The Idea

It's National Poetry Day today! Of course, this makes absolutely no difference to me whatsoever as a poet - nobody has booked me for a gig this year, and as there's barely a day where I don't think about poetry or a poem I'm writing, a special occasion for the form does feel a bit like a Busman's Holiday.  

Still, it's a chance for people who wouldn't normally consider delving into poetry to spend a few moments considering its many merits, and given that it remains a very fringe art form there's nothing wrong with that.  If anything, I wish a slightly bigger deal was made of it, with more broadcasting outlets than Radio Four involved. Was there really no room for BBC4 to do something tonight, for example?  (It's the least we should expect.  Even a poetry programme way outside prime time would have been a start.)  

Annoyance with the BBC aside... whilst I could, if I wanted, allow the day to pass without a blog update, I'd probably end up feeling a bit left out.  So please find "The Idea" below.  This was a common feature of live performances about four or five years ago but has fallen out of the set for now - it's unpublished and there's no reason why it shouldn't be in the public domain.  Enjoy.

The Idea

It sleeps in the desk drawer,

but only for a year; you can’t

keep mediocrity down.

Fate has decreed your

clumsy hand will

chance upon it in the dust,

in the dead skin from the

wrought-out hand-wringing

sessions of blocked days.

It never seems like much at first,

but always has the air of “something”,

so you walk outside with it, and

watch as hungry for attention it

grabs the faces of passers-by,

pulls at their lips, seems to

force them to say

“What a fantastic idea!” and

“How did you come to it?” and

“Who’d have thought!” and you

smile, nod, accept praise

at this stage, pretend

you’d thought of it yesterday.

Word gets around.

This something is more than something.

Journalists are most excited.

Sponsors ring you on the phone.

Dictators quote you in speeches.

Before you know where you are,

London Underground have signs

reading “This station is

closed at X hour, for that is

when the man with the novel

idea walks past, and we

cannot cope with the

congestion of people

clamouring for his attention.”

Your photo in the paper

reveals a grin as false

as a school photo snap smile, a

protractor forced down

between your lips.

You have touched the hearts and

souls of many with a

dusty, half-formed reject of an

idea, and this is the

price you pay – to be

known for it, to

talk about it

until the day you die,

knowing it will surely

outlive you.

Two Extracts From The Modern Museum of Love Poetry

“Don’t you understand?”

she asked.

“I am the bar or

restaurant in your town

advertised as

‘difficult to find

 but impossible to forget’,

ignored by everyone.

I am the distant

farmhouse seen from the

night-time highway,

flashing my warm

lounge lights to you

behind bushes and trees, a

flickering morse code of

desire.  Please try to

learn to read me.”

(The above poem was found in an unopened envelope with the words “Not known at this address” stamped on it).

“Don’t you love me?”

the rival scribbled.

“I am the blinding

spotlight in your face, the

radiance that creates

only black holes around me,

I have the heat of a

million suns but I mainly
use it to warm myself. 

I am the future you’ve

always wanted, the

girl beneath every slogan, the

direction you can’t

help but look in.

I need you to love me,

just like everyone else”.

(This poem was found in a heart-shaped scrapbook with all the letters and poems from an up-and-coming young actress, complete with glossy magazine articles documenting her career).

As Bread To My Flesh - 9 September

Hello there.  I would think that the graphic above explains this update far better than any additional text of mine could, but just in case you need it spelt out - I will be performing at The Yard Theatre in Hackney Wick at 6pm on Sunday 9th September.

In case you need further persuasion, besides the great line-up above you'll get a chance to sup up the atmosphere of The Yard bar, part of a relatively new arts space in East London which is doing a great deal to stage radical and interesting new theatre works.

I hope to see some of you there - if you're on Facebook, the events page can be found here.  

Mellow Yellow

I went to the Forest Poets open mic night at Walthamstow Library yesterday.  There were two good reasons behind my visit – firstly, Rob Auton performed some of his Edinburgh Show “Yellow” for the benefit of his fellow local residents for the first time, and secondly, it’s very rare for me to get a chance to see the talent in my local area showcased.

With regards to Rob Auton, if you haven’t seen him perform by now, you really should do.  Anyone with even a passing interest in how comedy poetry can be inventively and brilliantly performed and delivered should either drop by at “Bang! Said The Gun” to see him read, or make an effort to attend a full-length gig of his. Kate Copstick recently gave him a good review at the Edinburgh Festival which nonetheless frustrated me in that it actually appeared to undersell his abilities, and I made a rather terse comment on Facebook to that effect.  Faced with the same challenges, however, I can sympathise with her predicament as a critic.  His style is incredibly difficult to put into words without making him sound like another whacky novelty poet with some puns attached.  In reality, Auton’s world is innocent, child-like, clownish, surreal and idiotic (with perhaps a dose of idiot-savant attached), and just as it’s difficult to explain to somebody who has never seen Spike Milligan, Tommy Cooper or Vic and Bob perform what they do or how it works, his style sets endless challenges for critics.

                             

The “Yellow” show, then, is an entire comedy poetry set based on the colour yellow and the humour, appreciation and oddness that can be derived from that hue.  Auton’s riffing and punning around the topic really shouldn’t work across two poems, never mind more, but he’s inventive and imaginative enough to roll with it and succeed, baking up ludicrous scenarios about hiding himself away behind a fortress of Shredded Wheat boxes in a supermarket, or philosophising around the general worth of the grapefruit. His performances are always great room-dividers with audience members either loving what he does or being utterly confounded by it, but in a world of cut-and-paste, slick and fashionable young panel show wannabes, he’s an absolute eccentric gem, a rare example of a comedian (and indeed spoken word artist) who is willing to go out on a limb and managing to succeed whilst doing so.

The open mic session that followed was terrifying in that it suddenly revealed a whole host of talent which obviously hasn’t made it to many of the open mics or poetry shows in Central London yet.  Twelve years ago when I first began my journey into live poetry, open mic sessions were predictable and familiar affairs – poets roamed like herds of wildebeest from one event to the next, and you would frequently see the same faces in Earls Court that you saw in Islington the previous week, often honing exactly the same material.  It’s a testament to the increased popularity of live poetry events now that localised pockets of talent seem to have developed, meaning scores of different faces are guaranteed at each event.  There were very few examples of bad poetry on display last night (apart from perhaps my misguided attempt to introduce my interesting “Princess Diana” poem to the proceedings) and I suspect that the Zone 3 location of Walthamstow also put some of the circuit's most talentless attention-seekers off attending. If a journey is involved and there’s not likely to be any promoters to impress in the audience at the other end, it seems to act as a good deterrent. 

I’ve lived in Walthamstow now for twelve years (on and off) and whilst I often want to take pride in my local area, certain aspects – the questionable activities of the local council, the lack of arts or entertainment venues, some of the worst neighbours I’ve ever had in my life, dodgy landlords – have pushed me close to phoning Pickfords to move elsewhere.  Events like this open mic reminded me that there is a huge groundswell of talent in the area, as well as some very friendly and engaging people. It’s also useful to remember that areas like Walthamstow are actually where a lot of the least cynical and calculating creativity happens.  The new-found competition and careerism in spoken word can sometimes feel burdensome too, even if I acknowledge that it is necessary to an extent.  Events like this take live poetry back to its community roots and hopefully do a good job of reminding us all why it felt so good to be involved in the circuit in the first place - a win/win situation.

The Collector's Riddle

And in the sixties

with the music

and the youth explosion

came greater

freedom of choice.

So now you’ve

found that one –

that album

with depth

immeasurable

where notes

volley up on

bass notes to

elevate you

beyond these

four beige walls,

where rhythms

surprise like

de-railed express

trains jolted

from certain

commuter paths

and into the

dark, exciting,

wild wood beyond

will you

always play it?

Will you stay

with it, will

you cherish it as

much when the

marks, the

scratches pop,

crackle and

click like

arthritic limbs,

when the needle

has scraped

away the

soft subtleties,

when the grooves

lock and fail to

progress fluidly,

skipping over

coherent ideas and

repeating themselves?

Or will you

leave it on the

shelf, longing to

be slapped awake by a

younger, newer

noise, or

something daintier,

lighter, the

work of someone

who never grew

with you, was

never there

when you needed them,

and never formed the

backdrop, the

answer to your life?