Checking The Engine

Right, so this is a new one. A poem which hasn't even found a place in a live set yet, because it was written too close to lockdown (and who knows, maybe it never will. Maybe I'll decide I don't like it by the time I'm even back into a position to think about live sets again).

One of the problems I have with poetry as an artform, which I'm sure I've written about before, is the idea that everything is a confessional - that as soon as you write about it, it's both the whole truth and nothing but the truth (rarely so; often poets have a tendency to pick places or objects which scan better or which stronger metaphors can be built around) and something you feel really strongly about, or have suffered some trauma over. Otherwise, why put pen to paper in the first place? Well... the truth is that ideas are largely uncontrollable, and if two things which seem as if they could connect incredibly well in a poem pop into my head at the same time, then I'm hardly going to be able to resist the temptation just because it's not a burning issue or it may lead to false impressions. 

"Checking The Engine" wasn't inspired by a recent situation, but by those awkward relationships which have dogged both my life and everyone else's periodically. The people you're meant to get along with and life has thrown you together with, and have nothing against, but have noticed are a little stern, false or disapproving around you. Partners of friends whose differences of taste and opinion have somehow become a problem rather than something to be laughed off. Neighbours who wish they weren't living next door to you, without ever really telling you why. Dinner party guests who have taken an immediate dislike to you for working in the arts or writing poetry (you can only assume, having never met them before, and given that these are the only facts they've been provided about you). Usually what causes these people to finally snap isn't a serious situation, but an honest mistake or a trivial issue which then creates an eruption of rage, like one of Frank Spencer's jowl-quivering foes in "Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em".

I'm going to resist the temptation to say whether the concluding lines of this poem are the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but they are based on something that actually happened to me. I did own a racing car duvet as a child - the top of it nearest the pillow was a cockpit, and the road stretched ahead on the rest of the covering. God, I loved sitting up in it and pretending to drive my bed around the chicanes of Brands Hatch, or imagine I was sleeping in a racing car for the night and not a warm house. I sat up for ages twisting an imaginary steering wheel pretending that I was an adult and I was able to drive, and of course, in the end I never actually learnt. Anyway.... POEM. 

X

Back in the days when I had the time, and also when email was a less dominant form of written communication, I used to be a prolific letter writer. Some of the letters I wrote were sent to female friends I was now living some distance away from, or pen-pals I'd somehow accumulated through my interests in music or poetry.

The ways these narratives usually progress in film and fiction is that the person receiving these letters - which are, of course, witty, wise and often confessional, because we all think we're astonishing at writing letters, obviously - gets wooed by the writer and a serious relationship ensues.

That never happened to me, but whenever I entered into a relationship through other less extraordinary means, the letters often became a source of jealousy and suspicion. Likewise, at least one of the partners of the recipients of my letters made enquiries about who I was and what was going on, even though he didn't live on the same continent or time zone as me.

To summarise the problem in a nutshell, the posted written word can be quite loaded and more dangerous and easier to misinterpret than a phone call. That's the inspiration for this poem/prose piece (call it what you want) over and above everything else.

As to whether an event actually occurred as suggested in the audio below, not really. I never had a proper conversation with a partner about the appropriateness of someone else's behaviour, though I did have to deal with the odd withering comment or raised eyebrow ("Oh, I see [insert name here] has been in touch yet again") - but pretending I did have a serious issue gives the piece something to react off and bounce against; plus, giving the piece an interrupting additional voice also serves the added purpose of making me sound like less of a vain shit who is assuming romantic interest from someone else where there might actually be none. Now do you see how deceptive people who think about writing a lot can be? Stick to phone calls, that's my advice.

If you'd prefer not to engage with the audio below and just read the piece you can find the text here.

Being English

Some poems never really get old, unfortunately. Years ago while at a writing workshop, I was warned to stop writing "topical" poems. The world moves too fast these days, I was told, and the turning cycle of publishing houses is slower than an oil tanker in high winds - by writing about political events, I was usually giving my work a six month "use by" date. 

This turned out to be rubbish advice (and possibly inaccurate nautical advice, though I'm no expert). While it's certainly true that political parties move at an incredibly swift pace, and the emergence of new figureheads and influential voices constantly surprises - I couldn't have foreseen Donald Trump becoming president when I first wrote this poem, though I might have had an inkling that Boris Johnson would eventually become Prime Minister - the underlying tensions seldom change that much. The political pendulum is constantly trying to find its natural resting place, and poems and works of literature which seem irrelevant one year can frequently become relevant again two years hence, however much you might wish that weren't the case. Sometimes all you need to do with political poems is swap the names of the politicians around a bit, and hey presto, they're relevant again and nobody is any the wiser.  

Still, nobody is actually named in this poem and none of the above really nails what it's actually about, but the lines "we are immeasurably, utterly sorry for every state of affairs/ but nothing must change" leapt out at me yesterday, and you'll know why. Apologies come easily to us as a nation. Shifting the entire narrative and instigating real change, on the other hand, often seems too frightening, too sudden and impolite, undoes far too much "tradition". Enough said, hopefully.

There's lots of bits of this poem I don't like anymore and I'd do it differently if I had to do it all over again, but that will never stop being a problem either...

A Year In Morse

I hope you're all keeping well. If you've also been staying productive and writing a lot of new poetry, then I doff my cap to you - or I would, if I had a cap to begin with, but the best I can do instead is ruffle my overgrown lockdown hair in general approval. Will that do?

I'm very happy for you if you're managing to write like a demon during this period, but honestly, I'm not finding it especially conducive to creative activities. I've always been someone who needs to be able to observe other people to write. The material I produce is overwhelmingly frequently about human interactions, and without any of those in my life, apart from the continual growl and bark of social media, it's very difficult to find inspiration at the moment.

Nonetheless, a huge part of me misses poetry open mics and events and just delivering my poems to a live audience, and I thought it might be good to upload some home recordings of some of my stuff here a bit more often.

"A Year In Morse" was written quite a long time ago now, and while it was definitely partly inspired by a particular situation I was in, the usual load of symbolism comes barreling in to render it more fictional than confessional in the end - not that there's much to "confess" here, in all honesty. At the time I wrote it, I was reflecting on a period of my life which was as dull and directionless as it was stressful, so it's perhaps it's not surprising it's the first poem I reached to record for the blog.

The Freedom of Workshop Rules

One of the greatest things about being young and naive wasn't my spotty face, or my social clumsiness, or the way I'd gallop speedily and enthusiastically through every exercise which actually required thought and intelligence and care... oh, hang on. Let's scrub that last one from the record, if you please. I've changed my mind.

I definitely didn't enjoy being the clueless bumpkin in the workplace with more enthusiasm than knowledge of acceptable procedures, but for writing? For writing, it made things ecstatic, electric. I never knew exactly what would happen each time. Everything felt fresh and new - the ability to surprise myself regularly. Not quite knowing what was going to come out of my pen next. Feeling only slightly in control of the situation. Naturally, it meant that I wrote reams of material and most of it wasn't any good, but the flukes, even the flawed flukes which needed cuts and spit and polish, used to make me feel as if I'd just channeled an accomplished dead writer who, for reasons known only to him or herself, had chosen my writing hand at that point in time to dump some reasonable work on the page. They felt surprising and I barely recognised myself in the finished work.

That feeling seems to fade over time, and writing becomes less of a spontaneous exercise. In fact, when you've been writing for a number of decades, it can become so lacking in spontaneity that you become more prone to dumping serviceable, average and unremarkable work on to the page than slightly dirty gold. You overthink each sentence as you write it, ignoring your brain's first prompts. Is that word you're going to use really what you wanted to say? It's not, is it? "Dirty gold", what are you thinking, David? (SHUT UP BRAIN. I need to think about this for another five minutes).

I've been attending workshops recently with the primary aim of getting some of that spontaneity back, the idea being that heavy edits after a first draft are the best approach to writing, not careful consideration during phase one which should be lighter touch. During these sessions, someone introduced an exercise which for me worked really well and bought some of that raw pleasure back into writing again. I was given a fairly run-of-the-mill topic (freedom) then forced to change perspective every few minutes while I wrote as quickly as possible. How does freedom feel? When did you last experience it? What does it look like? Not as a societal concept, but as a thing, in front of you? And on it went.

The feeling I had while writing this was fantastic, because I was forced to be very quick and spontaneous around subjects and perspectives which were completely out of my control, and relinquishing that control meant - ironically - freer expression. I was no longer bound by my own expectations of the outcome, because I had none to begin with.

I'm reproducing exactly what I wrote below, not for admiration - because God knows it's a quick exercise rather than a short story or a poem - but to prove that as unlikely as these workshop techniques sound, they do have a clear value. Lots of this prose went in directions I'd never have expected. If you want to find more workshop ideas you can try during lockdown, there's lots all over the Internet. Some will probably work better than others, but even the most hackneyed ideas like freedom, childhood memories or the best holiday you ever had can produce surprising and even unusual results, provided you keep an open mind and introduce some randomness into the proceedings.

Freedom

I feel most free when I have forgotten who I am, when there are no expectations, no rules about my usual conduct. Or perhaps I should say - I feel most free when I am able to pretend that I have forgotten who I am. Maybe that's while I'm on stage, or have had enough to drink to convince others that I'm no longer in my usual casing.

I sometimes look down at my pen and think it's a form of freedom, that any moment now it might flip something out of me that I would never dream of sharing, but usually it doesn't. It pulls forward on its own leash. 

I sometimes feel terrified when I'm free, or liberated, or angry or even in love, it depends totally on the circumstances. Fear because suddenly there is nobody to guide me, angry because I've found a way out and others haven't. 

My earliest memory felt like freedom - aged three, running and shouting around Stonehenge, and most of my feelings of freedom stem from childhood even though I wasn't really - somebody was watching, somebody could catch me.

Freedom feels like a spiky, spiny, smooth and brittle pine cone, one which shatters if you hold it too tightly or drops to the floor if you don't take hold of it strongly enough. It smells of nature mixed with alcohol, of wood with no grain or sculptured finish, nothing to suggest the passing of time or the imposition of the tree on your ideas of its life.

It's not something you can see the margins of, though the margins are there somewhere, on the outer edge of the structure. They are rubber bands, thinner than the line of life itself, bouncing your thoughts from the edge to the epicentre - let go and you'll even feel them move.

It rolls around like a ball but moves at a speed so variable it will confused the keenest scientist, stops mid-air sometimes before dropping like an anvil on to the head of an escaping coyote, or rises upwards like a bird retreating from danger.

Sometimes I think I can see it, usually late at night when everyone is resting, and the foxes aren't outside. I think I see it as a transparent globe with a blurred blue and red core, like a glass marble waiting to be chipped away to unlock the swirls inside. Then I fall asleep. 

I don't know where it comes from, I just think it probably doesn't get permission to exist from America, or the West, or our collective force, or art, or any of these places we think it stems from. I just think it's there through a belief that it exists, and when that belief fades, it too becomes a fuzzy outline, fading behind the trees, the grass, the living room lights and outside the barracks of the nearest military town. 

The people who would banish it usually fear it, are usually keen to believe it doesn't exist, don't want it because they are terrified of what they themselves might do with it - but that seems to be no reason to make the rest of us suffer.