Drawn From Reality by Rachel Hubbell

A couple of weeks before I was married my father called to tell me that he had been in contact with a daughter that none of his children had ever met. Long story short... he was married to a woman before my mother. They had a child. They divorced. He never saw her again. The only picture we had of her was from when she was two.

Her name was Becky.

Becky kind of floated into our lives with no warning. She attended my wedding with our father; it was awkward with it being our first meeting and all. She eventually packed her things from Pennsylvania and moved to the Oregon Coast. She bought a house and had my father move in... and she created a family unit out of a family that never really existed.

We all grew to love Becky. She was wonderful, really. Always giving. Always wanting us to grow closer as a family; to forget the past and start new.

In all honesty, it was the greatest three years of my life.

Becky was diagnosed with colon cancer and died three years after she had become a true part of the family. It was heart breaking. For a family that was still struggling from the loss of a wife and mother several, several years before, Becky's death became a reminder, for some, of all the bad in the world. 

I think Becky knew that we'd become discouraged. I think she knew that she was the only thing that was making us function as a family. And I think she knew deep down that she couldn't keep us united as a family after she died, but could at least give us a part of her to keep with us as a reminder of how good things used to be...

She created books for us that held her poetry, personal thoughts, journal entries and pictures that she would doodle.  I love my copies and I still find myself reading through the pages and remembering the few activities that we did spend together as a family. It's a nice reminder to have and it also helps with those days when I'm looking for a little extra something to get me through the day.

Drawn From Reality by Rachel Hubbell is a collection of poems and personal thoughts born out of personal struggle and perseverance.  Extremely moving, this collection is full of one woman's love and excitement for the opportunity to just live life.  Rachel Hubbell has battled breast cancer twice, and now struggles with life as a woman living with Lupus Nephritis.

With many uplifting thoughts and poems to choose from, FOREVER, was the one that touched me the most.

today is different enveloped inside of assurance,

of days gone by

repetition is eventful

repetition is known

tomorrow is the same

enclosed inside of regret for future days to come

repetition is eventful

repetition is known

looking through the eyes of the unborn

knowing not what the future will hold

if any at all

repetition is inevitable

repetition is the end...

ever moving forward,

uncertainty all around

unable to stop...

venturing ever forward

the future, past and present

the unknown synonymous with each other...

repetition

a term

which never

ends, never

ends

never

I'm touched by Rachel's collection of poetry because I know what it's like to struggle and endure and persevere and succeed. I'm touched by Rachel because of her excitement to live life and to share goodness with others.

And I'm touched by her simplicity. She shared this is about the "why" behind her writing...

I started writing at age 5 about the abuse I suffered at the hands of a family member and as a release it just flourished. When I had cancer twice and abusive marriages I poured it out into my poems in hopes that it would inspire and help others through any difficult times in their lives. It has been very cathartic for me and I write every day, I even carry a pad with me and recorder to document that inspiration in life.

Drawn by Reality is a wonderful collection of inspiring poems and thoughts and even come with pages available to encourage the reader to write their own. I think knowing some of the reasons behind why Rachel writes makes the collection that much more valuable to the reader. You can read more about Rachel Hubbell on her website at http://rachelhubbell.com/. 

Hard to Surrender by Daniel Ames

One of my favorite quotes is something supposedly attributed to Vince Lombardi. The way I understand it, Lombardi used to bark the following mantra to his players during practice: “The harder we work, the harder it is to surrender!”

According to Packer lore, because Lombardi pushed his players so hard in practice, in games they owned the fourth quarter. When the other team was gasping for breath, weak from fatigue toward the end of the contest, the Packers rolled on, just as strong, if not stronger, than when they began the game.

The harder we work, the harder it is to surrender.

I’ve got entire books of quotes, especially about writing. So why does Lombardi’s quote resonate so strongly for me?

I guess the answer is my first collection of poetry, Feasting at the Table of the Damned.

I had always loved poetry, from an early age. In college, whenever I had free electives, I always took a poetry course. And then, I began writing. Just a poem here or there. Eventually, I started sending them out, and eventually, most of them were published.

But as I began to build a reasonable body of work, I came to a crossroads. Did I really want to continue? As much as I enjoyed seeing my work published, and as much as I appreciated the positive feedback, I wasn’t certain where I was going. I knew I would always write poetry because I loved the process, the challenge of getting across an idea with power, elegance and brevity.

The realization appeared slowly but with the weight of concrete: the next step was a book, and I wasn’t sure I could do it.

I spent more time than I care to admit ceding fear to the doubt nearly every artist (except maybe Norman Mailer) experiences at some point.

And then the crazy Italian from Brooklyn who somehow wound up in Green Bay popped into my head.

The harder we work, the harder it is to surrender.

I had worked too hard, labored too long, sweated too much over my collection of poems to just walk away.

So I wrote the book and sent it out. Eventually Aquarius Press of Detroit offered me a publishing contract.

The book has a lot to do with struggle. The obstacles everyone deals with, like the fight to live, to stay sane, to live life with passion, and the struggle to pass through this world with eyes wide open, hungering for comprehension.

Some of the poems are dark, others light. Some are nostalgic, others rife with anger and bitterness.

And yeah, there is the issue of surrender. It’s my belief that everyone, at some level, has the urge to surrender. To give up. To just throw all the wasted time and effort and years and pain and bullshit all into the toilet and flush it away.

But most of us don’t surrender. Miraculously, we lift our heads and turn an honest face into a wind that we know has the power to literally rip us apart.

That’s why I titled the book the way I did.

The table is set, I hope you enjoy the feast.

Feasting at the Table of the Damned by Daniel Ames

Today I'm going outside my comfort zone. Like, really, really outside my comfort zone, to discuss a book a poetry, Feasting at the Table of the Damned,  that I received from author Daniel Ames.  He was kind enough to give me a copy of his first book of poetry for my birthday.  As you can probably guess by now... we met on Twitter. Daniel is officially part of what I call my Twitter family.

My first encounter with poetry, besides the usual copied poems we were all forced to write on cards for Mother's Day and Valentine's Day in kindergarten and early elementary school, was in my 5th grade class at Condon Elementary in St. Helens, Oregon. Oh, how I wish I remember this teacher's name. I remember what he looked like. He stood about 5'6" and had thick graying hair with a full beard and mustache. His eyes were a light blue.  He had a limp with partial paralysis on his right side from having polio as a child. He was kind. He was funny. And sometimes, when he didn't think we were watching, he'd pick his nose hairs with tweezers.  He really was my favorite teacher. Probably because he treated all of us the same; as if we were all capable of achieving greatness. He treated us that way even when we failed at something.

For me it was poetry.

He spent several days teaching us the ins and outs of poetry. He talked to us about rhythm and rhyming... and about a hundred other things, I'm sure. It was a long time ago, and I'm afraid in all of the years I've spent filling my brain with goodness this was, sadly, the only time I ever remember being taught anything about poetry.  Well, he taught us and sent us off to write a poem, and then  had us take turns reading our poems to the class.

Oh, boy!

I don't have the poem I wrote memorized in its entirety, but I do remember the first two lines...

*dramatic pause*            

I'm about to enter embarrassment territory, but it's all for the greater good... I promise.

There was a little deer
Standing next to a can of beer...

Hey, no laughing. I was in 5th grade for crying out loud.

The poem did improve along the way, and according to my teacher, my rhyming and rhythm were perfect. But we both knew that poetry wasn't my thing and that I wouldn't be earning a living writing greeting cards for Hallmark.

Since then I've always been fascinated with poetry. I just find it hard to understand. I think I've been conditioned in life to believe that every single thing, every single day, is a test. When in some ways it probably is, in other ways... like reading poetry, it isn't.

I had to remember that while reading Feasting at the Table of the Damned  by Daniel Ames.  His poetry wasn't a test for me.  It was a chance for me to take a look inside myself and find a relationship with the imagery he put together with words.  At times the book is filled with humor. At other times it is dark in its truthfulness. I could read about places that I've never been to and envision them in full detail with every word written in a poem. I found myself connecting and remembering some of the pain I have felt in my own life. Every word rang true to me. It was a beautiful tale about life. The good and the bad. Both, woven together as a reminder of how our choices, and unintended life circumstances, change us.

With permission from the author I would like to share with you a poem from Feasting at the Table of the Damned, that overwhelmed me the most, and even now, haunts me.  It is titled, The Murdered Years. Perhaps its content resonates with me because of my employment with the District Attorney's Office where we prosecute cases caused by the most horrific of circumstances. This poem, this poem out of all the poems in this book, spoke the loudest. All of my feelings, and probably those of my coworkers and friends, can be found within these lines.

The Murdered Years

they are strewn from here to Tijuana
tossed into the dumpster
thrown from overpass
buried in the field of unknowing

their last moments were not pleasant
rich with strife and frothing
crushed by the hoary thumb of
corporate America

kicked from the car during marital strife
passed out beneath the bar stool
while a friend rifles pockets for cash
and the bartender looks the other way

no detective has taken up the cold case
no pictures have been placed on milk cartons
they are gone and forgotten
unmarked graves
wandering eternity

the slaughter has slowed a bit
but the blood thirst is not fully slaked
a year goes for a walk and never returns
a year picked up a john, didn't come back

they are the kind of moments no one cares about
no relatives will put pressure on the authorities

the days, weeks, months will remain missing

and no one is holding out hope they're still alive

so we go on

we put one foot in front of the other

we scratch at the foot that is no longer there

a song catches our ear and we turn

until the memory vanishes

one day, maybe, the cadaver dogs will howl with glee

the coroner will dissect where it all went wrong

someone will mourn the murdered years

say what a waste, they were so young and innocent

Daniel Ames will be visiting My Friends Call Me Kate on Wednesday and will talk to us about why it was so important for him to publish this book.  Feasting at the Table of the Damned is available for pre-order here.

Dan Ames is a poet living in DetroitFeasting at the Table of the Damned is his first book. You can learn more about him at http://poetdanielames.com/.

Art, Poetry and Britain's Got Talent.

Having a good day people. See me with the big smile.

Started off by visiting my local library. Yeah, I know, I buy loads of books, receive more than a few freebies to review for crimesquad.com AND I go to the library. I am the book world equivalent of Imelda Marcos, so sue me.

I had some books that were overdue; they had to go back today and lo, I walked in to see that the Library staff have revamped their crime fiction section and verily it is freakin’ fantastic. I’m way too manly to squeal and do the fast handclap thing, but for a moment it was a close run thing. 10 minutes later I left with a Ken Bruen, a three in one of George Pelecanos, an Elmore Leonard, a slice of Walter Moseley and some homegrown talent in the shape of Karen Campbell.

Oh man. Somebody tell my boss I won’t be in next week. Love it, love it, love it.

The library was a wee detour on the main business of the day which was a poetry reading the divine Miss Sheila T and myself were giving in Ayr Town Hall. This was part of an Ayrshire Arts Network event. There was an exhibition in the main hall of various art groups including the literary, visual (paintings/ crafts) and auditory (opera/ choral) and some events in meeting rooms where various arty types got to do their thing. Which was where Sheila and I came in.

This part of Ayrshire (south) has a poor record in the arts and this was a brave salvo from the organisers to get something going in the local scene. Given the parlous financial state of the country there is very little in the way of funding available for the arts; it is up to the people to do something about it. So this is me tipping my hat to the organisers.

To be honest, the reaction from the public was nothing short of pathetic. Was this to do with the weather? It was a beautiful day; most people would be on the beach/ in their garden? Or was it due to poor marketing? Or perhaps a lack of appetite for these things? You just know that if people got off their collective arse they would enjoy this stuff. But it’s not fronted by Simon Cowell or featured in the gossip rags we call newspapers so it passes completely by the great unwashed.

If folks (and I include myself in this) could get their snouts out of the trough of populist entertainment for just an hour a week it would make a huge difference. Art is not a luxury, people.

I know, I know, I’m pissing into the wind.

Anywho, first thing we did on arrival was to go to the hospitality room. Man, was the food good. All local produce lovingly produced and beautifully presented. Well, the “chef” was an artist. And as for the desserts!!! A pavlova the size of my garden table, crested with a mound of summer berries and a chocolate tart that was so deliciously gooey it stuck to the knife. Yum. My teeth were sweating just looking at them. Oh right...that was saliva?

Being violets of the blushing variety, Sheila and I were first to the food...and first to break the crust on the pavlova. It was almost a sin to disturb it. Almost.

Fed and watered, we made our way to the room where the poetry reading was to take place – with no real expectation. If there were more of an audience than there were poets, well that would have been a success and ...I’m happy to report we had around 18-20 people.

The audience were appreciative, fully engaged and asked some fascinating questions. Modesty prevents me from repeating the comments afterwards (yeah, right) but it is fair to say that Sheila and I were chuffed to go down so well.

After all that art stuff, I have an evening in front of the black box and the final of Britain’s Got Talent. See, I can do popular entertainment. But I’ll record it and watch later. (I have part 2 of Mesrine to watch on DVD) Then when I watch BGT I can speed past the cloying fillers with the contestants repeating “this means the world to me” ad nauseum – can someone not teach them to say something else? I’ll also be winding past the comments of the judges, especially Piers Morgan and Amanda Whatsername. Who are they? The former editor of the biggest rag of them all and a – what is she famous for again? Feckin’ clueless the pair of ‘em. With the people they put through into the semi-finals we should change the programme title to Britain’s Got A Little Talent, Quite a Few Transvestites and Plenty Bullshit Artists.

I prescribe a day out at a local art fair for Piers and Amanda. Might learn something.

Poetry stuff...

After a flood of requests – and on this occasion 1 constitutes a flood (I get to make the rules, people. It’s good to be the king) – I decided to post the notes I used to deliver my adjudication at the Scottish Association of Writers Annual Conference.

First off, let me say that being in the position of “expert” doesn’t sit well with me. Not false modesty, simply that my knowledge is slight, my experience limited and any work I do is intuitive. On the other hand, I have built up some experience of what it takes to get published in the poetry world over the years and my opinion is as valid as anyone else’s. So there.

Second off – see what I did there? – I only had ten minutes to speak so I was limited as to what I could say. Given the time I guess I could have trundled on for …oh, the whole weekend. But people had to talk about other (much less important) stuff, eat, drink, snort wine, sleep, so as I said the stage was mine for 10 minutes.

Not a lot of time to talk about such a vast area. So I picked a couple of trouble spots…..the adjudication follows on from here…



Judging a poem, as with any form of artistic endeavour is highly subjective - we all have our own history, and without choosing to, we bring this to bear when we read a poem. We filter the work through our own experiences, beliefs, prejudices.

As a judge I try never to lose sight of the courage it takes for a writer to put his/her work up for appraisal. Particularly if you are less experienced. So respect to all of you who entered the competition.

There were 62 poems in the competition.

What was I looking for?

- When I read a poem I look for insight. Is there a strong theme and does the poet’s treatment of it give me fresh insight into the situation? (I often read poems in competitions where the poem is about something in nature. This may constitute a lovely picture postcard of a poem but ultimately doesn’t involve me. However if something in nature is being used to highlight something in the human condition (gawd, I can sound like such a wanker) then the poem will have much more meaning for me.

- James Mitchener said that good writing is ordinary words used in an extraordinary way. Did the poet display a love of language? Years ago, while I was giving a workshop to a bunch of school kids and describing poetry, the penny dropped for one of them and he said – poetry is words that taste good. And this is what I look for in a poem...does the poet use ordinary words in an extraordinary way? Do the words taste good?

- I also look for emotional content. I need to be engaged in the poem and to engage me you need to involve me. Seamus Heaney said that the best poems are often about something else...what was the poet saying and what was I able to read between the lines? Did the poet spell it all out for me (not good) or did he/she leave me with some work to do (preferred)?


Time is limited here and before I go onto the winners there are some important points I’d like to make.

The first concerns feedback. The word count on my critiques totalled almost 10,000 words and I hope that you each take them in the spirit they were intended. In your journey is a writer the ability to take in feedback will be key in determining how far you go in your career.

You must remove your ego from the piece – view it as separate from yourself – and take the feedback as a genuine attempt to help you make your poem stronger. For me feedback is not personal – it’s all about the writing and getting the writing to as strong a place as it can possibly be.

The second is something that many of you will have heard time and time again from this stage over the years. And as I read over the 10,000 words of my feedback it was an issue that came up time and time again.

If you learn the art of how to show and not tell, it will seriously lift the quality of your writing. If that is the only lesson the less experienced of you take from this whole weekend that just that one thing will make the weekend a success.

Modern poetry is as much about what you don’t say as what you do say – it’s the art of suggestion.

Ezra Pound said – the artist selects and presents the luminous detail. He does not comment. Let me repeat that – present the detail – do not comment.



AND again...SHOW DON’T TELL

Presenting just the right amount of detail is vital – too many of the poems relied on generalisations – abstract terms that spoke directly to the brain, but made no connection to the emotions. What is joy? What is sadness? These are terms that I understand but nothing is happening on the stage of the poem. These abstractions will highlight different associations for different people – but give me the detail, the symptoms if you like, of these emotions as YOU see them and I’m there, I’m involved.

Someone once said that a writer should only be allowed to use the word “beautiful” once in their career. Why? It SHOWS me nothing. Illustrate the beauty and make me think, wow that sounds beautiful.


A brief word on rhyme – someone once said that rhyme is a good servant, but a poor master. The problem with the majority of the rhyming poems in the competition was that the rhyme took over and became the master...it became be all and end all of the poem.

Modern poetry  is about the words tasting good, it’s about assonance, alliteration, imagery, simile, metaphor, metre and yes, rhyme.

However with most of the poems in the comp that used rhyme, every other poetic tool was ignored in that rush to meet the note at the end of the line.

My advice to all the rhymers out there...if you are serious about writing poetry...serious about being published...set aside the rhyme schemes for now. Free up your use of the other poetic skills...and once you’re comfortable with them pick up the rhyming notes again.



And now for the winning poems...



(BTW, for those of you who don’t know, the poems are entered under a pseudonym and I didn’t know the name of the poet until the moment I announced the placings and the Competition Secretary translated the pen name into the poet’s actual name.)



Third place - An intriguing first line sets up a fine piece of poetry on the subject of unrequited love. (Or was it lust, he asks with a cheeky grin?)

There is a lot to admire about this poem. Highlights for me include “I kneel, gloved, buttoned tight” The inclusion of the word “gloved” for me suggests an individual afraid of physical contact because one touch might make them lose control – which is of course a large part of their problem. They are trying to keep everything under control. And this is an excellent example of the art of poetry – the art of suggestion.

Also loved lines like

“fat, white candles guttering

In holy breezes”.



Again you display your skill with well chosen words. Just the inclusion of “fat” adds so much in terms of layers of meaning. “Guttering” is also of course laden with meaning.

A couple of suggestions, if I may? And this could just be me – I can understand why you want to include “ashes to ashes...” but I have come across this so much in the hands of poets with less skill than you that it has an immediate negative reaction and carries with it the dust of cliché. Also the “Oh” after “I see you.”...I don’t think it adds anything to the piece but a slice of melodrama. I would lose it.

These mini-grumbles aside this is a well-worked and strong poem which shows that I am in the hands of a skilled individual.

And 3rd place goes to... - Priest by Claire Scott




Second place...

This was a delightful piece of poetry with a strong atmosphere of the exotic. I loved the way the poet illustrated the cultural side of her narrator’s past with its people and the way in which they talk.

“I was born the years the snow came early”

A wonderful insight into a people. And the poet resists the temptation to spell out the importance of this statement in highlighting a cultural difference – something that a poet with less skill might have done. Instead leaving the words as they are in the page, the reader is given the opportunity to reach this insight on their own, making the lesson (if I can call it that) all the more effective.


Second place goes to ...Word Connections by SHARIFA (Mary Smith)



First Place...
... sent me on an interesting journey. At the start of the poem I really didn’t like the narrator of the piece but by the end of it I was completely seduced by her. She was a harridan at first but allowed herself to mellow as the poem progressed and I was given an insight into the sensual loving woman she could be if treated right.

The language was wonderful throughout with lots of moments that had me green with jealousy.

A highlight:

“when words beg for air, speak them

and listen as a bird listens for dawn”


You distil into just a few words the problem that besets most relationships, that of poor communication. You don’t lecture, you don’t spell it out but you illustrate your point with such skill that your reader can’t help but take in your message

Highlight:

“Do not hope that the syntax of a kiss

makes love the way pennies make a pound”

... many people will recognise the truth in these lines. And again your meaning is skilfully distilled into just a few words that would take a novelist a whole chapter to illustrate.

Also the soft sibilant sounds along with the vowel sounds in the line create a beautiful effect.

If I’m to be picky, I would work at the first stanza a little more. I completely understand why this is so terse, but there is a danger you will alienate your reader. I had the luxury of several readings to help me get the sense of the poem, but if this were published in a magazine your reader might just move on to the next poem. For me it was just too brief and gave no hint of the excellence that was to come. The line “do not deface me with crumbs” – the word “deface” was almost melodramatic and did nothing to suggest I was in the hands of a highly skilled poet.

That aside, this poem had me cheering the joy of poetry. Well done and congratulations to a worthy winner.

House Rules by Alison Craig


And there you have it people...anything you don't understand or you'd like more detail on let me know and perhaps I'll make that the subject of a future blog. Or I'll just ignore you and continue to do just as I please. As I said earlier...it's good to be the king.

Oops

Oops

So there I was having a glass of water and reading through the 62 entries for the Scottish Association of Writers’ annual poetry competition. I pushed my laptop out of the way to give me some more room and...

Water and paper don’t mix too well. Who knew?

Dinnae worry, it’s all good. Disaster was averted by lightning-quick reflexes. And some kitchen paper. Thankfully, the entries remain readable, but I can tell you my wee heart was pounding for a minute there.

How are the poems? I ain’t telling. I know that there are some peeps from the Scottish writing community who read this blog and I don’t want to give anything away.

I have to write a critique on each entry and find a top 3 and perhaps “some” commended pieces and then deliver the adjudication at the annual conference in March to an audience of around 200.

I was explaining this to the wee fella. He sought some references in his own experience in order to understand what I was saying.

- So, you’ll be like Simon Cowell?

- Well...kinda. But without the ego, the high-waisted trousers and the obscene wage.

- But you’ll be nicer than him, won’t you? X-factor ruins peoples’ dreams, dad.

- I know it does, son, but sometimes people need to know that they don’t have the talent...and you might have to be cruel to be kind.

- Don’t be cruel, dad.

- No. I’ll be one of the nice judges. I’ll be ...Cheryl Cole.

He gives me that look. Like I have one foot in Stupidville and the other wedged in the toaster.

- She’s a woman, dad.

- Ok. Right. Who’s a nice male judge then? Louis Walsh?

- NO. He’s stupid. He said the kids liked John and Edward and we didn’t. We thought they were rubbish.

- Ok. Right. What about Randy Jackson?

- Then, you’ll have to call everybody “dawg”.



But just in case you were wondering, here’s me about to read 62 entries and I’m enjoying the work. Dawg.

Gone Shopping...

The problem started when I went in to Waterstones. They were doing a 3 for 2 on EVERY BOOK IN THE FREAKIN’ STORE. I was in Glasgow for a wee spot of shopping. Look at me. 2009 is going to be an organised holiday. (Now if I could only get someone to write out my frickin’ cards, I would be in crimbo heaven. BTW, I don’t get the whole Xmas card thing. Can people not just visit/ phone/ email the people they care about and wish them a Happy Christmas? And how come the Climate Change brigade hasn’t jumped all over this habit? How many trees do you think are cut down for this annual postal jamboree? It’s a disgrace.)

Anywayyyy, I ended up not buying any presents...but I bought lots of stuff for me. It’s ALL about me. Me, me, me. Does anyone else do that or am I just a selfish bastard?

And in Waterstones I was like a dog with two tails, Larry (as in happy as, dumbass) and the pig in shit all rolled into one. Regular readers will know that I am the Imelda Marcos of book buying. Except I’m not from the Phillipines and my other half isn’t the country’s leader. But hey, imagine if she was....the possibilities...the bookcases... I’m hoarding for the day (cos I can’t possibly read all of these at the moment) when the publishing world implodes and the only places left selling books are supermarkets and the only books on offer are from John Grisham, Dan Brown, the latest celebrity halfwit and a row of Woe-Is-Me Memoirs. And when everyone else is bored out of their tits with this tat I’ll have piles upon piles of fantastic books to read. So there.

I may start up a library service, if you speak nicely to me. Cash or sexual favours may also be traded.

Anywho, there was I like a midge in a nudist colony...not sure where to bite first... Long story short I went for a thriller (Nelson Demille), a fantasy novel (JV Jones) and a poetry anthology called Being Alive from Bloodaxe Books. As you can see, I like to mix it up.

Being Alive (which includes one from an old poetry pal, Kona MacPhee) is a thumper of a book with hundreds of poems from modern-day poets. I spend a lot of my reading time reading crime/ thriller novels for Crimesquad.com so I like to have a wee change now and again...and I don’t read enough poetry. So I decided I would set myself a target of reading a poem every day. For ease of access, Being Alive will therefore stay by the toilet. As good a place as any, no?

A quick glance and I am loving it.

For those of you who don’t GET poetry, let me borrow words from a few poetic geniuses who might persuade you to have a look.

“Poems show us that we are both more and less than human. That we are part of the cosmos and part of the chaos, and that everything is part of everything else.” Julia Casterton.

“Poetry speaks to something in us that so wants to be filled. It speaks to the great hunger in the soul.” – Lucille Clipton.

“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically that the top of my head has been taken off, I know that is poetry.” – Emily Dickinson.

Poets can be pretentious wankers, can’t they?

It was George Bernard Shaw (I think) who said that the ability to hold two conflicting opinions at the same time was a sign of intelligence. If that’s the case I’m a frickin’ genius. I have to keep reminding myself that there’s a thin line between appreciating an art form and being full of shit. Take yourself too seriously and you’re in danger of disappearing up your own arse. (Wonder if I can throw in any more references to bowel movements?) There’s a lot of the Emperor’s New Clothes in poetry, given that there’s no adequate definition. If I write three lines and call it a poem then it’s a friggin’ poem, people. And that’s part of its charm. Anybody can do it. But (whisper it) some should keep it to themselves.

Lemme give you an example of someone who should share. You know you want one.

From Fleur Adcock’s Weathering as contained in Being Alive. (Apologies BTW if I’m breaking any copyright rules – good luck suing me, Bloodaxe people. I own next to fuck all.)



“there’s little enough lost, a fair bargain

for a year among lakes and fells, when simply

to look out of my window at the high pass

makes me indifferent to mirrors and to what

my soul may wear over its new complexion.”



Love it, love it, LOVE IT. Ordinary language used to extra-ordinary effect. There’s so much in those lines, eh, eh, eh? makes me indifferent to mirrors. That’s the phrase that makes the whole poem.

Seamus Heaney said something to the effect that often the best poems are “about something else”. Often there is something between the lines that as a reader we have to tease out. It just takes a little effort.

When somebody does poetry well...well, it blows the top of your head off! This book is full of people doing it well. It’s full of work that feeds the hunger in my soul.

When humans are being creative they shine, providing a counterpoint to all the hate and isms that display us at our darkest. This is why I get pissed off when people moan about public money that’s spent on Art – without art, we are bound to a life that’s a spiritless desert - but that’s a whole other blog.

Poetry can amplify our joys, share our pain, turn the mundane into a welcome insight – it gives me moments where I feel I am in the presence of something that is as close as we human’s will get to perfection. So there.

And if you think I sound like a tosser when I’m talking about it, you can bite me.

Jump For Joy

Last night in the Market Inn...great stuff. An appreciative audience and some cracking poetry. Rab Wilson was in fine form, as was the divine Miss T (Sheila) or Tequila Shempleton as she is now known. Don’t ask. Ok, do. It’s her Bond villainess name.


There was also a Storyteller there called Colin McAllister. I could have listened to Colin all night. A soft Irish accent, a mind full of stories and a gentle but effective delivery. His stories were of the past and the present and reminded me that there is an art to delivering an anecdote.

The evening, as I mentioned earlier was part of the Mental Health Awareness Film Festival. When I first heard of this I kinda had the chills. No-one wants unremitting gloom and tales of woe, no matter how empathic they are. See me? Dead good at empathy. Not so good at gloom. So, it was a pleasure to hear that the main point of all this was to help people focus on the way out of the mire of poor mental health. Shoving your nose deep into a rose bloom. That kind of thing. Focusing on what makes good mental health. I can do that.

There’s a fascinating book by Martin Seligman called "Authentic Happiness" I would commend to you. His main thrust (imho) is that all the years of psychotherapy hasn’t moved us on that much. His contention is that concentrating on this form of approach means we examine what makes a mind sick. Focusing on the negative, see? Did someone not say that to continue doing the same thing while expecting different results was the definition of insanity? Time for a change, methinks. Seligman's argument is that we should look at what makes us truly happy and turn our minds to that.

Made me think about the time I had a skirmish with this kind of illness. I won’t go into the root cause of it. Basically, shit happens. The doc put me on Prozac. Horrible, horrible stuff. I could almost deal with the body odour. Actually, no I couldn’t. I smelled like I had out-of-date chicken breasts taped to my underarms. Then there were the dreams. WTF was that all about? People getting shot and stabbed in front of me. Graphic violence every time I closed my eyes. I woke up every morning with the worry that if someone put a knife in my hand I’d find a chest to stick it in. Not nice.

Then there was the stomach ache. The doc had to give me pills to counteract the pills. (And that is the one thing about modern medicine that worries me. Side effects. We put all this shite in our systems that cause other shite to happen. Is it just to distract us from our main area of concern? While we have a medical system that relies on drugs to mask and treat symptoms, rather than the cause of the condition I doubt we’re ever going to have truly effective medical care. Anywho, what do I know?)

I lasted 3 weeks on the hateful drug.

Turned instead to 5 visits to the gym per week, a diet low in additives, sugar and wheat, regular meditation, hours of Billy Connolly. Healthy body...and where the body goes the mind soon follows. Or is that too simple? In any case it worked for me. Folks who've have to stay on the bad stuff have my sympathy.

Today, following said MHA event, I’m full of appreciation. When did you last appreciate what you had in your life? Someone once advised that you should imagine that you have lost everything...and then gained it back. How good would you feel?

The sun is shining. The wee fella is trouping about his bedroom, making all those wee contented noises he makes. There’s food in the fridge. I have a pile of unread books. And lint in my belly-button. This is me smiling and thinking...happy days.

(As a footnote to that last paragraph you have no idea how difficult it was to stop myself from listing the things I feel are missing from my life...but that would have defeated the purpose, no?)

Sometimes you've just got to do it...

It’s Mental Health Art and Film Festival time in Scotland. The whole idea of course, is to get this condition out in the open, to de-stygmatise it and to give the ignoramuses out there a big kick up the backside. The shoe delivering the kick has the words There But For the Grace of God...printed on the sole.

As part of this festival the Makar Press Poets (for those of you who are new to this blog and to those of you who have been sleeping up the back, there are three of us: Sheila Templeton, Rowena M Love and my good self) have been invited to perform our work at a couple of events.

The first one was on Sunday past and was in the Harbour Arts Centre in Irvine, Ayrshire. We were in the bar (which was nice) and we were accompanied by a 6ft 4, skin-head, 22 year old blues-guitarist from Ardrossan called Tragic O’Hara.

At first I was a wee bit worried – and not because the blues guitarist was from Ardrossan - it was a Sunday afternoon, in a bar where people come to eat Sunday lunch. Several questions were running through my head. Would people want poetry inflicted upon them while they munch into their chicken a la whatsit? Which course would fit best with a villanelle? Should I wait until they’re eating their syrup sponge and custard before I read the one about the vasectomy?

As time approached we decided just to do our stuff and stop worrying about how it would be perceived. And the good news is that we needn’t have been concerned because it went down as well as a slice of honeydew melon with parma ham and a wee side plate of sorbet. All the tables were taken and we even had a few peeps standing at the bar.

Can I just say that Tragic was fantastic? I thought you had to be mid-life, with 3 ex-wives, 10 kids and 1 old dog to sing the blues (or is that Country and Western?). In any case, Tragic has the goods. Check him out on Youtube. Better still keep your eyes and ears open and when you find out he has a gig coming up, get yourself along there. There ain’t no substitute for a live musician. Or for live poetry for that matter. We got the usual (and I love it) comments from people saying...hated poetry at school, but you guys really brought it to life and made it relevant. One lady accosted Sheila in the loo to say, who knew poetry could be such fun!

I think we should get some sort of award or something...services to poetry etc. Dinnae wait until we’re dead. Give us the acclaim and the rewards NOW.

Please.

Actually, I feel a wee bit of a fraud. I haven’t written a poem for over a year. Call yourself a poet, Malone? I do have the excuse that I’ve just written 134,000 words of a novel, so I’m giving myself a break. A poem will come along shortly, so it will. In the next day or two. Maybe even the next couple of minutes. (Just you sit there while I talk amongst myself).

The next event is in the Market Inn, Ayr on Thursday 15th October. Sheila and I will be reading alongside Rab Wilson. Should be good.

Looking for change

I was at a poetry reading tonight in Prestwick. The poet was Kevin Cadwallender. What a guy. Hilarious and thought provoking at the same time, with a totally original voice. Highlights were a poem about McDonalds, given an Old Testament biblical twist (which would have been banned in certain quarters) and another which he read in the voice of a Dalek. This one originated when he was given the challenge of writing a poem about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinski. The challenge was not to mention Bill or Monica or the “alleged” sex act. He therefore decided to write a “relationship” poem where the main protagonists were a Dalek and a hoover. You can make your own mind up which one is Ms Lewinski.

In any case it was a great way to pass an evening. I love it when poetry doesn’t take itself too seriously.



Talking about Poetry, with a capital P not taking itself seriously, we Makars have some events coming up next week. We’ve been invited to participate in a couple of readings as part of the Scottish wide Mental Health week. On Sunday, we are sharing the bill with a blues (insert your own comment here) guitarist called Tragic O’Hara. For real. You couldn’t make that up.



All kinds of glib comments are queuing up for release, but I am going to resist. As someone who’s had their own brush with this condition I’m well aware of the need to be more open about it. So there.



Ankle update: up and about. Back to work earlier than expected. But won’t be dancing an Irish jig any time soon. I’m only a wee bit swollen now and I only limp when I walk fast. Which frankly is not a good look. Let me place an image in your mind of a camp Golem and you will have a fair idea.



Isn’t it weird how contrary we humans are. Normally, if you had offered me a free fortnight sat in the house with a pile of books, an internet connection and a handful of movies I would have bitten your hand off at the shoulder. However, when you HAVE to stay in it doesn’t matter that you have all these distractions, does it. Cos you want to get frickin’ out. You want to feel the wind in your hair (a time capsule is required for me, but you know what I mean), you want to go for a coffee/ beer/ read at the library/ workout, but you cannae because you’re under house arrest.



I had to get back to work. Missed all my work buds. Besides, you can only watch so much daytime TV before you either hate every man on the planet or start sending Jeremy Kyle your toe-nail clippings in a dog-turd sandwich.



I learned this morning that I have a forgetful ankle. No kidding. Matches the brain. Because I went back to work earlier than the date on my original doctor’s sick line, I had to get signed off as being fit to work. My doctor explained, with a lob-sided smile that now I had a weakness in this area I might be prone to suffer the same injury. You know how your body just KNOWS how to do stuff, like walk, breathe, produce mucus? Well the part that knows where your foot is in relation to the rest of your leg sorta forgets whenever you have any ligament damage. So you have to watch where you put your feet.



If you see me walking down any Ayrshire high Street and my eyes are on the pavement you know why. I’m not looking for loose change.

What Goes Around...

I am a wee bit unsure about posting any of my poems on this blog, but in this case it is necessary for you to get the joke. Also this particular poem has been published in New Writing Scotland and on a CD of poems so I’m not worried about it popping up somewhere else under someone else’s name.

That is of course, presuming anyone would want to steal one of my poems. Anyway, here it is...

Art in the Park

They wur in among the trees, behind the big hoose at Rozelle.
Right there oan the grass, like they’d dropped from a plane.
Huge they wur. Huge wae effort. Huge like a god’s thoughts.
-Whiddye make o’ them? I ask my wee boy.
Had tae drag him away from the black box,
before his een went widescreen.
He points, finger oot like a dirk
– Dad, that one has a big butt.
- Furgoadsake. You watch way too much telly, son.
‘N the word is arse.
He jist luks up et me n’ says
– Whatever.

The Yoke this wan’s called. He’s hunched over.
Heid awa tae the side, like Gourock.
I move closer for a good look.
- Dad, let’s find some branches, so we can play at sword fighting.
I run ma hands over the granite. See, ye think it’s gray,
but up close it has a’ these speckles o’ black, n’ flashes o’ green.
-Dad, I’ll be Darth Vader, the wean skips over wae two sticks. -Who are you?
- In a meenit, son. Ah’m huvin’ a moment tae myself.
Noo, he’s just starin’ at me ‘n he says
- Whatever.

See, son. It’s aboot Jesus n’ his pain. But it’s more than that.
Nature’s givin’ a hand here. The stone’s gray like a sufferin’ sky,
n’ the trees are stretchin’ their arms oot tae share a touch.
Tae soothe. The earth is aroon the base reachin’ up
tae pull the granite back in. N’ see here, moss and lichen
…n’ wid ye look et that? That lichen is like a red stripe
doon the statue’s ribs. Whaur a wound might huv been.

My boy stops wavin’ his sticks aboot,
- Dad, I cannae believe you are actually my dad.
I just looks doon et him n’ say
- Whatever.



So... this poem was performed by myself on a CD that Makar Press published just over a year ago. And forgetting that my son and I have an ongoing debate about bad language, I played the CD in the car while he was with me.
‘N the word is arse.’ I say in the poem.

The wee fella homed on this. Ooh, Dad you said a bad word. Tell me you don’t swear a lot, says he. Of course not, says I. Only for effect or when I’m trying to amuse someone. Eh, says he looking totally mysstified, that makes no sense.

Fast forward a year and the CD hasn’t been played since. He’s watching a Horrible Histories episode and the theme is Ancient Greece. The next thing I hear is the wee fella shouting at the TV, ‘Kick his ass, Zeus.’ A phrase which you don’t ever expect to hear coming out of your child’s mouth.
Hey, says I, watch your language.
Sorry, dad, says he with a cheeky wee smile. I forgot. The right word is arse.

Sometimes you know some things are going to come back and bite you on the bum, but you can never quite tell how.

A Day in the Life of...

You may recall an earlier blog where I mentioned that two of my poems will be posted on toilet doors throughout the Shetland Islands. For a screen dump of my poems go to - www.shetland-library.gov.uk


Weeellll, the local newspaper got wind of it and decided it would be a blast to run a pee-ce on it.

The editor arranged for a photographer to come to my house to take a photo. He wanted me sitting on the toilet with a book in my hand. The photographer mumbled something about the fact that it might be funny if I had my trousers round my ankles. He added I could position a book to preserve my modesty...

...this is where somebody in the back shouts , what book would you use? Tom Thumb? Little Men? Oor Wullie?

...I declined his kind offer to expose myself to the good people of Ayrshire. Who do you think I am, I ask? Think of my dignity. Think of the damage to my reputation Think of the column inches it would use up.

Unless, says I, there is much dollars. I am not averse to prostituting myself for my art.

He actually snorted.

Now... that is another blog altogether. Me prostituting myself for my art, I mean. Did I tell you about the time I was the Poet Laureate for an adult gift shop? Much dollars and my lips will be unsealed. Contributions in brown paper bags please.

Laters,
M

On the Bog

I'm not sure if I need to clarify this for my North American readers (apologies if you already use this word) but here in the UK one of the euphemisms we have for the toilet is "the bog". Where this comes from I wouldn't like to speculate. Well, actually I would. For what it's worth I'm thinking that our ancestors denuded our forests thousands of years ago, effectively turning many of them into bogs. Ergo, we didn't go into the woods to take a dump, we went into the bog. Makes sense, non?


Where am I going with this, I hear you ask. Let me answer...I received a letter today from the Shetlands Islands Council. They have chosen two of my poems, Within Reach and Eisenhower's Mother for their Bards in the Bog project.


The poems will be posted in toilets around Shetland for the next three months, and on the Shetland Library website. For a wee look go to www.shetland-library.gov.uk.


How cool is that? Spend a penny (another euphemism - this time for taking a piss. We Brits love to discuss our bodily functions, but only in the most inoffensive of ways) and you get to read my poems. Beats reading a shitty tabloid. See what I did there?


And no, the "poem" above is not one of mine.

Celebrate Ayrshire

“Interesting” is an interesting word. As is “nice”. They are both dipped in positivity, while at the same time being non-committal. Yet there are times when no other words will do the job. Take today at the “Celebrate Ayrshire” event in the grounds of Culzean Castle. It was both nice and interesting.

The whole event was part of Ayrshire’s year-long run of events for The Homecoming. If this event has passed you by, this is the Scottish government’s big thing for 2009 to remind the rest of the world what a fabulous country Scotland is. The message is (more or less) if you haven’t managed to visit, get your arse over here, you’ll love it.

Early summer is often the best part of the year, weather-wise in this corner of the globe and to prove it the sun was in attendance. As were we Makar Press Poets (Sheila Templeton, Rowena M Love and moi). We were part of the entertainment throughout the day as a variety of groups showed off their wares. Strathclyde Police and Fire Brigade had displays as did Ayrshire Beekeepers, Organic gardeners from Stair, Ayrshire Ice Cream from Catrine House, and a Rare Breed butchers was flogging rare breed burgers and steaks.


There was also an archery exhibition and few others bibs and bots. Among the bibs and bots was a cow. A muckle beastie tethered to a trailer. Why? Not sure. The cow, let’s call her Jessie was just hangin’ out taking in some rays and nibblin’ a few shoots of grass. She was positioned next to the ice cream stand so maybe they were going for a before and after thing. Sheila was for standing behind Jessie with an arrow pointing to her udders, while I was to make the milking motion, with Rowena bringing up the rear (so to speak) making shivering shapes and noises. We decided this might be misconstrued and decided to satisfy ourselves with oodles of the after product.


The Marquee was where you could find the poetry and we featured in 20 minute time sandwiches between Maybole Pipe Band and Johnstone Silver Band throughout the day. The day ran from 11am till 4pm. We also had a Robert Burns impersonator kitted out in the gear we’ve come to associate with Burns, complete with ponytailed wig and a ploughman poet’s sideburns and he pitched in now and again with the likes of Tam O’Shanter and My Luv is Like a Red, Red Rose.


The presence of “Rabbie Burns” had a confusing effect on some people. Not with Rabbie himself, but with us. One Irish guy said that one of my poems was so good he thought it was a modern rendering of a Burns classic. Which was nice (oh, there’s that word again) but we had to state on several occasions that we were readin our own original work.


This next comment might be tantamount to treason, but Scottish poetry has more to offer than just oor Rab. Wonderful as he is and absolutely something to be proud of, the danger is that as a nation we concentrate on him just a tad too much. There are a great number of fine writers living and working in Scotland today who could do with some attention and the wherewithal to make a decent living. By all means we should celebrate Burns and the impact he has had on the world, but let’s listen to other voices. Right, that’s me off my soapbox.



It is fair to say that I’m knackered. It takes energy to read poetry in these surroundings, dontcha know. Normally our readings are in confined spaces and we build up an atmosphere in which we and the audience feed off each other’s energy. Reading in a marquee to a transient audience is quite a different matter. First off the acoustics are shit. Secondly, at an invited reading the audience tends to have chosen to be there; in this kind of scenario the attendees were mostly taking a seat and shelter from the sun. There was also the odd barking dog, screaming child and whoosh from the flames at the Fire Brigade stand to compete with.


To be fair, there were lots of people who fully appreciated what we were doing and clearly enjoyed it, particularly earlier in the day. But there were also lots of bemused expressions. Some of which set Sheila off on a teenage giggle. You could see the thought – but it diznae rhyme, passing across some people’s expressions.


There I was reading my poem about the woman whose teeth fell out when she was eating a scone (I cover such a wide topic range. Nothing is sacred, not even the regal scone) which normally gets a big laugh. I got to the funny bit and this elderly couple right at the front (who had just arrived, nursing an ice cream cone each) were looking at me as if I had just announced that Christmas and Easter were changing months, but Santa and the Easter Bunny would stay as is. They were sitting mouths open wondering what the hell was going on. I swear I could see the vanilla ice cream melting among their fillings.


Being brutally honest, by the time it came to the last set, I really couldn’t be arsed. After 4 hours of intermittent poetry readings I’d had enough. I was all for untethering Jessie and asking for a ride home. Sheila was on the fence (yes, you were) and Rowena was up on her feet brandishing one of her collections, with all the energy of a zealot.

However, I am nothing if not a pro and we performed our last set for the afternoon.

Did I enjoy my day? Yes. It was nice. And interesting.

Back from CC

Just back from the delights of Cliff Cottage to see that I have a back garden that needs an army of machete wielding navvies to clear it. OK, I’m prone to exaggeration. One machete-wielding navvy would probably do it. Given enough time (two weeks, say) and some sharp implements. Us poets shouldn’t have to do such mundane things. We should be able to sit with our writing tools to hand, staring out into the blue yonder while our servants get busy with all the boring stuff. Like gardening, ironing, the washing, the shopping, cleaning – basically, pretty much most things that end in ING. Apart from eating and drinking, of course. Oh, and I can think of something else, but that’s too rude.
Oh – and can I change the occupation from navvy to Girl Friday? Might as well have something nice to look at as well. Any takers out there? Just think of the job satisfaction. The pay is crap, but I’ve got a nice big smile with all my own teeth and everything.


Aberdeen was fantastic. Big thanks to EG for her amazing hospitality at CC. What a cool lady. The reading at Books n Beans was also a big success. We had a full house, with such luminaries in attendance as the crime-writer, Bill Kirton and up and coming literary star, Gillian Philip (and her equally talented mate, the shoe queen, Ruth). This reading was part of the Wordfringe Festival, an annual, month-long round of poetry and prose readings throughout the Aberdeen area. The guys who run it deserve a medal for organising the whole shebang. To get more than 40 people in a bookshop on a beautiful night – and to do that every night for a month takes some going. What’s more the audience was discerning, intelligent and appreciative. And they laughed in all the right places.


A bonus was the weather, sunshine from sun-up to sun-down for the whole weekend. Which got me thinking. Every time I’ve been up to CC there has been uninterrupted sunshine, whatever the season. The common denominator? Moi. So ladies ... need some sunshine in your life? Geezashout. (remember what I said earlier, own teeth and everything)
While I’m in the praising mode (I was. Keep up), can I just say what a pleasure it is to work with my fellow Makar Press Poets, Rowena M. Love and Sheila Templeton. Classy ladies, who write world-class poetry. We’ve been doing this for around 5 years now and there’s never ever been a cross word, never even a hint of ego and always complete professionalism. Except for the occasional chatting up of select members of the audience. Sheila, down girl.


The two days after the reading I was able to concentrate on some writing. 16,000 words on the work in progress are not too shabby over two days. Read it and weep, Toots.


We had a movie night on our last night up in CC. On the bill was “Dean Spanley” and “The Diving Bell and The Butterfly”. The former had a stellar cast including Peter O’Toole, who was brilliant as the cantankerous old father. The actors had a fantastic script to work with and managed to add nuances that I’m sure the writers hadn’t even considered. A quiet and wickedly funny masterpiece. The other film is about one of the editors of Elle Magazine who suffered from a massive stroke some years ago. All he could move was one eyelid and with this he managed to write a book. No silly, he didn’t stick a pen in his eye socket. He woke every morning at 5am and between then and 8am he decided what he wanted to say and then when his assistant arrived, he blinked out the passages he had stored in his memory. True story. Any writers out there with “writers block” should check this out, see what challenges can be overcome and then give themselves a bloody good shake. Writers block my eye!
(see what I did there?) If I’m being honest, I preferred the actual book, but that is no slight on the movie which had quality written all over it. Rowena would also testify to this – if she hadn’t fallen asleep half way through.


A weekend well spent? Absofuckinlutely.

Britain's Got Poetry

If you had gone down to the woods today, you might have got a big surprise. Well, not the woods exactly, beside the woods...in the Walled Garden at Culzean Castle. Sheila, Rowena and myself were performing at the Poetry Picnic as part of the Burns an a’ that Festival. What’s more, Sheila was on time. Kinda. She was at the castle gates, Gillian, dead on 12. The afternoon turned out really well. All in all we had around 40 people sitting around us with their munchies as we read poems to them.
Again it was a pleasure to read to an appreciative audience, a good few of whom were new to such an event. One guy approached Sheila after we had finished and I heard him say, ‘I hated poetry when I was at school.’ Then he continued by saying that he didn’t know poetry could be so interesting and such fun and we had given him a whole new perspective on it.

Job done.

For the record, I shouldn’t single out Sheila as the late one. Yes, she was late for the same event last year, but the week before that we were performing at the Whisky Festival in the town hall...and I slept in. I didn’t even have the excuse that I was out the night before.
I heard a knock at the door that morning. I flung on my dressing gown, knuckled the sleep from my eyes as I stumbled down the stairs and opened the door. I expecting the postie to be delivering a book, instead I opened to door to a shiny, bright Rowena. Dear reader I swore. I think my words were along the lines of, ‘What the f ...?’

She had the good grace to laugh, and she told me it was 11:30. She left and I ran upstairs to shower and shave. Apparently, and I find it hard to believe that she would behave in such a manner, Sheila whooped with laughter all the way into town.

Comeuppance, is a word with a lot of vowels, dear reader, but that’s what happened when the very next week, the divine Miss T (Sheila) was late for the Culzean picnic. I was gracious when she arrived. I only pointed and laughed for like thirty seconds.

Today wasn’t the best day for a reading in these parts as it was the last day of the football season. Mind you, given the way it turned out I was glad I hadn’t watched any of it. Gutted. Never mind. There’s always next year.

I finished the day off by watching Britain’s Got Talent. I blame Hughie Green. Growing up watching Opportunity Knocks has made me a sucker for all these talent shows. In any case, I felt the right two got through to the final. The dance group Diversity were fantastic, great fun and a credit to their families (god, I sound like an old fart) and a big two-fingered salute to all of those people who complain about teenagers being useless. They were an absolute pleasure to view and I could have watched them for hours. Susan Boyle gave me goosebumps. I had this horrible feeling that she was going to fall flat on her face – how could she live up to all that hype - but after a “pitchy” start – well that’s what Randy The Dawg Jackson calls it on American Idol – she got into her stride and the bumpy skin stuff happened.

(photo from Brian Craig)

Poetry Really Does Matter

When was the last time you read a poem? When did you last write a poem? When did you last buy a book of poetry? If you are Mr, Mrs or even Ms Average you probably can’t remember, and yet most of us at some point in our lives are driven to read or write a poem. Many of us reach a point where we need to make some sense of an event, whether that be on the world stage, or our own stage, and we turn to verse or song to find someone or something that helps give us insight or understanding.

And yet most of us have a very narrow view of what constitutes poetry – and I include the so-called experts in that. Someone much wiser than me once said that poetry has such a wide set of guidelines that if I chose to call something a poem, then it’s a poem!

For most of us our first and last meeting with poetry was at school where some poor English teacher had to go through a poem because it was in the curriculum. So there we all sat, kicking the floor under our desks, bored out of our tinies while said teacher who couldn’t tell the difference between a half rhyme and an iamb, tried to gain our interest and ended up turning us off poetry for life.


People’s reactions always amaze me when it comes to poetry. There’s the “But it Doesn’t Rhyme” Brigade - I wish I had a bottle of whisky for every time I heard that Here’s what I say when I’m running a writing class... If you make a list of all of the elements that may go into a poem you will come up with things like, rhythm, arresting use of language, simile/ metaphor, insight, humour etc etc etc,( oh and lest we forget), rhyme. The issue is that many, many poems that use rhyme are so caught up in meeting the rhyme pattern that all they use is rhyme. Everything not rhyme, listed earlier is abandoned in the search for that matching end note. And often with this kind of poem we also get a big message that YOU WILL ACCEPT AND UNDERSTAND BY THE TIME YOU ARE FINISHED READING THIS BLOODY POEM. My response to this is if I want some messages I’ll pick up my re-cycled poly bags and head up to bloody Tesco.


Then there’s the sub-section who thinks that any male who reads/ writes poetry must be of a sexually questionable nature. I almost can’t be arsed contending with this one (see what I did there?) ‘cos I really couldn’t give a flying fuck about this kind of reaction. I’m like, away and grow a brain cell, ya dobber. The hairy root of this idea totally passes me by. If you think of the male poets through the years - Shakespeare, Burns, Wordsworth, Yeats, Hughes, Heaney, Thomas etc etc etc...were ANY of them homosexual. So what, if they were, but I can’t think of a single one. In fact, quite the opposite, many of them were infamous for their womanising, hard-drinking ways. So where does this notion come from? Do “they” think that real men are too busy scratching their balls and drinking lager by the gallon to be bothered with expressing themselves? And yet these same Neanderthals will get soppy over a favourite song. Confused much?


One of the great pleasures I’ve had over the years when we Makar Press Poets are out and about doing our gigs is when we confound people’s expectations. Now the occasion I’m about to recall is not being used so I can brag, just to give you an example. Honest. Really. For real. This particular events was in Kilmaurs. The room was full – we had an audience of around thirty people. Scanning the room we could see who really wanted to be there, who was mildly interested and who would have preferred to be in the bar next door, bent over the Sun.
Fast forward to the end of the reading and people were queuing up to tell us how much they enjoyed our poems. How surprised they were that they did enjoy them... how they found them to be immediate, fun, humourous, touching and how they made them think. Now I’m not saying we’re in the same league as the poets I mentioned earlier (although we are gooooood) I think it was more that everyone in the room was surprised by their own capacity to enjoy what we were reading to them. They were surprised and obviously delighted by their ability to run alongside our words and understand exactly what we were saying. It also helped that they were expecting lonely clouds and hosts of daffodils and what they got was cancer, sleeveless dresses and willies. Sheila, Rowena and myself went home on a high and wondering why we weren’t famous.
Ever since we humans first gathered round a pile of burning logs we have felt the need to connect with each other and the world around us. We did this and continue to do this through storytelling and song. And guess what, poetry can combine both of these elements in ways that are powerful enough to tug at our emotions and effect change. That change can be on the world stage, or it can be where we are centre stage with our loved ones.


So, if your answer to my early question was, not for ages – here’s a challenge. Go find a book of poetry. Now. Today. It doesn’t matter if it’s old or modern, rhyming or not, if it gives itself the badge of poetry that’s good enough. Then pour yourself a cup of tea/ coffee/ wine ...curl up in a chair/ sofa/ bed and slowly rub your thoughts across a poem. Who knows you might even like it.

Impression from London - day 1

Not a good start. Getting dressed in the morning (4:55am) and new shirt is too tight across my back. We’re talking buttons popping and a possible wardrobe malfunction here. I don’t even have a suitably pierced nipple. The only other shirt I have ironed is the wrong colour/ texture for the suit I’m wearing, but will have to do until I get to London. Oxford St is just round the corner from my hotel. A quick shopping trip and bobsyouruncle. In the airport I am asked to pack my mini-toiletries into a clear plastic bag and realise I have shaving foam, but no razors. Doh! Once seated (uncomfortably –even for a short arse like me there’s nae leg room) on the plane I realise I have also forgotten my cuff-links for the shirt I’ve brought to change into for dinner. Double doh!
The plane lands, I follow some people into the airport building. The guy in front of me trips up over the first step up into the building. I catch a snigger in my sleeve. I never know the etiquette. I tend to wait until I’m sure the person isn’t hurt and then allow the laugh to escape in a moment of shared empathy/relief that I’m not the arse that people are laughing at. At the top of the staircase I find the stairs stop before I expect them to. For some reason I think there’s an extra stair and leap into fresh air like I’m on the first hop of a triple jump. Totally thrown by this I then overcompensate by landing on both feet as if braced for an earthquake. The gang of people following behind me have no worries on the etiquette issue and laugh their heads off.

Get to hotel, dump my bags and head out for new shirt. It’s raining. We’re talking a downpour of biblical proportions and travelling light as you do in this new era of handluggage- only- flights I have no coat. I run from doorway to doorway like a cop in an action movie. Hot, sweating and soaked I eventually find a plain black shirt. Time is running out. The event starts in Canada House, Trafalgar Square at 11:30. I’ll just have to do without cufflinks later on. Besides I need a new pair like Gordon Brown needs a porn movie detailed on his expenses claim. At last I spot a newspaper stand selling umbrellas for £2.99. I buy one. Two minutes later the rain stops and the clouds clear, highlighting the best way to prepare for British weather. Get yourself kitted out for storms and you will get sunshine.

At Canada House it’s great to see everyone. Morgan, as I mentioned in an earlier post has decided this is the last event in the Petra Kenney Poetry Competition and he is anxious that everything goes off as planned. Being a perfectionist and knowing EXACTLY how he wants everything to be, he tends to make it work. We start off with an intro from Morgan who explains why he feels it is time to move on, he gives thanks to all of those people who have made it special for him over the years and then the winning poets read out their winning poems. As you would expect, they are of the highest standard.

Then its buffet time. I love to watch people at these things. There’s the nibblers, who are overly polite and shy about taking freebies. They take tiny bites and manage to swallow without chewing while still in mid-sentence. There’s the normals. They are a relaxed group and they manage the trick of biting, chewing and eating modest amounts while maintaining a conversation – no mean feat. Then there’s the wee woman in the hat who clearly hasn’t eaten since she was here last year. She’s all bug-eyes and elbows as she squeezes through the group in front of her. She is almost militaristic in her focus. She will eat as much as possible and if anyone gets in her way she will quite possibly eat them as well. But only after she's finished that last mini-chocolate eclair.

In the afternoon we have a poetry reading from each of the judges, any one of whom would draw a crowd. Danny Abse, Ian Blake, Alan Brownjohn, Alison Chisholm and John Whitworth. Class. And what’s even better is that completely unprompted, each of them pays tribute to Morgan and the work he has done over the years. One of them even offers the view that Morgan has done more for poetry than any other literary figure in the last 100 years. Morgan is quite overcome and there’s barely a dry eye in the house. We are always the last to know the impact we have on other people and often what should be said is said when we are absent or even dead. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that Morgan got to hear people he holds in such regard speak of him in such a way.

And breathe...back to the hotel for a shower and snooze before heading off to the restaurant at 8pm. I meet Molly, Edie and Danish Edie in Groucho’s in Dean Street. From there we will get a taxi to Le Gavroche. Some celebrities are noticed. Him off the telly that plays Martin Fowler, Danny Wallace and some young comedian who looks less chubby in real life. William Hurt is also spotted. At Le Gavroche, we arrive before Morgan and as we debate whether to go to the table or wait in the lounge I spot a dapper man entering the restaurant. He seems very, very familiar. I’ve met so many people through the day I’m now on over familiar mode. I say, ‘Oh hello,’ as if this guy is a good friend I’ve not seen in months. He smiles warmly and repeats my greeting. Only then do I realise its Raymond Blanc, chef extraordinaire. To his credit, he then ignores the nutter in the lobby (me) and goes to blether with the staff.

Recession, what recession? The (possibly) most exclusive restaurant in London is mobbed. Every table is full and manned by an army of waiters. Every move of the diner is anticipated; chairs slipped out of the way as you rise from the table, napkin deposited on your lap on your return, water and wine glasses continually topped up and the ladies are even escorted to the door of the powder room. Even such a solicitous group of waiters realise that this is one action people don’t need any help with and they don’t go any further. Mind you, if you were in your dotage, I’m sure they’d be in there wiping your arse once you were done.

Enough with the crudity and on with the crudities (see what I did there?) Food critics have written epics about the Roux brothers and their restaurant so I won’t even try to compete. Suffice to say the food was melt in the mouth, subtle, imaginative and just downright fantastic. I had a wee jolt of excitement as every course was laid in front of me. It was all I could do to stop myself from applauding every time the silver dome was whipped from my plate to reveal a piece of culinary art.

Relaxed and replete, hugs were exchanged in the doorway and promises made to keep in touch. That was just with the waiters. Then I bid farewell to my friends and got a taxi to my hotel. From the sublime to the poky. I could stretch out my arms and touch each of the side walls with my fingertips. But all I wanted was a bed, a pillow and a quilt...whoever Larry is I could have easily matched him in the happy stakes.

(in the photo above are Morgan Kenney and Molly Yeomans his North American director with Andrew Motion, former Poet Laureate)