Dating the collective

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…

Nell introducing Matthew

Matthew reading

Sheila introducing me

Some knobhead

Eleanor Livingstone

The line up, minus Hilary (she’d gone to the bar next door)

The view from the mic

The view from the mic 2

The view from the mic 3

The view from the mic 4

Hilary Menos reading

Maria Taylor reading

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. 

Explosions In The Sky, playing Your Hand In Mine

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

 

Zombie Apocalypse

(No football this week.)

It’s very rare these posts are that far planned out behind knowing roughly why I chose the poem for the week, but this week my thinking was directed by the following

1. A desire to promote the two poets YES, TWO!!) because they are incredible poets

2. A desire to promote the work of these two (YES, TWO) incredible poets because I get the chance to read with them (and two other incredible poets) on 7th November. Have I mentioned I have a book coming out? Well, I have and there’s more details about the launch here.

3. The poems I’ve chosen are sort of seasonal and sort of speak to each other

4. In the paraphrased words of the sage that is Billie, “because I want to“

When I asked one of the poets for permissions to publish their poem they asked why I’d chosen that one, and at the risk of showing you too much behind the curtain, it came down to the fact that it’s mainly because it’s the right time of year. I say this not because that was the only poem I wanted to chose. I could very easily have chosen any from it’s parent book, but as I knew I wanted to publish poems by two (YES, TWO!!) poets it became a no-brainer (Irony-alert) as soon as I alighted on a poem by the other of the two poets (YES, TWO).

The two poets (YES, TWO) are Hilary Menos and Maria Taylor. I’ve featured poems by Eleanor here and I’m not giving that Stewart bloke more shout outs, although he did have a lovely poem published over at Wild Court yesterday, but I didn’t tell you that…

It’s bonkers that I’ve not put poems by these two up before. I’ve known of their work for ages. I used to follow blogs by both, but both seem to have gone dormant. I’ve followed Maria’s work since I bought her first collection, Melanchrini **coughs** years ago through her HappenStance pamphlet, Instructions For Making Me and all the way through the patient wait for he second collection, Dressing For The Afterlife, from which the poem below is taken. I nearly chose one of the poems from IFMM that was also in DFTA, but once I had my theme I could’nt make it work. You’ll have to buy both and see for yourself what you could have won. (HEY SIRI, INSERT JIM BOWEN GIF).

How to Survive a Disaster Movie

Stay away from landmarks.
Stay away from New York, Paris and London,
under no account visit San Francisco.
Own a dog. Do not get fat.
Have a child by your side, ideally an orphan.
Carry a tin-opener. Learn to appreciate
the taste of asphalt after fall-out.
Ensure your life skills are plot-dependent –
it’s possible to kill zombies with a skewer
once used to spatchcock a quail.
Be the President of the United States.
Do not be the President of the United States.
Do not assume your head is safe
from the jaws of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
Sweat. Let your huge muscles gleam.
If you must have sex, be quick.
Be attentive to the fluctuations of incidental music.
Lick your thumb and read the weather.
Ensure you’re with the right survivors.
On the face of it, hold nothing dear.

+ + + +
Published with permission of the poet. Taken from Dressing For The Afterlife, published by Nine Arches Press, 2020

There a million things about Maria’s work that I love, and as I mentioned, I could have chosen many more poems from the book—including some you might consider “more serious”, whatever that means, but they also carry the sense of humour that runs through the poem above. There’s a lot of work that’s gone into the above. You don’t get the insights above without putting in the hours, and you don’t get the poem above without putting in the work elsewhere.

The rhythm’s of the lines are spot on, and have you jumping with some of the jump cuts of punctuation. And the lines below are a perfect surprise in the middle of the poem…the second act of the poem.

Ensure your life skills are plot-dependent –
it’s possible to kill zombies with a skewer
once used to spatchcock a quail.

I came to Hilary’s work about 6 years ago—possibly a bit longer, but I recall taking a pile of her collections and pamphlets with me on holiday, and ploughing through them (and quite probably a significant number of bottles of Efes). That got me caught up, and allowed me to then be ready for Human Tissue and then Fear of Forks (reviewed by some goon here.

It’s been 10 years now since Hilary’s last full collection and a new one really should be something we see very soon. In the mean time, you will be well aware, I’m sure, of the work Hilary is doing elsewhere. I’m not going to mention it here as I have mentioned it before and I’d rather concentrate on her poem.

DARYL DIXON IN THE VEGETABLE GARDEN

I’m digging spuds and suddenly he’s there in the field
just yards away, his crossbow hooked casually over his shoulder
looking (frankly) rough as fuck. He nods to me silently
then climbs up onto the roof of the old well and sits
scanning the horizon for zombies and whittling a stick.

The asparagus crowns fascinate him. He picks one up
and put it on his head. ‘King Asparagus,’ he says with a grin
and starts dancing and prancing about in his redneck way,
I just sit back on my heels and watch. I can’t believe it.
Daryl Dixon, dancing, in my vegetable garden.

After that he’s there every day. I show him how to train
gherkins up a wigwam frame, pinch out gourds, dib in leeks.
He makes his rows tidy and puddles them in with care.
Sometimes he leans his crossbow against the wheelbarrow
and I stand guard for him, he’s so absorbed.

We don’t talk much. I ask him about the zombies once.
‘Sometimes people see zombies where there aren’t any,’ he says,
‘and sometimes people don’t see the zombies at their door
because they’ve been there all their lives.’
I have no idea what he meant.

I can see him now, lying in the shade of the plum tree
between the kale and the lettuce, eating peas from the pod,
his leather vest with angel wings draped over a currant bush.
He stays until you come out to call me for supper
with the world tightly wrapped around your face.

+ + + +
Published with permission of the poet. Taken from Fear of Forks, published by HappenStance Press, 2022

The goon that reviewed  FoF said of the poem:

“You can read this whole poem as an idle fantasy, a flight of fancy, a paean to self-sufficiency (both in terms of existing and mentally); and you could chuck in some existential commentary about the nature of humankind’s tendency towards self-absorption as well. While you can argue The Walking Dead is, at the time of writing, limping towards a conclusion, the same cannot be said of Menos. She’s only getting stronger as time goes by“.

I knew a thing or two back then, and I know one thing now…

I can’t wait to see these two reading. There’s something very wrong about them being the ‘support acts’ for my launch (and the other lad), but it’s an honour to see them. I’m looking forward to it.

PS. Zombie Apocalypse is the nickname for one of the routes I run with my fellow Beckenham running group—the Sexy Pacers.

There was only one real choice here

THE LAST TWO WEEKS IN STATS

HEALTH STATS
14K running. Very little due to time, tiredness and the like. The next weeks will be better.
2 days without cigarettes…
0 day since drinking

LIFE STATS
1 dad’s curry night
18 million meetings
16 of them stressful
1 night on the sauce
2 coats of paint on hallway walls
1 coat of gloss on the hallway woodwork

POET STATS
0 loose ideas/articles gathered
0 poem finished:
1 poem worked on: Last Dance
0 poems committed to the reject pile
0 submissions:
0 withdrawal: 
0 acceptances:
0 Longlisting:
0 readings: 
2 rejection: And Other Poems, Strix
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
Pip Blom: Bobbie
My Morning Jacket: Live 15/08/2023

Thee Oh Sees: Singes Collection Vol 1&2
Explosions In The Sky: End

Beth Orton: Trailer Park, Weather Diaries
Tindersticks; Simple Pleasures, Stars at Noon
Goat: Medicine
Clark Terry With Thelonius Monk; in Orbit 

Thelonius Monk: ‘Round Midnight
Taylor Swift: 1989 (Taylor’s version), Lover, midnights
Ali Awan: Moon Mode
Poet Laureate Goes To The Arctic Part 3
Nick Drake: Five Leaves left

Read
The North

Watched
Invasion
Taskmaster

Ordered/Bought
Hold Steady Tickets

Arrived
Poetry Scotland

 

I covered myself in fluorescent orange ink earlier. It was the highlight of my day*

Look, I was going to do this last week (which would, I think, have maintained the bi-weekly approach), but there was what could be described as the mother of all hangovers last week. For someone that couldn’t give two shits about #plattyjubes, I certainly lent into the celebrations…and not even in my own street. Look, we’ve all done it, so just let it go…move on…nothing to see here.

It’s sort of annoying though, as I’d already planned out what I was going to write. That doesn’t happen often. I was, and will now, going to write about/link to this article from the excellent Tedium newsletter.

Much like the Boring Conference (and I won’t go on about them again, although I note the Interesting Conference is back this year…For those not aware TBC was a reaction to TIC being cancelled a few years ago), Tedium describes itself as having ” existed to answer a simple question: Can boring things be made interesting? Can we uncover the history of things that usually don’t have histories written about them? And can a voice be given to areas of life that generally aren’t thought about that much? It took us a while to get there, but the answer is yes. We think.”

The article in question is about the origins of neon signs, fluorescent lights** and day-go colours. It ends with the excellent line: “More importantly, fluorescent and neon remind us we’re nowhere near done exploring light.” and that in itself could be a poem, but (and you’ll have to forgive the rather route one link here) I was reminded while reading the article of this poem by Rishi Dastidar. Taken from his first collection with Nine Arches Press, Ticker-tape

The last neon sign maker in Hong Kong

His hands flutter by the five tongues of flame,
joints articulating at 800 degrees Celsius,
lips blowing commercial wishes down glass tubes,
speaking of honest scripts for certain characters:
light-heads, bending, swirling, inflating.

Thousand layer paper slides in to protect
the messages, before chicken intestines
shake hands with neon breath and iron hearts
for a brighter light: “without displays of prosperity
my city is a ghost town.”

If you’re feeling blue
the answer is argon, he says, but best
is daylight red. A door above an air con
unit glows rainbow ready, the past slipping out.
He inhales the urban gas one last time.

Having just had to lay that poem out in WordPress, I now have an even deeper undying respect for editors of poetry journals, and this isn’t even an especially complex lay out.

(Postscript on 13th June…That layout totally didn’t work. Please imagine stanza 1 and 3 are indented. I’ll work out the lay out.)

I’m always glad to share (and read) poems by Rishi, and was glad to mention another of his poems from Ticker-tape earlier this week to Hilary Menos. She was on the look out for poems with a link to economics, and his poem, Diagnosis: Londonism absolutely filled the brief.

Having heard them at readings in the last year or so, I hope to be linking to new poems of his from book three in the future, but knowing I’d already planned to link to one poem of his, meant that the second was a lovely little coincidence— you know how I love such a thing.

And there was a further little coincidence that made me happy this week. About ten days ago Instagram suggested to me I should follow Daniel Bennett. Having written a review of his excellent collection from The High Window Press, West South North North South East a couple of years ago for London Grip, it seemed like a good idea, so I did.

Then a couple of days ago a work colleague of mine messaged me to ask me how I knew Daniel Bennett. I explained that I don’t really, but that I’d reviewed…etc and how do you know him. They replied that he was/is marrying a friend of theirs. Does that make it a small world? Does it matter?

Either way, it gives me an excuse to post another poem. And to make another small connection as my friend Steve Pringle has a book out now about The Fall. It’s called You Must Get Them All and you should buy a copy. Why do I mention this…read on, old fruit…read on.

Back with the Boys


That was the city of dirty cardboard
where we all knew an ex-member of The Fall.
Lilacs sprouted beneath our doorsteps
and Italians students slept inside our airing cupboards.
They were days when we needed nothing
but mixtapes, red wine and crap films,
when we theorised about conspiracies by postcard.
Ah, those were good days let me tell you,
when two men named Tim fought for supremacy
of the underground clubs of Stoke Newington
and the loser became known as Australian Tim,
when a friend had been working for years
on the index to his history of the Templars
and none of us would actually read it
but voiced encouragement about The Project.
These were days before restaurateurs ruled Soho,
when the shops sold Bakelite radios and peacock feathers
and women called to you, trapped in their booths.
Everyone avoided the docks and the reservoir
unless they didn’t and you heard about it endlessly
as the subject of monologues or outsider performances,
and we listened to Colombian instrumentalists
and danced The Scratch and The Fundamentalist
during gigs by Queasy Saint and Aryan Zoo.
One time, someone befriended an old woman
late at night, on the way back from the tube station,
and we dragged her along to The Cuckoo Inn
and propped her at the bar and fed her gin and almonds
until she began to cry and pointed back outside,
warning us that time is circular and space an illusion
and everything is lost, even as you experience it.

Now, just to make things nice and circular, as you will know, the Tedium article makes reference to tomatoes. Yesterday, I planted my tomato plants. Bit late, but I hope to get a reasonable crop. This week I have been working on a new version of a poem that used to be called Photosynthesis and was about me talking to my tomato crop.

It was/is a poem that I hope will be in my pamphlet. After some excellent feedback on it (and the other poems on the longest) from a very kind, generous and patient friend, I think I may have revised the poem to its final state. Part of this is changing the title to….well, that’s TBC.

One final, final closing of the loop. Based on this post that I saw earlier in the week, I’m starting to think that Eva Green is reading these posts.

** This is one of my favourite jokes…I think it’s one of my “jokes” as well.

The Fall, Paintwork

THE (LAST TWO or THREE) WEEKS IN STATS

c70K running. 25K this week, including 15k yesterday. I’m ramping up again.
8 trips to central London for work
1 massive hangover
1 week of taking a hard look at myself
8ish (at least) journeys to dance lessons and back for Flo
1 rejections: Poetry Wales, An official rejection from Crannog
0 new poem finished:
14 poems worked on: Arecibo Message, Cycle, A Foley Artist, Dropsonde, Tomato Pants, Goliath, A Short Survey, Longleat, Fishing Exercise, Slipping Away, Clearing Dad’s Shed, Captain’s Pond, Summer Job, Working With My Dad
0 poems published:
0 submissions: I’m pausing on this while I edit stuff.
0 acceptance:
22 poems are currently out for submission.
5 poems left to submit beyond makeweights
75 Published poems
37 Poems* finished by unpublished
25 poems* in various states of undress
554 Rejected poems* Eg I’ve decided they are not good enough
1 review finished: Tom Sastry
2 reviews to write: How the fuck did that happen…I keep finishing them and then they keep coming.
2 day without cigarettes…I was doing so well, Oh well, back to it. As in giving up, not back to smoking.
8 Days since drinking
0 sleepless nights:
1 more week that I’m not having an affair with Eva Green

* To date, not this week. Christ!!

TITLE GIVEAWAY
A Starter for 9.99 recurring
Arranging Ducks In A Linear Fashion
Any Portcullis in a storm
My battery farm runs like clockwork

READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC

Read
Joshua Mehigan: Accepting The Disaster
Graham Mort: A Night On The Lash
Finished Creatures #6
Poetry London #100
The Dark Horse #45

Zooms:
None

Music
Tess Parks & Anton Newcombe: ST
The Oh Sees: Levitation Sessions II
The Darling Buds: Pop Said
Craig Finn: A Legacy of Rentals
Vangelis: The Dragon
The Fatima Mansions: Viva Dead Ponies, Valhalla Avenue
Microdisney: And The Clock Comes Down The Stairs
Explosions In The Sky: All of A Sudden I Miss Everybody
The Cure: Anniversary
Catrin Finch & Seckou Keita: Soar, Echo
Teenage Fanclub: Shadows, Songs From Northern Britain
Aztec Camera: Knife
Crowded House: Together Alone
Doves: Kingdom of Rust
The Durutti Column: Time Was Gigantic
The Charlatans: Up At the Lake, Different Days
Mono: My Story—The Buraku Story
Jeff Buckley: Live At Sin-e, Grace
Helpful People: broken Blossom Threats
Valentin Silvestrov: Silent Songs
HAAI: Baby, We’re Ascending
The Cure: Wish
Planet Poetry: Caleb Parkin
Grandbag’s Funeral: Big Willie
Analogue: I Was Not Sleeping
Stanley Turrentine: Salt Song, Jubilee Shout!!
Portion Portion Lopez: Ice Cream Soufi
Gold Panda: Your Good Times Are Just beginning
Frank Sinatra: Watertown
The National: Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers, The Virginian EP, ST, Boxer, High Violet
Michael Head & The Red Elastic Band: Dear Scott
Erland Cooper: Music For Growing Plants
Andrew Bird: Inside Problems
The Cure: Entreat
SG Goodman: Teethmarks
Stanley Turrentine: Joyride
Stars: Under Capelton Hill
Just Mustard: Heart Under
The Archers
Spiritualized: Everything Was Beautiful
Andrew Bird: Are You Serious?
Bobby Hutcherson: Components
The Cure: Faith
Steve Wynn: Here Come The MiraclesMy Morning Jacket: Live Vol1 – 2015
Pearl Jam – Live 2016 New York Nights 1 & 2
The Dream Syndicate: Ultraviolet Battle Hymns and True Confessions
Michael Head & The Red Elastic Band: Adios Señor Pussycat
Erland Cooper: Solan Goose, Sule Skerry, Hether Blether, Never Pass Into Nothingness
Ron Carter: Pastels
Sharon Van Etten: We’ve Been Going About This All Wrong, Remind Me Tomorrow, Tramp

Watched
Ozark
Grace
Grey’s Anatomy
Everybody Here Wants You: Jeff Buckley Documentary
Champions League Final
Stranger Things S4
Love Island
Taskmaster

Ordered
Charlotte Schevchenko Knight: Ways of Healing
Screen protectors
iPhone case
Poetry Birmingham Journal #8

Arrived
Finished Creatures #6
Charlotte Schevchenko Knight: Ways of Healing
Screen protectors
iPhone case

That Friday (poem) Feeling

HAVE YOU SPONSORED ME YET?

It’s finally here…well, Friday has been and gone(I started this on Friday for a change), but The Friday Poem is here. I made some vague reference to it a couple of weeks ago, something about getting in on the ground floor, but let’s ignore that.

Here’s the closest they get to a manifesto in the first editorial on the site

“We are not aligned to any particular school or type of poetry. Long or short, old or new, lyric, narrative or dramatic, from haikus to epics, from sonnets to soliloquies, from ballads to blank verse, it’s all good. Poetry can be political, elegiac, prophetic, obscure, but it must be honest (by which we don’t mean autobiographical) and crafted. The poetry we love is arresting, felt. Submit yours. Surprise us.

We want The Friday Poem to be accessible to everyone. This means it must be free to read. It means we have made the site work for blind people and people with impaired vision, through — for example — underlined links, semantic headings (read about semantic structure here), alt text and and high contrast. It also means we welcome contributions from anyone. (It’s traditional to stick a list in here — any gender, any colour, any sexuality etc, but we just mean anyone.)“

Will you just look at that…In fact, do that now…go and look at it and subscribe, and then come back here.


Have a read of Meg Peacocke’s glorious poem. I’m not pulling bits of that out, just go back and read it again


Helen Ivory on finding and reacting to her voice. I’m pleased to see Helen is an All About Eve fan – I have fond memories of their first album (and I’m morally obliged to mention that TOTP appearance).

“Before there was an ‘online’. I just knew that it felt somehow like solid earth; somewhere I could live, even though it sounds ethereal. And then she went homeward, just one star awake . . . you can use language like this?! Two others on the album are In the Clouds, and Wild-Hearted Woman, which of course spoke to me in my crimson velvet skirts and aura of patchouli. I was different, always a bit out-of-kilter, and this song, this album, made me feel part of something bigger, and that there was something else out there. Julieanne Regan’s voice is within my range too, so of course I’ll sing along with this song — with all of their songs — at the drop of a black velvet witch hat!“

Helena Nelson’s interview. There’s much to love in every response (and question for that matter), but I will highlight this bit.

Yes, ranking poetry is highly subjective. But that doesn’t mean people can’t explain their aesthetic and their choice in considerable detail. As sometimes they do. And other readers don’t necessarily agree, any more than they did about Tracey Emin’s Bed.“

Bruno Cooke on Joelle Taylor: “Done right, poetry serves as many purposes as there are flavours of ice cream.”

Reviews by
Richie McCaffery of Rob Selby’s excellent The Coming Down Time
Hilary Menos on Bhanu Kapil’s How To Wash A Heart
Some fool on Will Harris’ Rendang
Emma Simon on Chris Jones’ Little Piece of Harm


All in all, Bravo to Hilary and Andie.

I think TFP (not 100% sure about The Frip yet, but it will sink in and become shorthand soon enough, I’m sure) will be with us for a long time to come. I’m looking forward to seeing the new poems arriving week by week, perhaps I may even manage to get one in there; although the famous adage of Meet us half way and submit one first applies at the moment.

I must confess that I was a bit worried when Hilary first approached me and asked me to review Rendang. I can’t put my finger on it, but it felt like the biggest review I’ve been asked to write so far, the most complex book yet, and I wondered if I was up to the task if I could find something interesting to say (and to be fair that’s the same with every review I write, and every poem, and every post here…and every sentence I say out loud, etc).

If I’m honest I was worried about engaging with the “contradictions of identity and cultural memory” mentioned in the blurb. Not because I didn’t want to or don’t feel I need to. I absolutely do, it was more a feeling of do I have anything valid to say on the matter without falling into the lazy tropes that Alyca Pirmohamed refers to here in her excellent essay at Wild Court, those adjectives like ‘urgent’, ‘important’, etc?

I think I avoided that, but I don’t think I can be the judge as to whether I had anything interesting to say. However, I found it fascinating and educational for a variety of reasons to engage with the collection as a whole by examining how the poems developed between pamphlet and collection, as well as the newer work, and how that benefits from the space and time afforded by a collection (literally and metaphorically).

I still can’t stop laughing about my moment of utter ponciness involving carcass vs carcase though…I’m glad Hilary removed that.

(NB have I mentioned how excellent Hillary’s own poetry is before? I’m sure I have, but go and look it up. I also pleased to see news of a new pamphlet via Broken Sleep…I won’t link to it as they are limited editions, and I want one.)

THE WEEK IN STATS

0K , Recovering, I think. Will know more tomorrow when I attempt a short run. If that goes well then I may allow a moment of positivity about making the “big run”
1 visit from my mum
1 trip to Brighton
1 week off work
1 child just back from a camping trip
0 x acceptance
0 rejection:
2 poems worked on: Bullshit Bingo (now renamed ‘The Kimono Is Open’) and Half Term At Longleat.
1 poem finished: Half Term At Longleat
1 new Submissions: Acumen
31 poems currently out for submission.
66 Published poems*:
41 Poems* finished by unpublished
29 poems* in various states of undress
554 Rejected poems* Eg I’ve decided they are not good enough
2 Review* Patrick Cotter and John Killick to High Window and OPOI respectively.
3 reviews to write
2 weeks without cigarettes…
1 Days without drinking (if one glass of wine counts)
1 more week that I’m not having an affair with Eva Green

* To date, not this week. Christ!!

TITLE GIVEAWAY

Skittles
A cricket ball appears from nowhere

READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC

Read
Seventh Quarry 33
Martha Sprackland : Citadel
Poetry Ireland #142
Fenland Postery Journal #4

Music
The Archers
The Natural: Tethers
Liz Phair: Whip-Smart
Loamlands: Sweet High Rise
The Long Blondes: Someone To Drive You Home
Love: Da Capo
Small Sails: Similar Anniversaries
The Cure: Anniversary
Waxahatchee: Cerulaean Salt, Ivy Tripp
Bo Ningen: Sudden Fictions
Wolf Alice: Blue Weekend
Badly Drawn Boy: One Plus One Is One
Hiss Golden Messenger: Terms of Surrender, Hallelujah Anyhow
Bill Ryder-Jones: Yawny Yawn

TV/Film

Fargo S2 E1-4
Mare of Easttown: E1-2
Waking The Dead S2, S3E1-2
The Masked Dancer

Zooms, etc
None

Radio/Podcasts
None

Ordered
Nothing

Arrived
Nothing

Classic AAE..