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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In The Spotlight - Let Me Hide

I prefer to watch the drama unfold, rather than have a part in it. Some things are impossible to avoid but as far as possible I keep out of the spotlight. I’m not comfortable being the centre of attention, even at my own birthday parties.

I remember having a gathering of school friends for my eighth birthday. It was games and a tea party upstairs in whatever pub we lived in at the time. Everything was fine until the cake arrived and my friends sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to me. I burst into tears and clung on to my mother’s skirt. What a softie. Birthday parties were best avoided, that is, until the more senior adult years.

My fiftieth birthday was a milestone worth celebrating as I had pulled through serious illness the year before. It was good to gather the clan and all the friends who had been helping, supporting the family and generally gunning for me. It seems mean to confess that I couldn’t wait to go home to my knitting and clock watched all evening, yet at the same time it was lovely to be amongst the people I care for the most, all together in one place. I’m a strange one.

Even stranger when, ten years later, I’m the one who wanted the party to end all parties, bells, whistles, balloons, a live band and a posh buffet in a posh venue. I got my wish and it was great. I threw myself into it and enjoyed every expensive minute, even the bit where I’ve got the microphone and I’m singing with the band. I cringe at the thought of it now. One of my friends filmed it. Up to now, and its been years, I haven’t seen it, which is just as well as I think I’d die of embarrassment and never go anywhere ever again. No, I hadn’t been drinking, I was simply having fun.

When I was at primary school, I used to feel physically sick with nerves at the thought of maths lessons with Mr Jackson. He would call us individually to the blackboard. I shudder to hear him now, ‘Miss --- to the board!’ I was a skinny, geeky looking girl, and would stand red-faced and trembling at the blackboard feeling everyone’s eyes burning into me and hearing muffled unkind comments. With shaky, clammy hands I would hold the chalk tight and write the sum that Mr Jackson bellowed from the back of the classroom.  I would then have to work it out and explain what I was doing, loud enough for everyone to hear. It gave me nightmares. Everyone got a turn, no one was spared, but the whole thing turned me inside out. I was fine with maths and got my sums right, unlike some who were ridiculed for messing up. I got laughed at for needing glasses and my general appearance.  Mr Jackson was a great teacher of his generation and in every subject, he liked the class to be interactive and learn through ‘doing’. He always told us there would be plenty of written work to do when we got to senior school, so we didn’t need to do it now. Primary teaching is different these days and children are not thrust into the spotlight quite the same, thank goodness.

We recently lost a great comedian who adored being in the spotlight, Sir Ken Dodd. He was a national treasure and part of my childhood. He was always there when I was a girl, either on television or playing one of Blackpool’s theatres.

I first saw him on stage when I was nine. We hadn’t been living in Blackpool very long. It was our first summer season and my parents received complimentary tickets to various shows and the Tower Circus. My mother took me to see the show Ken Dodd was in and I remember just constantly laughing and being in awe of seeing the Diddy Men in real life. In later years, I was a guest at a summer Midnight Matinee concert where Doddy was topping the bill. I’m not exaggerating when I say daylight was breaking when we left the theatre. He loved to be in the spotlight and the spotlight loved him. Thank you for the memories, Sir Ken Dodd. You left me suitably tickled.

One of my poems today, 

 

Don’t put me in the spotlight,

I’m really quiet and shy

Away from all attention,

Any fuss might make me cry.

Don’t put me in the spotlight,

I never know what to say

And to be a nervous wreck

Would simply ruin my day.

Don’t put me in the spotlight

I’m not going near the stage

Nobody needs to see me

Read my poems from the page.

Don’t put me in the spotlight,

Just leave me alone to hide

My feelings, thought and talents

Wrapped safely, tightly, inside.

 

PMW 2018

 

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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