It’s currently 2pm on Sunday 12th Nov 2023. Collecting The Data as a tangible thing landed in my life on the 2nd. (I’m not sure the video quite captures how giddy I was at opening the box, but it had been a long day at work—they all are at the moment). The official publication data and launch event was on 7th. The final poem was read about 9.15, so I’m declaring that the moment it was officially out there.
And it’s only now that I’ve managed to really sit and think about the fact that I have an actual book out there in the world. I’m not 100% convinced I will ever truly come to terms with it. There’s certainly a feeling of well, what now…? The poems are out there, people actually own them in a book. I’m not there to read them to them with an intro. That’s quite a strange feeling to come to terms with, but I’m getting there. What do I write next? When? How? For who? All good questions, but not for today. And not a question for this book.
I’ve found myself sitting and staring at it whenever I’ve had a spare moment. It’s a beautifully produced thing, just looking at it as an object it astonishing. And I can’t say thank you enough to Sheila for publishing it, Gerry Cambridge for typesetting it and the cover, Nell for the editing, Matthew for the same and for pushing me to submit in the first place. Spookily, it will be the 4th anniversary of Sheila replying to my email to say she was interested in publishing me.
As an aside, I’ve just looked at the poems I sent her as a sample. Only one of them made the distance to end up in the book. I can also say that the book was going to be called Honest Signals at that point.
The few days since the launch have been a blur of work, more nights out (remind me to have a word with my social secretary, but weirdly a lot of it has been connected.
Let’s start there.
The launch was wonderful, it was full of people I’ve not seen for a while, or people I see all the time, but wouldn’t normally see in a poetry context, and then people I didn’t know or not met yet. It was wonderful to finally meet Sheila and Eleanor. I got to chat all to briefly with loads of lovely people like Matthew Paul, Clare Best, Davina Prince, Oliver Comins, and Mike Bartholomew Biggs. There was an odd moment at the end of the night where my oldest mate and me were chatting to Tristram Fane-Saunders. That’s a mix of worlds. And it makes me happy.
I can’t vouch for all the other poets, but I think it makes for a better reading to have non- poets there. And a crowd makes for a better event. I think the venue did well out of the night, and my non-poetry friends (be they work colleagues, oldest mates, local friends, or whatever) have all said how much they enjoyed every reader. I’m obviously glad they were there to support me (I mean the friends, but also the other readers), but it’s heartening to see that as Matthew noted on the night, this poetry lark can appeal to everyone. It was also an honour to be reading alongside two other book launches- thank you Eleanor and Matthew.
I know some people will have bought their first poetry books on Tuesday night…Job Done. Incidentally, we sold out of books on the night…I wasn’t prepared for that.
Everyone was exceptionally good. If there were nerves it didn’t show (even from me, and I was shaking the proverbial defecating dog from about 6.30 onwards). It’s impossible to single anyone out, so I won’t. That is a small cheat, but whevs, man…
I managed to get some shots of the readers, but I was to the side, so they are what they are. Send me any you might have if you can please. Here are some from what I took/have had so far. These are not in chronological order…
Florence filmed some of it, I just need to get it online somewhere. I’ll save that for later though.
I ended the night (well, the reading part) with a poetry cover version. I read Michael Donaghy’s ‘The Present‘ mainly because it’s lovely and because I wanted to dedicate it to my beloved wife, but also because it contains the phrase “your hand in mine” in the final stanza. Your Hand In Mine is a song by a band called Explosions In The Sky who I was going to see at The Troxy in Limehouse the following night.
It was a wonderful thing, marred slightly by two dickheads talking through it. Words were had.
EITS play an instrumental kind of music, so the lyric balance was restored the following evening when I went with Christopher Horton to see Simon Armitage read at Marylebone Theatre. He was mainly reading from his recent book of collected lyrics, although he dipped into his translations too. It was a fantastic reading, and I learned a lot of technique watching the old hand at work, but the night got weirder after the reading.
Chris went to get a book signed. I’d totally forgotten to bring any of my Armitage books, having rushed out of the house to make it on time after work. (NB I’d taken a stack of books with me on Tuesday night to ask poets to sign my copies. I didn’t get everyone, but it was lovely to get a few meaningful signatures on the books).
Anyhoo, Chris was chatting to Simon afterwards and eventually mentioned I’d launched my book that week. We happened to have a spare copy with us, so I plucked up the courage to give it to Simon, and he asked me to sign it.
I’m not quite used to signing books yet—it felt most odd on Tuesday, and I need to learn to write less, but when our Poet Laureate and a person I admire a great deal asked me to sign my book, I didn’t know what to write. I won’t say what I put, but I hope he saw the funny side of it. I hope he reads the book. I guess he’s still trying to track me down to offer me a support slot.
I felt duty bound to buy something, so got a copy of his Marsden Poems book. Some of which I have in other collections, but it was something to read on the way home, and a good reminder of how good his work can be/is.
I did ask him if he fancied a pint with Chris and I, but he had to be off to meet his daughter in Limehouse (where I’d been the night before). Chris and I did get talking to someone in the pub who turned out to have a sister who was a poet back in Columbia, so there’s that too.
Leafing through the book on my way home that night, I settled into reading and got a jolt of recognition from this poem.
A Few Don’ts about Decoration
Don’t mope. Like Rome
it will not be built in a day,
unlike those raised barns
or Kingdom Halls we’ve heard of
with their pools of labour,
the elders checking
each side of the plumb-line,
the daughters and their pitchers of milk, full
beyond the brim. Their footings
are sunk before breakfast,
by sundown the last stone
is dressed and laid.
Don’t let’s kid ourselves, we know less
about third degree burns
than about blowlamps. Don’t forget:
it’s three of sand to one of cement,
butter the tile and not the wall,
half a pound of split nails
will sweep clean with a magnet, soot
keeps coming and coming, sandpapers
smells like money.
Don’t do that when I’m painting.
Don’t begin anything
with one imperial spanner and a saw so blunt
we could ride bare-arse to London on it.
Also, when you hold down
that square yard of beech
and your eyes widen and knuckles whiten
as the shark’s fin of the jigsaw blade
creeps inland …
don’t move a muscle.
And don’t you believe it: those stepladders
are not an heirloom but a death trap;
they will snap tight
like crocodile teeth with me on top
and a poor swimmer. Don’t turn up
with till rolls like stair carpets. Don’t blame me
if the tiles back flip from the wall
or the shower-head swallow dives into the tub
and cracks it.
Don’t give up hope
till the week arrives when it’s done,
the corner turned, it’s back
broken, and everything comes on
in leaps and bounds
that even Bob Beamon would be proud of.
OK, that’s a light-year away
but like a mountain — it’s there.
Don’t look down.
Don’t say it.
*********************** Taken from Kid, By Simon Armitage. Faber Poetry, 1992
I may have mentioned once or twice how we’ve been redecorating our hallway. It’s been going on bit by bit for months and it’s nearly done. I think it’s two weekends away from being done, so this felt like an obvious reminder to keep ploughing on.
And the lines about heirlooms, etc put me in mind of my own poem about inheriting tools from my dad, so I’m sharing it here as well.
Clearing Dad’s Shed
Tobacco tins of tacks and screws
cover every surface and shelf.
A hatchet is Excalibured
in a chopping block by the door.
The spiders have been working hard
to lash together oiled chisels,
cables and caulking guns. His words
linger in curls of shavings.
I drag out offcuts of old planks
to burn in the rusted brazier,
the ash settling and mixing in
with the dust that covers each box
of random tools piled up beneath
his hand-built workbench. It’s obvious
I’ve got “all the gear but no idea”
when I carry them to my car
to let them gather new dust at home.
The long drive back is spent blaming:
him for not showing their uses,
me for not asking him.
*********************** Taken from Clearing The Data, By Me, Red Squirrel Press, 2023
I’m looking forward to selling more copies of the book. We’ve already just about gone through the initial print run of 200 copies in less than a week. Sheila has ordered more. That’s just crazy, but I won’t argue with it. Mind you, I won’t be retiring yet either.
It’s now 6.20pm. Time to knock off…
THE LAST TWO WEEKS IN STATS
HEALTH STATS
12K running. Very little due to time, tiredness and the like. The next weeks will be better.
0 days without cigarettes…
0 day since drinking
LIFE STATS
1 box of my BOOKS arrived
1 lively and lovely lunch with
2 ex colleagues
1 work seminar on the art of leadership
1 impromptu gig: Brigid Mae Power and Steve Gunn
1 visit from my mum
1 planned gig: Explosions In the Sky
1 late night post launch
1 poetry gig – Simon Armitage
1 70s-themed birthday party
Not enough sleep
POET STATS
0 loose ideas/articles gathered
0 poem finished:
0 poem worked on:
0 poems committed to the reject pile
0 submissions:
0 withdrawal:
0 acceptances:
0 Longlisting:
0 readings:
0 rejections:
1 1 poems are currently out for submission. No simultaneous subs
96 Published poems
Reviews
0 review finished: None
0 reviews started:
1 review submitted:
2 reviews to write:
READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC
Music
r= Radio, A = Audiobook, P=Podcast. The rest is music
Week 1
The United States of America: ST
American Music Club: Engine
Gabor Szabo: High Contrast
Bee Bee Sea: Sonic Boomerang
P.G. Six: Murmurs and Whispers
VA: Trip On Me – Soft Psych & Sunshine
The Archers (p)
Music Is the Drug: Sweet Jane (p)
Explosions In The Sky: End, various songs from various albums
Planet Poetry: Ian McMillan (p)
Craig Finn: Lucinda Williams (p)
The Mission: Carved In Sand, Carved In Sand Live
Roky Erickson & the Explosives: Halloween, Gremlins Have Pictures
The Darkness; Permission to Land
Marnie Stern: The Comeback Kid, The Chronicles of Marnia
Steve Gunn: 3 albums
Four Tet: Live at Alexandra Palace 2023
Week 2
The Durutti Column: LC
Steve Gunn; other you
Portishead: Dummy, ST, Third, Rosebowl
Laura Veirs: Phone Orphans
Explosions In The Sky: End
Seawind of Battery: Clockwatching
Allegra Krieger: Circles
The Beths: Experts In A Dying Field
Hamilton Leithhauser: Black Hours
Dropsonde Playlist
Read
North
Eleanor Livingstone: Even The Sea, Surprising The Misses McRuthie
Poetry London
Collecting the Data
Watched
Taskmaster
New Girl
The Long Shadow
Ghostbusters: Afterlife
Shetland
Invasion
Ordered/Bought
Hockey Shoes for Flo
Arrived
Eleanor Livingstone: Even The Sea, Surprising The Misses McRuvie
My books
Poetry Scotland
Don Paterson: Landing Light
Wear The Fox Hat 
Dear Mat the Poet
I enjoyed this entry very much. As usual I am the one who spots the typo. This time it’s the title of Eleanor’s pamphlet. The Misses are not McRuthie but McRuvie. McRuthie is McRuvie with a lithp, I’d say.
Watch out for post-partum fatigue, first week or so after delivery. All women get it and all male poets. It’s actually a weird and not at all pleasant feeling. It goes away eventually.
Nell x
>
As usual, I am grateful for you spotting them. I’ve fixed it now.