope that you will fill it with a little piece of your own filtrations.  This is a valuable gift.  Look into the faces of your fellow poetry lovers and thank them for opening up to your words.  The easiest way to do this is by speaking your truth in your way and unashamedly.  Audiences don't want what's gone before, they want you.  They want your truth.  Respect them.  Give them that truth.

 The theme for this Friday's event at the No 5 cafe in Blackpool is 'Games'.  I am yet to write a word.  It should be noted that the advice above is only useful if you do, in fact, have a poem to read at a poetry event.  In the words of Alice in Wonderland (Disney), "I give myself very good advice but I very seldom follow it." 

Pinch of salt and all that. 

By the by - I'm taking my daughter and her friends to a comic convention on Saturday.  We are all dressing up. Raven will be Lacie from Pandora Hearts. I'll be going as American McGee's Alice. I feel like the proverbial duck waddling into an arena full of Cosplay fans.  If anyone knows of any top tips for surviving at these things I would be most grateful if you'd post them below.  Thank you.

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Where do I begin....when do I begin?

by Sheilagh Dyson

I am hardly the best qualified to be writing on this week’s theme of ‘preparing for a poetry event’. My glib answer is that I put on lipstick, check I have enough money for my tea at the excellently hospitable Number 5 café, find a seat in same and prepare to be entertained – by others.

To date, the triumphant tally of poetry readings to which I have contributed in a vocal way is precisely nil. This is not through any reluctance to perform in public, nor some maidenly reticence on my part to plying my wares in an open forum. On the contrary, down the years I’ve been no slouch at speaking up and speaking out, loud and long, about issues that concern me. But this is a new world to me, one in which I still have to find my feet, take a few risks and have the confidence to put myself on the line, as my colleagues in the Dead Good Poets do so impressively and, seemingly, effortlessly each time we get together.

To this end, I’ve been reading up on the myriad advice available (as ever) on the internet to those shrinking poetry violets like myself who are yet to make their reading debut. I’m particularly taken with ‘One Night Stanzas’ which advises:

1)    Say yes, put your name down, make yourself do it. Make a commitment you can’t get out of. Do it when you’re half-confident. Don’t wait until you’re fully confident, that happy moment will never arrive.

2)    Be prepared. Know exactly which poems you’re intending to read and stick to them.

3)    Put yourself on first, when nobody’s tired, bored, drunk or desperate for a cigarette.

4)    Enjoy yourself. Make eye contact with the audience. Smile!

5)     Enjoy the audience. They’re on your side. They appreciate how hard it is to write a poem, never mind get up and read it in public.

6)    Look forward. Remember that this is the last time you will feel so nervous. Next time will be a piece of cake.

Less conventional advice found included:

1)    Drink beer. (It’s a thought!) But not too much.

So, will I be taking my own advice? Soon, but not yet. Not next Friday. Maybe the time after. But I know someone who might take the plunge. I turn to my husband, Dave. Look Dave, it’s easy. Just put your name down, then you’re committed. Choose your poems, get yourself on first, you’ll enjoy it, they’ll be on your side, it will never be as hard again. Drink beer!

I will finish, not with a poem this time, but a quotation. Irish poet Eavan Boland, asked what she has learned from writing poetry, had this to say:

‘That reading and writing and sharing poetry has power in it. Poetry is often misunderstood by those who’ve never really dealt with it — people think it’s archaic and serves no purpose. This isn’t true. Poetry is what language was made for. Get struggling students to write poems and their literacy scores will sky-rocket, as will their social skills. Get a poet to write your advertising copy and see what happens (a lot of companies have begun to do this – look how many TV ads are written in verse these days.) Poetry is not old-fashioned, doesn’t have to be self-aggrandising or dull. I’ve learned that none of the rumours are true. Poetry is seriously hip, and what’s more, it’s a long way from being dead.’

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The Middle Class Tourist: Poetry and festivals.

Firstly, I really do have to apologise for this horrendously late post. I have just returned from Latitude festival though, so I'm sure you'll forgive me.
What is Latitude, I hear you whisper. Members of the group (that I have told until I am blue in the face) will know that it is a music festival that I am completely in love with. It is the first date that goes in each brand new diary. Next year, I am already planning to be away in July. But, this music festival, what does it have to do with poetry? Well, that is just the thing you see- as well as the 4 main music stages (Bon Iver, Elbow, Paul Weller headlined), there are also coming on a dozen other stages knocking about the place.

A dedicated poetry stage (which the festival organiser insists is prominently positioned) over the weekend saw some fifty hours of live poetry- some clearly marked out as performance poets, some quite clearly what you would call page poets. There were poets in abundance though. Simon Armitage stepped in to cover an unwell Don Paterson (shame, but excellent) which, you could only say further bolstered the incredible line up. I got five minutes chatting with Tony Harrison, plugged our group to Benjamin Zephaniah (an honour, by the way- the coolest vegan I know), met hotly tipped and brilliant Patience Agbabi and, whilst not swooning for an autographed book, managed to discover probably a dozen poets that I feel do exactly what I want to be doing. Check out Martin Figura, Helen Mort, Catherine Smith, Clare Pollard, Rhian Edwards and you all have to search out Dean Atta, I instruct you.

It really was an incredible festival. If you are a poetry lover (and you have stumbled across the blog), get yourself there. The music is outstandingly well picked. There is always something to do (including dedicated small person area), more food options than a country fair, and if it isn't a poem you seek, maybe a Q&A with a writer, a film maker or a small screen star could be your thing. A theatre in the woods... I just want to go back already.

Anyway, this is turning into their advert but I really do recommend it. I see the fairly top end £175 ticket price as ten decent shows at £15 a pop and make sure I eat enough freebies to cover the remaining costs. I am determined next year to see something in the comedy arena. I missed Tim Minchin by accident this year and things like this are punishable by death in some circles. I did though, catch John Cooper Clarke who delivered a rousing set to a packed poetry crowd- albeit, and I can't believe I am saying this, a little joke heavy.

There is one thing I will take from this year over everything. You just have to go and do things if you want to get out there. Poets trying new voices out, bands trying new songs out, it is all the same really. As my old man would say: if you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what you've always got.  And on that note: a bit of hero worship. I have decided just to do some freewriting- I needed just to shake something off the pen so I can give all of my new ideas the time and attention I think they deserve...

Thanks for reading,
Shaun.

Ahem. 


Poet eats and poet thinks
Poet smokes and poet drinks
Poet laughs and poet cries
Poet cannot close his eyes


Poet saw the future now
Poet tried to tell them how
Poet tried to change the world
Poet found himself disturbed


Poet came and poet went
Poet tried and poet spent
Poet fell from centre stage
Poet could not hide his rage


Poet did what poet could
Underground, poet did good
Poet moved and unified
Poet did not tell them lies


Poet brought the houses down
Poet crept into the towns
Poet spoke only of people
wPoet cared for no tired steeple


Poet came to recognise
Poet saw all those despised
Poet gave up eating dead
Poet chose to live instead


Poet tried to be example
Poet soon fell from the mantle
Poet got back up to speak
Poet knew now, what is weak


Poet read and poet grew
Poet somehow kind of knew
Poet should finish this poem
Poet is not sure, not knowing


Poet not ready to end
Poet not here to pretend
Poet make some silly rhyme
Poet fight this, all the time


Poet does what he should not
Poet breaks the rules a lot
But poet knows what is good and wrong
Call that the message and pass that on. 

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Exercises

 by Vida Bailey 

 This post is perhaps more for teaching the appreciation of poetry than the writing of it. Or maybe not so much the appreciation of it as the confidence to form an opinion. That might be the problem for a lot of younger readers who are put off by feeling they don’t understand anything.

So forgive me, if this comes from a secondary school teacher’s perspective rather than a creative writing teacher’s one.

I once went to a seminar where the admirably dedicated teacher running the show gave us Plath’s Black Rook in Rainy Weather to read. Appropriate, given that the muse and writer’s block are its theme. I find it a beautiful poem, its lines touch me immensely with that feeling of familiarity we get sometimes, reading another’s words.

What we did was read the poem, and do nothing more than pick a line or phrase that we particularly liked, that resonated with us. Then we shared our words, said why we liked them, and wrote them on slips of paper. Then we got into groups and had to put together a new poem, using only the words we had. The teacher-trick was to continually tell us two more minutes only! As it’s only ever in the last two panicked minutes of the task that anyone stops faffing and gets something done. I remember lots of faffing, and I’m afraid I don’t know where to lay hands on the actual poem we came up with, but, surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, it was great.  Ok, perhaps it had power because Plath’s words are so powerful, but also it seemed to me that we had managed to distil the essence of the original poem and understand it the better for that, without having read any commentary on it at all.

And another time, the teacher got us to write our own poems, using the simple cue of

‘I am the hour....

I am the day...

I am the week ... ‘ etc.

A few simple sentences, and they contained such emotion.

‘I am the nights I spent listening to my father’s shouting, the screaming of the dog as he beat her

I am all the hours I spent in labour, walking the floors, waiting for my daughter to come.’

For example.

And it’s true. We are those things, are we not? It works well with ‘I remember’, too.

Combining the two ideas, I find Simon Armitage’s poem, It Ain’t What You do, It’s What It Does To You’ another excellent vehicle for encouraging thought and expression, and for accessing the little bit of the poet in everyone. Each verse starts with a disclaimer – what the poet has not lived – and then counters that with a far more domestic achievement he considers equally meaningful.

I have not bummed across America

with only a dollar to spare, one pair

of busted Levi’s and a bowie knife.

I have lived with thieves in Manchester.

I have not padded through the Taj Mahal,

barefoot, listening to the space between

each footfall, picking up and putting down

its print against the marble floor. But I

skimmed flat stones across Black Moss on a day

so still I could hear each set of ripples

as they crossed. I felt each stone’s inertia

spend itself against the water; then sink.

I have not toyed with a parachute cord

while perched on the lip of a light aircraft;

but I held the wobbly head of a boy

at the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.

And I guess that the lightness in the throat

and the tiny cascading sensation

somewhere inside us are both part of that

sense of something else. That feeling, I mean.

I did it with a group of Intermediate language students (look, present perfect!), to mixed results (I don’t think it is a poem, it doesn’t rhyme’). But it was a good exercise one way or the other – I got them to do a verse each, and then a group conclusion. I tried it while I was waiting for them.

I have not written a novel, read by many,

Garnered fame or fortune with its success.

But I have spun tales of dragons, gold and green scaled,

Fierce and friendly

to lull my children to sleep.

Sometimes it’s good to imitate, to piggyback, and find the ideas inside you that way. 

***

Vida Bailey is an accomplished author and teacher who writes at the sex focussed blog: wwww.heatsuffused.blogspot.com.

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