Wicked Words, Leeds: March 2013

I was at Wicked Words’ quarterly Showcase Event this Wednesday, an evening that demonstrated what a rich tapestry the world of performance poetry can be. The entertainment kicked off with Jamie H Scrutton, an established Wicked Words poet whose pièce de resistance involves donning a bright pink wig and black Belvia bra (stuffed with what looked like tin-foil), whilst cavorting about the stage belting out poetry about the said bra’s magical powers of transformation in the wearer.

Jamie was swiftly followed by Skylab (aka Caleb Parkin) who had debuted at Wicked Words only the previous month. Nothing on that evening could possibly have hinted at the majesty of Skylab in full flight. Taking to the stage in a white decontamination suit, and with the aid of some ingenious headgear, Skylab took on variously the personae of rat, urban fox and – best of the lot in my opinion – a cockroach, complete with metre-long (at least!), retractable antennae that had those closest to the stage fearing for their eyeballs, as he read a set of thought-provoking poetry on the theme of Vermin, each poem addressed to the human from the creature’s point of view.

The second-half was given over exclusively to Bristol poet Anna Freeman, who appeared dressed neatly in jeans and cardi – which, it has to be said, came as something of a relief to many present. Her gentle (but not too gentle) and engaging style was put to good effect in a set that variously covered topics such as love, loss, embarrassing parents, and wonderful poetry about being ginger that could put Tim Minchin to shame. Anna knew all her work by heart and her endearing, self-deprecating style quickly won over the tough Leeds audience. Anna has that wonderful knack of being able to create poetry that’s intimate and personal, but with which anyone who has loved, lost, been brought up by embarrassing parents – or is blessed by being ginger – can identify. Come back soon, Anna.

Brendan McPartlan was ever the genial host, generally leaping around and attempting to whip the audience into a frenzy at every possible opportunity. Such a shame that a few more didn’t make it along to what was a thoroughly diverse and entertaining evening.  Not all poets appearing at Wicked Words may suit all tastes, but by goodness, it’s entertaining and you can pretty much guarantee there’ll always be something for everyone – and surely, that’s the wonder of poetry. So maybe next time see you there, eh?

In praise of Lead Poets (once again).

While part of me is wondering why I should be travelling forty miles across the M62 to enjoy an evening of poetry, another part is telling me that, actually, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I still maintain there is a dearth of similar events in the Leeds area (unless, of course, you know otherwise) and the poetry scene in Manchester seems to be so much more vibrant.

Chorlton’s Lead Poets is the perfect example of what a good poetry night should be, and I was privileged to be there again on 8 October 2012. Lead Poets is friendly and informal, but with structure and planning so effective that the considerable efforts of Sarah L. Dixon in making the event a success almost go unnoticed. Sarah styles herself as The Quiet Compere – aptly so, in that whilst ensuring a smooth-running session, she makes sure the evening belongs to the participating poets, and takes her turn along with everyone else in reading engaging and entertaining poetry to an attentive, appreciative audience.

Lead Poets is not quite open-mic, in that there are a limited number of pre-booked slots to ensure a full ten-minutes for each reader, plus no poet may read at more than two events in succession (which rules me out for the next one – although be sure I’ll be there to listen and enjoy!) What I also particularly like is the absence of any hierarchy. There are no headliners or supporting acts; slots are allocated randomly (or to take account of performers’ preferences). Lead Poets attracts a range of experience, from seasoned, published poets to nervous first-timers; all are billed equally, and in my opinion the night is all the better for it.

It was lovely to spend time catching up with my wonderful poetic friends – thank you all once again! In the egalitarian spirit that is Lead Poets it would be wrong for me to single out any performance that was more memorable than any other, so I shall simply mention all those who took part in alphabetical order, offering my thanks and appreciation to all for a wonderful evening and celebration of the spoken word:

Annie Clarkson; John Darwin; Jimmy Doxford; Sarah L. Dixon (of course!); Rosie Garland; Rachel McGladdery; Sarah Pritchard; Solomon Scribble; Rachel Sills – and me, Martin Vosper.

See you next time!

Reasons to be cheerful.

I didn’t mean to get drawn into the Olympic Games, but I did – like, I suspect, several million others who swore apathy beforehand but took a tiny peek early on and ended up hooked for a fortnight.

It was that opening ceremony that did it. I really only watched it because of all the hype, but then found that it drew me in; this was something far bigger than I’d ever anticipated and I wanted to be part of it. The sights, the sounds – the messages – all seemed to push some emotional button; it was compelling. I wasn’t a total couch potato, but ended up watching many more hours of Olympics than I’d bargained for – and enjoying every moment.

The reasons why the 2012 Olympics captivated the nation will be debated ad nauseam by the media, but I wanted to add my own observations as to some of the lesser-spoken contributions to lifting the nation’s mood for a couple of weeks.

• That it was the BBC that covered the Olympics. Our much-maligned national broadcaster to whom we all – some grudgingly – pay our licence fees came up trumps, in my opinion. Not just the quality of presentation and personalities of the commentators, but there was something else, something that we tend to take for granted, simply because it is the BBC. Think: all those thousands of hours of broadcasting and not a single commercial. Any other broadcaster would have taken every opportunity to cram in as much advertising as possible, especially during the headline events. It would have felt intrusive, almost obscene.  I don’t begrudge a penny of my licence fee and value the fact we have a national broadcaster like the BBC; the Olympics helped me reaffirm why.

• On a similar theme, the Games were noticeably devoid of any commercial branding or advertising, other than the Olympic logo and 2012 corporate design. It looked smart and professional, but above all not even those corporate giants who poured billions into Olympic sponsorship were allowed to sully venues or our TV screens with their own logos and corporate branding. What went on behind the scenes is a different matter, but to the TV viewer the absence of flashing advertising hoardings around stadia made a refreshing change; it was so nice not to be constantly ‘sold to’ for once.

• The fact that the Olympics took up so much of the media’s attention meant there was virtually no time left for the usual doom and gloom merchants we see and hear so often. Apart from occasional shots of Cameron enjoying freebie perks with members of the Royal family, for two weeks our screens were free of the politicians, economists and analysts who normally take such delight in peddling negativity and misery several times a day. It doesn’t mean in the least that the issues and social injustices have gone away, but it does make you wonder about the influence of the media: if they tell us we should me miserable and negative, we are; when they don’t, we’re not (or not as much).

It’ll be interesting to see what happens during the Paralympics. Channel 4 has broadcasting rights in the UK, which will mean coverage peppered with commercial breaks and I doubt their presenters will have the established pedigree of the Beeb’s – but cometh the hour, cometh the man or woman. Personally I’d like to see greater integration of the Paralympics with the Olympics – why not a single, month-long event, for example – but that’s a debate for another day. I hope the country’s feel-good factor will continue, but soon the politicians, economists and analysts will be back from their summer holiday and I fear that soon, normal service will be resumed.

Of course, if you stuck to your guns and studiously avoided the Olympics, preferring to watch endless hours of films or advert-peppered repeats on the commercial channels, or not watching TV altogether, none of this will mean much. I was very nearly one of those sceptics, but oh, so glad I changed my mind.

How welcoming is your literary group?

If you’re involved in running a writing group, poetry night or similar, do you ever stop and ask yourself what impression you give to new people who come along, or may be thinking about it? And if you do manage to attract new faces, do they ever come back? Some recent experiences of mine and others suggest that way newcomers are treated is something organisers can have a tendency to overlook.

I spotted an advert on Write Out Loud for an open-mic poetry event in a local market town that looked interesting. There was a contact name, so I emailed them to ask for more details. When it came, the reply completely lacked warmth and simply re-iterated the sparse information already on the website. There were no pleasantries – no ‘hope you can make it’ or ‘look forward to seeing you’ or similar. In fact the impression given was that I could take it or leave it, and I was left wondering why they’d bothered advertising the event in the first place; clearly they have enough members already.

Two friends who’ve moved into the area visited a long-established writing group in the city-centre to find that the organisers were quite willing to take their money, yet there was no acknowledgement during the course of the evening that they were first-timers, and no-one came over to introduce themselves or say hello. My friends now describe the group as ‘cliquey’, have not returned and make a point of advising others not to bother as well.

I’ve had a similar experience at a locally well-known live literature event; I’ve been along about four times now, each occasion on my own, and never once has the organiser or any of the obvious regulars attempted to make contact. I don’t expect effusive welcomes; a simple acknowledgement of my presence would be fine (by way of contrast, I’ve ventured to a couple of open-mic evenings over in Greater Manchester and received a very warm welcome on each occasion, so fortunately I do know that it’s not the literary world in general. Thank you Once More With Meaning and Lead Poets Society!).

Walking into a public place and not knowing anyone can feel daunting for many people, especially if they go alone, and can put some off going altogether. By not thinking about the welcome offered to newcomers, literary groups may be losing out on valuable support without even realising it. It doesn’t take much. For example, having someone look out for new faces, and simply offering a greeting or a quick chat can help break the ice.  Some people may prefer to be left alone, but perhaps they might like to be introduced to some of the regulars; if you don’t ask you’ll never know. If you offer a contact for enquiries, make sure the response is welcoming and friendly in a way that will encourage people to come along, perhaps offering to ‘meet and greet’ anyone nervous about walking into a room full of strangers for the first time. It really can make all the difference.

If literary groups advertise events, it’s not unreasonable to assume they actually want people to come along, and I find it hard to believe that any organiser would want newcomers to feel like they’ve intruded on some kind of established elite, never to return. Surely it’s better to make an effort to think about making people feel wanted and welcome; that way not only are they more likely to come back, but they’ll probably recommend your group to all their writerly friends, too.

The choice is yours.

How difficult should ‘difficult poetry’ be?

I make no secret of the fact that I like poetry to be accessible; and by that, I don’t necessarily mean simplistic. In fact, I rather like poetry that only surrenders its meaning after several re-readings – that ‘light-bulb’ moment providing a sense of personal triumph that you have somehow entered the poet’s mind as s/he intended. I liken it to tuning around the dial on an old analogue radio until, through the unintelligible burbles and whistles you suddenly encounter a loud, clear station that you want to stay with. Poetry like that is excellent and to be encouraged; this is not about dumbing-down.

Yet I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s encountered poetry that, even after many attempts at reading, and lots of head-scratching and brow-furrowing leaves the reader either with a sense of failure that we’ve not grasped the poet’s message or worse, that we begin to question our own intelligence and almost feel a sense of exclusion; maybe the poet doesn’t want the likes of us to understand.

I doubt that is the case, but I do question the motivation of poets who write such material. Do they simply exist in some other academic dimension inhabited only by a small, select few or – putting it bluntly – do they write that way simply to flaunt their superior intellectual capacity?

These thoughts have been prompted by yet another attempt at reading The Ground Aslant: An Anthology of Radical Landscape Poetry, edited by Harriet Tarlo, which I acquired following a favourable review I’d heard on the radio. I don’t intend to single out any one particular contributing poet as more obscure that any other, but I’d say that a good three-quarters of the poetry falls into the category of being difficult to the point of inaccessibility. If I could explain why it feels so inaccessible then I’d be half-way to understanding it, I guess, but as it is, so much feels like just a jumble of words scattered on the page that I can’t even begin to unravel. The old fairy-tale of the Emperor’s New Clothes has come to mind on more than one occasion.

Goodness knows I’ve tried to find meaning in these murky works but yet again I’ve returned the book to its shelf in exasperation; it can consider itself fortunate that it wasn’t slung into the charity-shop box. I suppose the reason I didn’t do that is that maybe some hope exists within me that one day further along my poetic journeying I’ll return to The Ground Aslant and suddenly ‘get it’; that I will, as a poet, have acquired some kind of golden key that will unlock the deep and well-hidden meanings that lie within.

Until that day, should it arrive, I will continue to speculate at the motivation of those who delight in writing ‘difficult poetry’ and wonder what satisfaction they derive from excluding so many from enjoying their work.

I will leave you one of my favourite quotes, attributed to Woody Guthrie: “Any fool can make something complicated. It takes a genius to make it simple.”

The Power of ‘Good Enough’

Like most writers, I am my own worst critic (or best critic, depending on which way you look at it). Usually, no-one is allowed to read anything until it’s been honed and polished several times over – a changed word here, a semi-colon there – before, after some persuasion, work might be self-deprecatingly shared with a few close friends over a glass of wine.

The past month of NaPoWriMo has though – amongst many other things – reminded me of the power of ‘good enough. Because the work is ours, we see the flaws and assume everyone else can too. It reminds me of decorating a room; we know where all the imperfections are – the brush marks or the bits of wallpaper that had to be patched up – yet all anyone else sees walking into the room is the finished job, neat and fresh. So it is, I believe, with writing. The discipline of NaPoWriMo forced me to reach a point where I simply had to commit to going public with work, or risk missing the daily deadline and in turn adding to the workload of the following day.

Now, I think most of my fellow NaPoWriMo participants will agree that a lot of what we produced was ‘first-draft’ quality – certainly I can see plenty of my own flaws and patches – and bears closer scrutiny before being put before editors or competition judges, but I’m sure I wasn’t the only writer to be pleasantly surprised by comments and feedback on what s/he considered to be sub-standard work, or at least not up to the usual quality. Whilst there’s always the risk that we were all being too nice to each other, I doubt anyone said anything that wasn’t genuinely meant – silence probably being the response of choice in the event of a genuine dislike.

For me, such encouragement caused me see my work through a rather more positive frame of reference than before; if fellow writers can see value in your work then maybe, just maybe so can publishers and judging panels.

No writer is going to have their work liked by everyone, all of the time and I know that rejections simply go with the territory – but if, like me, you’re particularly self-critical, rather than seeking perfection every time ask yourself whether a piece of writing broadly does what you intend it to – that it is ‘good enough’. You might be pleasantly surprised to find others that agree with you.