Connecting

Staged Connection

An inkling of a notion of a premise of an idea

Synoptically outlined for the outside world to hear.

Connected by the minds of those who read and them who listen,

The poets' words combine to build an image in transmission.

Reach out and touch the colours of the flowers in the meadow,

Smile at the antics of the creatures in the hedgerow.

Marvel at the splendour of the grand and open plains,

Giggle with delight at the love which still remains.

The words have all been drawn, for each and everyone,

Meanings that connects us all beneath the eclipsed sun.

A heart in torment suffers fools to hear they're not alone,

Then the weaving of some syllables to delight at being home.

As darkness falls my pain is clear to all who care to see,

A raven's visit, repetitive lines, have come to annoy me.

Wistful, mournful, full of self, an outward images lies,

Laugh along at the skipping rhymes as the performance poet cries.

They stand on stages, piles of paper, to tell you how it goes,

In lines of verse designed to touch in ways that no one knows.

But don't forget the reason that you feel so entertained,

Is down to skills that connect the lives of those who are the same.

See you all on Friday :)

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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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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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