14 Things I Saw At Latitude 2014

Given that I have only been back from Suffolk a couple of days, and I'm still reluctant to let go of my festival spirit, I thought I'd use this week's post to recapture some of the things I saw (and loved).

1) The brightly painted Latitude sheep - always a classic Latitude moment - plus it offers a tenuous link to this week's blog theme.

2) A lightning storm as we danced to Damon Albarn on the Obelisk Stage - the sky navy - the rain warm - and our dancing criminal - but it was like no experience I'd ever had before.

3) Luke Wright reading Dad Reins - that last line is caught in my mind and almost has me in tears every time I hear it.

4) D.I.Y - Paul Heaton & Jacqui Abbott - beautiful sunny Friday afternoon - sing-a-long.

5) Jemima Foxtrot mesmerised me with her poetry - her excitement was refreshing and infectious.

6) A guy wearing a basset hound costume in thirty degree heat.

7) Mining The Meaning - "Introduced by Dr Katy Shaw, a leading authority on the mining strike, the event will consider the social, cultural and political legacy of the strike and ask what connections can be drawn to the here-and-now in a post-Thatcher, post-Labour, pro-protest world." - Jemima Foxtrot, Luke Wright, Attila the Stockbroker, Michael Rossen and Andy Bennett read a selection of poems written by miners and their wives at the time of the strikes.

8) On Thursday night we went to the theatre and saw Kate Tempest's Hopelessly Devoted - Thought-provoking and arresting - impossible not to be moved and inspired.

9) Goat - psychedelic, bizarre, unfathomable - Shaun dancing and whooping like something possessed.

10) Vegan food in a field - Peckish Peacock - Healthy Carrot - Churros - And vegan cake

11) Helen Mort - I'd heard Helen read at Latitude 2012, but this year she was even better -if you haven't read any of her poetry then it is a MUST.

12) Hula Hoop Girl - She performed a host of amazing tricks as The Black Keys played - we couldn't take our eyes off her - I think Shaun fell in love.

13) A moth flying to the ground carrying a wasp - squeezing into the grass - burrowing out of sight.

14) Scroobius Pip ending our festival with 'Thou Shalt Always Kill' - packed tent with people spilling outside.   

Read More

Come Rain or Shine

Choose one of the options below:

a) If you are reading this post at 7am - Shaun and I are probably three hours into a six hour drive to Latitude Festival.

b) If you are reading this post at 11am - Shaun and I are probably queuing excitedly on a Southwold country road waiting to park our car in a field.

c) If you are reading this post at 2pm - Shaun  and I are probably getting bands of fabric clamped to our wrists (which will come to signify such a happy time that we'll refuse to cut them off).

d) If you are reading this post at 3pm - Shaun and I have probably put up the tent (hopefully without incident or argument)and are now milling around the campsite village and buying ridiculous hats from the Oxfam Tent.

e) If you are reading this after 5pm - Shaun and I will probably be exploring the arena, scouting out vegan food and filling our evening with inspiring, random and wonderful acts.

Hopefully the weather will be nice, but regardless of whether we are met by rain or shine, I'll be wearing my wellies (any excuse will suffice).

At Latitude 2012, our arrival coincided with a day of torrential rain, and by the time we awoke on Friday morning - our feet sitting in a puddle of rainwater - the decision to bring a smaller tent seemed less ingenious and more stupid. There was another 'wet foot' crisis in 2011, when I stepped into a puddle only to discover my wellies had a hole. With cold and wet feet, and Jo Shapcott due to start in under thirty minutes, Shaun left me in the Poetry Tent and went off in search of new socks. He returned twenty minutes later - finding non-wool socks had been more difficult than he had anticipated - and presented me with a pair of £7 yellow and black striped socks. We look back on these moments now, where things didn't go quite as planned, and we laugh...

There is always the hope that things will go perfectly - but when they don't, and you look back, it is usually the less than perfect memories that you remember and which make you smile. So, here is to a Latitude that doesn't go quite as perfectly as my mind has imagined.

Read More

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. 

Read More

Guts

Morning readers,

This week, having swapped with Lara, I don’t get the task of introducing the theme. This worries me, because it means I have to write some kind of opening paragraph.

March is on its Stomach makes me think of two things. I think of March- the spring, the clocks changing, the garden. I also think of my stomach and an ever so human desire to eat something bad for me. I treat poetry in much the same way as I have looked at this title. I look at it as somewhere to  hear new voices, new seasons and ideas- they are the March bit. I also read a lot of stuff that hits me right in the gut. I like a little of the blindingly obvious now and then, right.  

There have always been poets that hit you right in the stomach. Seamus Heaney’s writing gets me a lot of the time- as does Tony Harrison’s and William Blake’s. I’m a sucker for a real issue you see and so, no matter how many new writers come into the fold, I’ll always read material like this over and over. There are certain things in life that are just a part of you.

I got Lara the Banksy ‘Wall and Piece’ book for Christmas and have just got around to having a nosy at it myself. I’ve seen one of those pieces before- at Latitude festival a couple of years ago and, all being well, by the time you read this I’ll have bagged myself a ticket for this year. I mention it only because the artwork worked with the Jungle Book characters and carried a message of deforestation. A familiar scene, memory and idea pushed firmly into the mind of the receiver (in this case, viewer). It stuck in my head because it had guts. A content and something to really say.

I think this is why we keep going back to the tried and tested poets. When I’m having a bad day I wouldn’t usually  pick up someone’s debut collection. I’ll have another look at something I thought I knew. It might be Heaney, Blake, Larkin, Keats, Wordsworth or any other time served writer but, in making that decision to go back to it, I know it must be something I care about- something I believe in. I often find something new to think about- an idea or line I see in a new light and I like this. I like the sneakiness of hiding in bigger pictures and posing as minor details. 

In writing my own poetry, I often try to lace it with some of the issues that haunt my every day. They are my guts, I guess. The stuff I will churn out again and again like sick on a pavement. The day I look at it and think, ‘Hey, that mish-mash of thoughts you left outside the door last night (and what a night!) Yeah, that stuff that came out of you mister, is just brilliant’ is the day I become conceited and unlikable. That is the day I will probably think I have written my masterpiece and all the bile inside me has just come out. That is probably the day I stop writing.

I’ll never get to that day. There are so many stories and ideas and issues in my intestines that I’ll try to write with guts forever more. There’ll be the usual quota of crap, sure, but just as long as there is a real feeling there, I don’t think the things turning my stomach can be ignored, however much I try.

My advice to anyone reading- don’t just write what you know, write what you care about as well. An army marches on its stomach just like a poem does- no fuel to feed on means no fight for it to give, and that, I believe is of neither use nor ornament. 

Until next week, keep writing.

Thanks for reading, S.

Read More

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.

Read More

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

Read More

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...

Read More