Turning them Loose.

This week on the Dead Good Blog, we’ll be looking at that age old audience splitter, Poetic Forms.  It is a subject I’ve seen light fires on message boards, bringing the radicals out with the Caps Lock and the traditionalists quoting their stanzas. I’ll be interested to see what comes up this week.

I’m prone to shifting myself. As a writer, I have at times scuttled across the corridors to the rogue side and unleashed some free pieces on the world. Other times, usually the more reserved and considered moments, I have sought sanctitude in the constriction that comes with form- the tried and tested, universally respected method. I’ll remind you here, amidst  all this that the word at the top was shifting, it was definitely F in there.

So, what bus are we all on with this? Can we be on both or do they lead to inevitably separate destinations. I suppose, as both a writer and a person we tend to have our moments. I know that I myself will always try and have at least an idea where I am going with a piece, try and crimp the contents to fit the required space.

I find a fixed form can help, sometimes offer inspiration and if you are going to take this method, there is often a library of reading material to pick at whilst you await the Eureka moment. That said, if I could give anyone a bit of advice it is to have the confidence in yourself to just break one loose now and again. Give it a good old grinding down and see how it looks. It might just be the best decision you ever make. It could just be dog but you’ll never know if you don’t try.

Keep on writing,
S.

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Years from now...

Good Afternoon folks.

This week's theme is Sci-Fi which, I'll admit, has been a struggle. Not only was I up at 5.30am today trying to write something- I realised about an hour before work that I promised you all a poem.

Until that point I had drawn a picture of the pope shooting a bazooka into the sky (with a cross and swastika on his tunic) and made a surreal news feed idea about him shooting down an American satellite. This all came from a piece I read the other day about the Church of England threatening to cut their huge investment stakes in our internet providers. In the wake of the Jo Yeates murder trial- this made the headlines in some papers and it got me thinking- do they really believe censorship is going to change people's behaviour. In the wake of all the troubles we have in the world, can they not see that there may be slightly more outside influences on us than extreme porn and some propoganda. Anyway, I thought maybe the nightmare dream of a future in which the Church calls on its power to rule was worrying enough- and the idea for my promised poem eventually surfaced.

Influenced

A poll commissioned for TV

with texts all charged at 20p

sent shudders through the soul of me

The thought of Intervention.

Was it this dystopian dream

that shook me as I slept, or screen

after screen of trailed gun fire

on an unwatched streaming news.

How paranoid must the Church be

to invest in our ISPs

to block our viewing on TV

in case we do discover,

that what goes on behind our backs

the endless terrorist attacks

are not about who's white or black

but through misinformation.

So those who claim a right divine

and see the other ivory shrines

collapse under the weight of minds

in Middle East uprisings

they seek to censor truth rebuked

to deny nudity from youth

to confiscate and take away

then masturbate upon it.

We make decisions every day

on what to hear and what to say

the violence will not go away

if we don't see more pictures.

The blind man plays no violent games

reads no news feeds of children maimed

but still won't call out Jesus' name

for fear of dark inside him.

He sees the things we do not see

and looks inside for sanctity

believes in what he knows to be

and with that feels empowered.

Thanks for reading guys. A little rushed but I couldn't let you all down- a slightly more polished version of this will be read on Friday at the event. Speak soon, S.

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The Joy of Pets

Last Sunday I found myself in the peculiar situation of dog sitting. Going about my working day, a little after ten, I heard the scampering of claws on hard floor. I should tell you now; I'm not really a dog person. I have always had cats and rest soundly in the knowledge they rarely attack small children in parks, run off and lose their way back or savage their owners. This Staffy Bitch then, made me weary.

Cut a long story short, it dug up the back garden, went to the pound, returned from the pound, ate a fist full of treats and, over the next three hours, became lovely and obedient- heeling with a mere whistle. I enjoyed the experience and, rather than see it put down, I was right up for keeping it. Alas, the owner turned out to be some prat down the way who didn't so much as thank me for feeding and returning his beloved pregnant pet. I'd forgotten all about it until yesterday, as customer after customer asked if I still had that lovely dog. I've been too busy to even consider it- which probably says a thing or two.

On with the point then, I guess politicians are a bit like pets. We adopt them for a while, pick up after them and, over time, get a little bit sick of paying for the bleeding things and want something new: Gordon Brown for example- the tired old dog, was never really going to hold the adoration of the public with the idealist bouncing puppies Dave and Nick vying for love.

What has this got to do with poetry I hear you cry. Well, in short, I think this anecdote translates nicely into how I tend to write. I love an idea- tame, feed and nurture it, cuddle it, clean up the mess, deliver to my notebook a whole litter of kittens and get so sick of the concept, metaphorically speaking, it winds up in Fleetwood Docks.

With two Blackpool DGPS meets in quick succession (last Friday and a week this Friday (7/10) @ No.5 Cafe, Cedar Square, Blackpool. 6pm+), I think for the next event I'll drag up a sack of drowned kittens and have a jumble. The writing in so many of my notebooks is as much as dead to me in terms of 'I wouldn't use it now' or 'needs improvement' being the first things I'd probably scrawl over them.

The theme for the next event though is Favourite Poems and so, I'm going to have to pick out some old favourites and have a think why I liked them so much (opinions welcome, as always). With a bit of luck, an oxygen starved little beauty will jump out at me. If not, and I doubt it will in honesty, I'll maybe have something from later today. I'm off to this Diversions library thing (the 2pm one) and interested to see just how it is going to work. See, I’ve rambled on this week- no wonder the bloody ideas fizz out for me!

Thanks for reading,
S.

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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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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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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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