Poetry Readings

My babies were fed nursery rhymes with their mother’s milk.  As toddlers they loved picture books with repetitive poems and rhymes, and as they grew older, bedtimes were sprinkled liberally with Michael Rosen or Roger McGough. 

When I was teaching Primary level I often used poems as a starting point. ‘Chocolate Cake,’ one of my all time favourites, could start off almost any topic: baking, sharing, greed, lying, families - and it got the children smiling as soon as I read the first few lines.  Storytime, the best fifteen minutes of the day, would often include the latest funny verse, regardless of the number of times it had been recited that week.  ‘There’s a Dog in the Playground’ or ‘Eddie and the Nappies’ would reduce the class to tears of laughter, time after time.

 

Poetry books would frequently be chosen over story books and I would find even the poorest readers on the carpet in a corner, turning the pages and reciting the poems, word for word. 

So what happens to those six year old brains as they develop and their owners pass through high school?  Where does that love and laughter for poetry go? Is it just that poems are deemed only for ‘geeks’? I know if I invited my adult children or grandchildren - or even my husband - to a poetry reading I’d get very short shrift. 

I’ve always loved poetry. Reading it, writing it, listening to it. I still have poems I wrote from first starting school. They weren’t exactly riveting reads - if I remember rightly they contained a lot of repetitions of one syllable words. They did, however, satisfy my need to write. As I got older I was generally the one writing the funny lines for family anniversaries and special birthdays. They certainly wouldn’t be considered great poetry - or even mediocre - but they came easily to me and they served a purpose. They were apt and they made people laugh.  

About five years ago, as my photographic career was beginning to take off I was asked to shoot an evening of poetry reading. Even I, as a poetry lover, was slightly apprehensive. I wondered whether it would be full of pretentious poets wearing black polo necks and slacks, or floaty floral numbers with scarves and beads.

Nothing like a stereotype, is there?   

I decided I would take the pictures I needed and leave at the interval.  However, as soon as the first words were uttered by the opening  performer, I was hooked. I couldn’t leave. It was just too entertaining. I was overwhelmed with admiration for these people (not one black polo neck or floaty dress in sight as far as I can remember). They spoke with confidence on such a wide range of subjects. This wasn’t poetry as I’d ever seen or heard it. It had drama, pathos, humour - sometimes all in one reading, and it was clever and entertaining. By the end of the evening I was filling my diary with the next few sessions.  

Open Mic was a pretty scary thing to contemplate.  I was used to standing up in front of a class or even a hall full of teachers and other professionals, but this was on another level. Somehow, it felt like baring one’s soul.  I decided, after that night, that I would take myself out of my comfort zone and just do it. And I did, a couple of times.  I enjoyed it but one of the events was pretty daunting. I hadn’t realised that my performance and my work would be analysed by the audience afterwards. It was all done in a kind and constructive way, and emailed to avoid any public embarrassment, but it mentioned my delivery and put a dent in my confidence.  I reassured myself that this was just an activity, something I could choose to do. Or not.  I chose ‘not’ after that, but just lately I’ve found myself being drawn back to that world of black polos and floaty dresses - except it isn’t, of course. It’s full of people who enjoy writing, love performing and are generally interesting and entertaining.  I’ve made good friends through the poetry evenings and, as I’ve just realised, I wouldn’t be sitting here now, writing this blog post if I hadn’t been invited to shoot that evening.  

Chocolate Cake by Michael Rosen

I love chocolate cake.
And when I was a boy
I loved it even more.

Sometimes we used to have it for tea
and Mum used to say,
'If there's any left over
you can have it to take to school
tomorrow to have at playtime.'
And the next day I would take it to school
wrapped up in tin foil
open it up at playtime
and sit in the corner of the playground
eating it,
you know how the icing on top
is all shiny and it cracks as you
bite into it,
and there's that other kind of icing in
the middle
and it sticks to your hands and you
can lick your fingers
and lick your lips
oh it's lovely.
yeah.

Anyway,
once we had this chocolate cake for tea
and later I went to bed
but while I was in bed
I found myself waking up
licking my lips
and smiling.
I woke up proper.
'The chocolate cake.'
It was the first thing
1 thought of.

I could almost see it
so I thought,
what if I go downstairs
and have a little nibble, yeah?

It was all dark
everyone was in bed
so it must have been really late
but I got out of bed,
crept out of the door

there's always a creaky floorboard, isn't there?

Past Mum and Dad's room,
careful not to tread on bits of broken toys
or bits of Lego
you know what it's like treading on Lego
with your bare feet,

yowwww
shhhhhhh

downstairs 
into the kitchen
open the cupboard
and there it is
all shining.

So I take it out of the cupboard
put it on the table
and I see that
there's a few crumbs lying about on the plate,
so I lick my finger and run my finger all over the crumbs
scooping them up
and put them into my mouth.

oooooooommmmmmmmm

nice.

Then
I look again
and on one side where it's been cut,
it's all crumbly.

So I take a knife
I think I'll just tidy that up a bit,
cut off the crumbly bits
scoop them all up
and into the mouth

oooooommm mmmm
nice.

Look at the cake again.

That looks a bit funny now,
one side doesn't match the other
I'll just even it up a bit, eh?

Take the knife
and slice.
This time the knife makes a little cracky noise
as it goes through that hard icing on top.

A whole slice this time,

into the mouth.

Oh the icing on top
and the icing in the middle
ohhhhhh oooo mmmmmm.

But now
I can't stop myself
Knife -
1 just take any old slice at it
and I've got this great big chunk
and I'm cramming it in
what a greedy pig
but it's so nice,

and there's another
and another and I'm squealing and I'm smacking my lips
and I'm stuffing myself with it
and
before I know
I've eaten the lot.
The whole lot.

I look at the plate.
It's all gone.

Oh no
they're bound to notice, aren't they,
a whole chocolate cake doesn't just disappear
does it?

What shall 1 do?

I know. I'll wash the plate up,
and the knife

and put them away and maybe no one
will notice, eh?

So I do that
and creep creep creep
back to bed
into bed
doze off
licking my lips
with a lovely feeling in my belly.
Mmmmrnmmmmm.

In the morning I get up,
downstairs,
have breakfast,
Mum's saying,
'Have you got your dinner money?'
and I say,
'Yes.'
'And don't forget to take some chocolate cake with you.'
I stopped breathing.

'What's the matter,' she says,
'you normally jump at chocolate cake?'

I'm still not breathing,
and she's looking at me very closely now.

She's looking at me just below my mouth.
'What's that?' she says.
'What's what?' I say.

'What's that there?'
'Where?'
'There,' she says, pointing at my chin.
'I don't know,' I say.
'It looks like chocolate,' she says.
'It's not chocolate is it?'
No answer.
'Is it?'
'I don't know.'
She goes to the cupboard
looks in, up, top, middle, bottom,
turns back to me.
'It's gone.
It's gone.
You haven't eaten it, have you?'
'I don't know.'
'You don't know. You don't know if you've eaten a whole
chocolate cake or not?
When? When did you eat it?'

So I told her,

and she said
well what could she say?
'That's the last time I give you any cake to take
to school.
Now go. Get out
no wait
not before you've washed your dirty sticky face.'
I went upstairs
looked in the mirror
and there it was,
just below my mouth,
a chocolate smudge.
The give-away.
Maybe she'll forget about it by next week.  

I make no apology for including this poem in full.  I've recited it so many times I think I probably know it off by heart. I love it for lots of reasons: it's funny, it appeals to kids and adults alike - and it's relateable.

Thanks for reading......Jill

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Poetry Readings - A Night at the Brewery Arts Centre

 

The first time I stood at the microphone to share my own poem I was scared to death. At my request I was given an early slot before nerves might get the better of me. I’d spent a couple of days worrying, wishing I hadn’t committed myself, but there I was, in a café full of proper poets with a proper message and a witty way with words. I was the imposter with a few rhymes, persuaded into the spotlight despite my ‘better on page than on stage’ plea. At the time, my comfort zone was ‘Going on a Bear Hunt’ with twenty-five or thereabouts Year 1 infants, all of us doing the actions and having fun. Now I had adults looking at me with anticipation of how I might entertain them. I was amongst friends yet it felt like my appearance was being scrutinised before any words came out. I know I was blushing and my voice, when I found it, lacked my classroom authority.  I heard giggles in the right places, which was comforting, and applause at the end. My ‘daft rhyme’ was well received and I was happy to sit down, switch to ‘relax’ and enjoy the rest of the evening. I’ve done it lots of times since and I’m always nervous. As much as I love performance poets I don’t want to be one.

I was so excited to see John Cooper Clarke at the Brewery Arts Centre in Kendal. We had a pizza first in one of the restaurants there before taking our front seats in the theatre.  Yep, front seats and John Cooper Clarke, what a night!

It was an even more incredible night than I imagined because supporting JCC was a poet I’d never heard of (shame on me) who absolutely blew me away and I’ve followed his work ever since. Mike Garry, check him out, comes from the same place in Manchester as my family. His poetry illustrates places I know, people I’ve heard of and the way they relate to each other. His grandad had a pub on Fairfield Street when my dad had The Star and Garter. Our families might have known each other. Mike’s poetry is very different to JCC’s but they complement each other so well. I don’t know if it’s the Manchester / Salford thing or just Northern but as well as being excellent stand-alone poets, they certainly gel on the same bill. It was great to chat with him at the interval and buy a signed copy of ‘God Is A Manc’. There’s stuff in there that made me cry and still touches me.

John Cooper Clarke, still recovering from pneumonia at the time, kept going and going beyond his finishing time, turning pages of hand-written poetry and delivering words in his trademark pistol-shot speed. Poems I’d known for years came to life with the poet’s own voice, and he was right in front of me.

Here is the first poem of mine I dared to share,

There’s really nothing wrong with you…

 

 The dentist thinks you’re going mental,

Your funny taste is nothing dental

But you can’t convince the GP’s nurse

That all your ailments are getting worse.

She says your temperature’s fine at 37,

Twelve stone is good for 5’11”.

You should be glad that you’re so fit

You horrible, hypochondriac twit.

You don’t need extra Vitamin C

For occasional twinges in your knee

And stop that over-acted limp

You whinging, wailing, wussy wimp.

Bin the smelly cream for sweaty toes,

And menthol spray for your bunged-up nose,

The pots of Vick for respiratory congestion

And the Milk of Magnesia to ease your digestion.

Whizz that strong inhaler for chesty wheeze

And the K Y Jelly for personal ease.

Peculiar feelings in your tum

Means another camera up your bum,

But there’s never anything to find,

It’s not up there, it’s in your mind.

Oh take your special magic pill,

The one that stops you feeling ill.

It’s just a placebo, so let’s pretend

You’re feeling better and on the mend.

Now then, by your own admission

That phantom cancer is in remission

It’s just a headache, not a tumour.

Time you found a sense of humour

And stopped bringing your worries and distress

To the attention of the NHS.

PMW

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well. Pam x

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