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The Knowledge of The Silence Teacher – Robert Peake at Swindon Festival of Poetry

3 Oct
Not sure when I’ll be strong enough to read this
Robert Peake

Robert Peake came out quietly swinging, a fist in a cotton wool glove, and delivered his knockout blow.

About three lines into his poem, Father-Son Conversation, I was sniffing and concentrating REALLY hard on getting the highlights and shadows right on the photo I’d just taken. Okay so he had caught my weakness – with an eighteen month old the hormones are still somewhat surging – so his tale of a baby boy who didn’t make it (seven years in the telling) made me weep.

Sometimes poetry makes straight for my veins and converts my blood to emotion. Continue reading →

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Surprising yourself with Cliff Yates at the Swindon Festival of Poetry

3 Oct
A certain rock star and Milo
Something not yet fully formed and may never be

I guess the most surprising thing about this poetry writing session was that I managed to write four pieces.

I wasn’t surprised about the range of poetry written by people – some wonderful, some in need of work, Cliff offering advice. We were asked: who would we like to be? Where did we visit? Who was the surprising guest? And: there is/are plenty of – what in my house? We were prompted to observe and record the surprising details to bring alive our verse.

I am always worried (but not surprised) at a smile response at my work. That says: yep, that doesn’t stir any emotion, or, sorry what were you saying? It was so boring I forgot it instantly. I could interpret it as: ‘that’s perfect as it is’. But that wouldn’t get me anywhere. Next time perhaps I’ll write something really atrocious and see what happens. Or maybe that smile is the ‘really atrocious’ response?

Neuroses aside, I am left with a question. Surprisingly for me I was reticent to talk. I looked around the room, at the quality of poets present, and felt I would waste everyone’s writing time if I asked why the poem Cliff had read to us by way of example, was actually a poem. Don’t get me wrong, I loved it, but it looked like flash fiction with really short lines. Answers on a postcard.

Props to Cliff though – prompts and space to write. Suggestions to do your own thing. Not expectations of form or the such like. And a top piece of advice for newly scribed work? Lose the last two lines.

And for anyone who’s interested, here’s one inspired by the surprising visitor. Totally true, y’all:

The Morning After

There we were
Lying around, pyjama clad
Fuggy voiced
Toxic sweat.

The phone rang. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it last night.
Could I take you up on the offer of coffee? It’s Peter, your neighbour.
Can I come now?’
A brief pause. Sticky sweat trickles. ‘Okay.’
He asks: ‘Do you have fags?’ Continue reading →

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I rejected Harold Pinter – the Editor’s Role, Swindon festival of Poetry

3 Oct
David Caddy and Martin Malone

David Caddy and Martin Malone

Yesterday, David Eddy was discussing the Editor’s Role with fellow poetry editor, Martin Malone. It began innocently enough. Lots of helpful tips to poets, looking at improving their publication chances.

‘Nurturing’ and ‘nourishing’ were bandied about. Don’t publish in haste, not while you’re working through the strokes. Develop as a poet, don’t write the same old thing over and over. Make it strange. Don’t do creative writing courses and become a clone.

“I take poems on their own merits,” said David. Which sounded encouraging. He publishes work with the poet’s name at the end, not at the start so readers aren’t influenced by the fame of the writer.

But then the ‘Tears in the Fence’ editor dropped the bomb. “I rejected Harold Pinter,’ he said. Continue reading →

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Don Share bonds with Dog at the Swindon Festival of Poetry

2 Oct
Don Share

Don Share

After a welcome tea, hearty Lower Shaw Farm style, festival organiser Hilda Sheehan introduced her poetry hero, clutching a bag.

The contents included a mug (for copious tea) and soap. The latter wasn’t a comment on Hilda’s personal hygiene; Don Share – the bearer of the gifts – was mindful that Hilda is a long time avid listener of his podcasts, in the bath.

It was an internet romance that brought Don, editor of Poetry magazine, from Chicago to Swindon. Don, Hilda and Michael Scott bonded on Facebook over a love of band XTC in the seductive form of Swindon resident, Barry Andrews and, Don said, ‘the magic of Hilda and Michael’s generous personalities.’

“British poetry is so exciting to me,” he enthused, but it’s hard to come by the work in the States. “I want to take British work back with me and bring them to the attention of the American public.”

His first poem, Being Philosophical, was dedicated to the festival mascot, Dog.

Don is at the festival for the duration. See Squandermania, the wonderful baby born from a collaboration between Don and Barry today, 8pm at Swindon New College.

Written by Louisa Davison

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There is Nothing in the Garden at the Swindon Festival of Poetry

2 Oct
Helen Dewbery
the dress

I can see why the Swindon Festival of Poetry organiser, Hilda Sheehan, invited filmmaker Helen Dewbery and poet Chaucer Cameron to present their poetry film, There is Nothing in the Garden.

To the founding editor of Domestic Cherry and the creator of 1950s housewife persona, Mabel, There is Nothing in the Garden would seem happily all over the woman’s perspective. Continue reading →

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High Wire Act: Poems in Flight at the Swindon Festival of Poetry

2 Oct
High Wire Act
Left: Claire Dyer, Lesley Saunders, Susan Utting and festival organiser Hilda Sheehan.

Three woman poets – Claire Dyer, Susan Utting and Lesley Saunders – today gave a collaborative reading High Wire Act: Poems of Flight, a project of coming together over mutual respect of each others’ work. Sharing their work spread out on a table, they realised they had a common theme of birds and escape.

Their work ranged from the descriptive to the metaphorical, meanings deep within the verse or a story easily grasped; all beautifully read. About the first moon landing, love, the life balancing act performed by women, inspired by art, deceased mothers and the sadness of a stuffed bird. (One beleaguered male audience member commented, ‘With three woman poets I was worried it would be yucky, it wasn’t’. Perhaps he was expecting Jo Brand-style pieces about periods?)

Inspired by Lesley Saunders’ poem, A Sheep, a Duck and a Cockerel, I thought I’d pen my own piece. Lesley’s poem is about the development of flight, from those first animals who – in test dummy fashion – took to the sky in a balloon, to the casual, routine journey of flight today.

I really liked the line: ‘looking is always an act of desire.’

Lesley describes Kittenger’s record-breaking fall from the sky back in the 1960s and I remembered how fascinated I was with Felix Baumgartner’s stratospheric fall in 2012 which set new records.

Yes, perhaps the money invested in setting up Felix’s stunt could have been better used on feeding starving orphans, but here was a hero we could look up to (I know, pun) who tested the limits of the human body and psyche on our behalf. And who was a man driven, obsessed, not with being a new record holder, but just with falling that far.

For him, looking was not just an act of desire but of looking into the very heart of fear.

The Descent

He strove for years.
Loved the freedom of falling;
The atmosphere like a storm
Resistance versus mass like the friend of my friend.

Continue reading →

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Remembering Poetry Aloud at the Swindon Festival of Poetry

2 Oct
Festival organiser Hilda Sheehan and the home made lectern
Louise Crossley, saviour of anthology Domestic Cherry 4
First time poet Joe and Rene the dog
Bob, the union man

Today is National Poetry Day and the theme is ‘remember’. It’s also the start of the third Swindon Festival of Poetry.

The first event was Poetry Aloud at Swindon Central Library, where an eclectic bunch of talented poets – from first time to professional – read in an open mic format.

And – to celebrate – what better way than with a poem about the first event? (Okay a good poem would be better)

Remembering Poetry Aloud

Children bring Wilfred back to life,
David tearfully remembers his wife.
The Heavy Brigade charges to car horns
Before windows are closed with an ongoing drone
While Chaucer READS LAURIE LEE POEMS. Continue reading →

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Swindon Festival of Poetry Finale

12 Oct

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Claire Trevien. A beautifully spoken poet in holey tights. Professionalism stripped when asked to speak in French on stage. She’s been in a Best British Poetry 2013 book, so, class act. I liked Introduction to Love, which was what would happen if the rules of writing a thesis were applied to a romantic relationship. You can probably guess.

(I missed Kim Moore. Soz. Apparently she was rather good.)

Elvis McGonagall. Richly deserved one-time World Slam champion. Hilarious lefty comedic political rantings. Harpooned the Queen, Prince Charles as ‘Prince of Biscuits’, Iain Duncan Antoinette ‘Drowning in debt? Then give us a wave / Sell yourself in Poundland. Try to save / Dance as you dig your own pauper’s grave / On 53 quid a week’, and Margaret Thatcher in A bed at the Ritz. Really doesn’t like Tony Blair either. Continue reading →

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Bardwell O’Neil are Game – Swindon Festival of Poetry

9 Oct

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Bardwell O’Neil are Game turned out to be the perfect format for a seven year old to write poetry. Basically: a running around game, followed by writing down words about it, followed by another running around game, followed by more words, then poetic genius, followed by more running around games followed by more poetic genius. Wears me out just remembering it.

Yes, I’m probably biased because it’s my seven year old writing the genius poetry. But here’s the evidence: he’s had a story blog since he was four, loves to recount tales (and is addicted to Doctor Who and most other things that happen to be on TV), and going without his bedtime story is the ultimate punishment. However, by the time he’s sat down (what seems like the whole day) at school, and has done his homework (still getting my head around homework at his age) he doesn’t want to concentrate on any more writing.

So Sue Bardwell and Heather O’Neil, both with young sons, embarked on this experiment on Sunday (Broadgreen Community Centre at the Swindon Festival of Poetry) to get kids, boys in particular, writing poetry. So – by way of playground games such as Fruit Salad, Chains, Bulldog and What’s the Time Mr Wolf? – they get kids energised, then thinking about words associated with their actions and emotions, then writing them down into verse and stanzas. Continue reading →

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Roger McGough – Swindon Festival of Poetry

6 Oct
Roger McGough

Roger McGough

Roger McGough’s Friday event at the Swindon Festival of Poetry, As Far As I Know, was a masterclass in brilliant delivery.

Much of the time I was laughing out loud, which made his more thoughtful pieces hit even harder. What I really like about Roger’s work is that his poems at first seem really straight forward and easily understood, but then Roger plays around with the words like a Wimbledon champion, slicing and top-spinning until they flick a winner over the net when I was expecting a passing shot.

Such as A Fine Romance which is about dementia, Alzheimers and, er, love.

Or in As Far As I Know, where he lists the awful things he hasn’t done, before comically mixing them up: ‘molested a bomb soaked in voicemail.’

Poet Laureate Carol Anne Duffy called Roger the patron saint of poetry, so he wrote a response to her best known anthology, The World’s Wife (see post), by way of, for example, Mr Nightingale (spouse of Florence Nightingale) and Enid Blyton’s husband. Mr Blyton is fed up with his wife’s fictional characters supplanting him in their marriage, so he wishes that a haunted cave would collapse on the Famous Five or ‘five famous skeletons wash up on some distant shore’.

And I think I’m with him on that.

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