keith jarrett

UPDATE...

2012-02-24T01:19:00.001Z

Should I say things have been eating my mind, or should I say my mind's eating me? I always get carried away extending these idioms/metaphors and tripping over my tongues and blahh blah yawn.

Nevertheless, today's been a good day. And, bonus, Aaron Ramsey hasn't scored any goals; celebrities can sleep safely till tomorrow.

Poetry

The poetry world seems to be thriving. Weds night saw another "Mash-up" style merging of two poetry nights - Sage & Time and Come Rhyme With Me - and it was an enjoyable one with mixed energies; I like that. I managed an open-mic spot at the end and left with a warm feeling.

The next poetry gig I'm attending on Sat sold out earlier this week (Poetry events selling out! And way in advance! Who would have thought?) but managed to wing a couple of tickets. The idea is, various poetry collectives are going to be battling it out for the WWF Page Match title! I happen to know people in different collectives so I won't take sides, but it'll be fun.

On the TV side of things, Channel 4's Random Acts have been showcasing a lot of spoken word... one of the most recent was David Jay, seriously talented performer of "makes me wanna give up poetry" legend.
So it really does looks like UK audiences are more receptive to poetry (although remind me to add a few clauses to that statement tomorrow).

I have a few gigs coming up... more info later, but I've updated the upcoming bar above.
I have a poem in my head... I may post this later/tomorrow/not at all... we'll see.

And that's it for now, folks.

Prose

Progess on THE NOVEL = not bad.

I haven't been counting words this week as I'm editing one section and beginning another, but my target is to have one big, workable chunk to play with in the Spring, with first draft complete - finally - in the Summer. (No, I do not believe in writing a novel in a month. Yes, I'm sure others have done it but that's not how I get down.)

I also plan to be blogging more on Huffington Post in the next few days, so keep checking there. Last post - my first - had a mostly positive but mixed response, which is the whole point of these things. I still stand by my neutrality on Ken - and neither Ken or Boris should be London Mayor again, in an ideal world - but the way in which we pick on certain words/turns of phrases should receive as much scrutiny as these arrogant characters who use them.

Going off on a tangent, it reminds me of something I once read by (whats-his-face - insert name when less tired) about the whole signifier/signified relationship to culture. The example given was a tree, I believe: if I read the word "tree" now in a poem, my cultural conditioning - having lived most of my life in Old Blighty - means I usually have something oakish in my mind, even though the writer may have a palm tree in mind, or a yew, or something completely different. While we pride ourselves on "language" per se, and the mot juste and the "sophistication" of expressing ourselves through words, most of the time our heads are doing guess work. All that to say that it's not what we say but what we choose not to.

Life...

is a series of doors waiting to open...

Yep. You may have guessed... I've been clearing some of my computer files to make space: photos, random extracts of poetry and chunks of paragraphs from things I've written.

This particular gem feels like yesterday, although it was mid-Autumn, as can be deduced from the leavage.

Time flies. Space hovers.

On Procrastination...

2012-02-23T16:45:00.000Z

Still to come:
an update
a post I started earlier this month
a poem, perhaps
something Valentinesy from last week
me filling in the upcoming events bar, and what I've been reading/writing etc

Plus:
me ranting about something or another
another piece of illegible writing from when I was in my teens
some kind of photograph

...and by the time I've done all of that, another word of the day, maybe with a cryptic comment

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2012-02-23T16:37:00.000Z

...Handful

Artist's Impression...

2012-02-13T22:56:00.004Z

(Ronnie Scott's, amazing gig, woman to my left penciling away on an A4 sketch pad, me sitting back down after my set and - voila - her flashing me her impression. Talk about instant feedback...)

Teen Angst, 4 or 5 (I lose count)

2012-02-13T22:35:00.003Z

click to enlarge...

Consider it a Valentine's offering: for all you star-crossed lovelies out there, something from out of the pile of stuff I wrote when I was 15 (and - goes without saying - heartbroken... ehm, long story). If there was ever a true cynic, I was certainly trying my best to imitate him/her!

And for those of you prepared to brave a few romantically themed verses of a more upbeat - and, dare I say, spicy - sentiment, I should be at the Brixton library tomorrow...

Febbrrrr-uary!

2012-02-09T02:06:00.002Z

London'sWild West

So, after one night of snow over the weekend and a wreckless bus driver skidding his way all the way home, I'm still here.

It was great to be back at Rum Punch Tuesday night after their 6-month hiatus (although, like everything else, seemingly, it's moved to Shoreditch). A good night in all, complete with one poet pretty much propositioning the barman from the mic ("I want that 90% Madagascan chocolate type of guy", she says, pouting), one comedian who decided he felt too uncomfortable to continue, following a joke that was, well, uncomfortable, another poet who delivered a poem entitled Dalston, about being love-wrecked in Penge, during which one woman jumped from her seat, screaming, "That's my ends! That's my ends! ______ Road! Yes, yes!". And who said poetry nights are uneventful? I grabbed the mic towards the end and did a new-ish poem which I hope chimed with the second comedian, who shared some wicked fatherly advice that had a lot of people in stitches.

Poetry-wise, things seem to be going well. I was chuffed to get a shiny certificate for "Best Performance by a London Poet" the other day and I'm working on a couple of projects which should come to light over the next couple of months. I've also got a couple of gigs next week, starting on Sunday with Jazz Verse Jukebox at Ronnie Scott's and then Brixton Library. Love is in the air, apparently (just in case you haven't been outside and seen the tons of places selling heart-shaped bars of soap and the coffee shops with "Valentine's Menus". Puleeezz!) and I'll be dusting off some of my finest bars on love and desire, in between my more usual stuff.

I haven't been writing much in the way of new poetry in the last couple of weeks, but I do seem to be making serious headway on the novel, partly thanks to a breakthrough aided by a book recommend and a serious chill pill. However, it means I've had less time for other things, always the one big let down of being absorbed in writing. This thing will write itself, if I allow it to, but I have to trust the story more than my own instincts which are telling me to steer clear of certain themes. Does that sound cryptic? I hope not. All I mean is I see certain eyes rolling if I say it's going to have a significant section on gangs, more eyes rolling when I mention the supernatural and religious elements... and let alone the sex part, which I haven't come to yet ("Why you can't just write a nice book, eeh?")

Meanwhile, I was (un)fortunate enough to be at home this afternoon and in between chapters, so I watched the Prime Minister's Questions today, which just serves to remind that we are all at the mercy of a bunch of rowdy lads making cheap digs at each other across a desk. I switched off and fooled around on the internet for a while, and my increasingly-nosy YouTube account recommended me this video

which is a response to the new healthcare bill, which will hopefully be shot down sometime soon, perhaps along with Andrew Lansley (not my words, but an apparent "leaked statement" from Number 10 insisting he should be "taken out").

Anyway, it's late... signing off abruptly

And Today's Random Word Is...

2012-02-07T13:40:00.000Z

...Divine

(Good heavens...! To recap, every now and again, I use the Random Word Generator, located on my links bar, either for free-writing, or just because I feel like it. A lot of the time the words work their way into my writing, sometimes they don't. And, just occasionally, they spark an idea I like to run with.)

Temporary Pointless Signs and Other Musings...

2012-01-31T14:05:00.022Z

London crowds are dry and it feels like home

So it's the weekend and the first music gig in London I've been to for a while. My brother dragged me along and he's a music buff so we get there early-ish to be close to the stage. The audience claps moderately for the warm-up act. A girl elbows her way through the crowd and parks herself next to the man standing in front of me, nearly knocking the beer glass of the woman to my left. The girl immediately starts doing an old-school Butterfly (et un... deux... trois... quatre... Don't watch this one at the office!), spilling some of her drink in the process, but she doesn't seem to notice. Meanwhile, as she thrusts back, she nearly knocks the glass of the woman to my side again... but the woman deftly moves her hand behind her, and stays squarely put; if she moves back, that space is going to be filled by wilder movements.

Butterfly-girl stops for a moment, looks around and then shouts loudly to the guy in front of me, "London crowds are dry!" He nods sagely. The warm-up act is singing a soulful number to a mid-paced backing track, halfway between a mid-nineties Mary J Blige and an early Ms Dynamite. Butterfly-girl attempts what looks like a Gully-creepa, drink still in hand, despite the confined space of a thickening crowd (Ik spreek geen Nederlands, but here are the Dutch instructions).

By the time the main act comes on, my legs are killing. It's a singer, an emcee and a DJ. We're made to repeat "We are one!" several times by the emcee and, just as I'm about to tire and comment on my brother's facebook wall (he's been texting furiously for the past hour), the singer floors me - and everyone else - with some captivating vocals. Her voice is... well... amazing, and even better than what I remember from the one or two tracks I have on my phone. I finally remember why my brother goes on about live music, why people stand for hours in stuffy rooms and risk getting their overpriced drinks knocked over. And even Gully-creepa stops for a second, adjusts her hat and settles into a subtler shoulder shake, although it's not long before she goes "Pon di river" all over the place, which makes the group of people next to her move their feet ever-so-slightly away, leaving a decent-sized space around her.

When the emcee takes to the mic again, our "We are one"s are much more enthusiastic. He spits a series of bars about the Earth, about war, about life. And I know where this is going. I know where this is going. I've been to too many hip-hop and poetry gigs... And yes, after a solid duet piece, almost their last of the evening, he takes out some time to school us on the rights and wrongs of Modern America. He tells us to google "chemtrails", and that every time he performs in the States and makes similar comments, his friends tell him to watch out. He talks more about war ("Why we fighting?"... Everybody say: "No more war!"). He tells us about the dangers of eating fruit without seeds ("And you wonder why our children are playing up!") and paying for bottled water. And some of the crowd begin to shuffle. And Gully-creepa has no music to slide to. And I can feel discomfort in the room...

I'll paraphase a section of his speech that catches my attention: "We're not here just to entertain. Because you can nod your head but if music doesn't change you, why we singing?"

And then I remember why I like going to poetry events, why I like being challenged, and sometimes feeling uncomfortable - and, on very rare occasions, disgusted - by a poet's performance (I'm rarely shockable, but anyone who was there at the event last night and heard the poem about necrophilia.... well, I kind of do have some limits). Sure, people go to be entertained, but also to share ideas and thoughts and to listen, if not to always agree with everything. Music-lovers, on the other hand, often need a beat to be kept sweet (am I right?).

A couple of people way off to my right walk out. He talks more about the Obama Nation and laments at how leaders are quick to take God and healthy eating off the agenda. And the shuffling crowd tenses up, and two more walk out as a voice from the back shouts out, "God don't exist, mate!"

There's a few claps behind me. The emcee dismisses him politely and continues; a few more people around me make a point of walking out and there's a huge gap around Gully-creepa, who takes the opportunity to push up close to the stage.

"Do you have the last track?" the singer asks.

The DJ shakes his head, and mouths something to the sound engineer at the back.

"We don't have it on our computer!" he shouts out into the crowd.

Computer says no. Silence.

"Well, thank you audience. See you again!" says the emcee.

They leave to the sound of our clapping and cheering, and it feels like some of the lost energy's come back into the room. With new, inflexible time slots for artists on stage, there's no more time for anything else, apparently. The DJ at the back hits it hard, playing some unrelated Nu-School R&B track with a heavy bassline and my brother mouths a "what was that about?" at me. And I think, there's something so London about the whole scenario, from the computer not working, to the light heckling and the uncomfortable silence. Yeah, this finally feels like home again.

Pedantry. Reverse pendantry and word reclamations.

One dodgy habit of mine when I'm procrastinating is literally reading through pages of people's comments, which often repeat themselves after the first page, anyway (unless there's a decent slanging match taking place).

One of the argument goes like this: if you're going to comment on an ex-footballer's figurative use of the word "literally", then you must literally have nothing better to do, blah blah blah. Then the counter-argument that there isn't actually a decent substitute for the word literally, and if we don't claim it back from the grasp of the "plebs", the meaning will be lost forever. Then the counter-counter-argument, which is that words are forever changing and two nearly-opposite definitions can sit side by side: "sanction", "bi-annual" etc. I've read too many of these to care anymore. In any case, one side is always patronising, the other usually snobbish. And it's only a matter of time before I literally lose the will to live.

The Name Game

But sometimes I think (IMHO) we can be too literal. I caught myself sneering last night when I passed a poster for Man on a Ledge, as I remember doing when I first saw an advert for Snakes on a Plane. And I ~~hate~~ dislike myself for it. If I can't get excited about it, why can't I at least be happy for this man high up on the ledge of this skyscraper acting as a decoy for some nearby heist? And even if I don't care for the plot, why can't I at least commend them for choosing this no-nonsense name which says everything you need to know about the film? There's a man. There's a ledge. And, presumably, he's on it for a significant amount of time during the course of the film. Why complicate things with a more imaginative title?

(Anyway, I have other things to worry about. Like the prospect of Moira Stewart hiding under the stairs, although, thankfully, it's a ground floor flat. And Woman Under the Stairs really is a lame title for a film, just in case you were wondering.)

Farrago New Year Zoo Awards!!

2012-01-27T10:56:00.001Z

Yay! So it's the annual Farrago Zoo Awards (a bit like the BRIT awards for performance poetry?) and it's time to put our democratic principles into practice. I've been nominated in 3 categories, and pretty chuffed! The show is tonight and voting should be closed by now (email farragopoetry@yahoo.co.uk just in case), but these are the nominees:

1) Best Overall Performance/ Reading:

1 Harry Baker
2 Abraham Gibson
3 Keith Jarrett
4 Fran Landesman
5 Rachel Pantechnicon
6 Deanna Rodger
7 Niall Spooner-Harvey
8 Dudley Sutton

2) Best SLAM! Performance:
1 Amy Acre
2 Harry Baker
3 Hamza Beg
4 Charlie Dupre
5 Eleanor Hough
6 Gina Pisapia
7 RedZworth
8 Jimmy Scribbles

3) Best Performance by a London Poet:
1 Jade Anouka
2 Suli Breaks
3 Catherine Brogan
4 Anna Chen
5 Abraham Gibson
6 Peter Hayhoe
7 Keith Jarrett
8 Sabrina Mahfouz
9 Richard Marsh
10 Deanna Rodger
11 Wizard of Skill
12 Niall Spooner-Harvey

4) Best Farrago Debut Feature Performance:
1 Nia Barge
2 Katie Bonna
3 Ollie Brown
4 Siam Hurlock
5 Caherine Labiran
6 Amy McAllister
7 Kemi Taiwo
8 Kathy Tytler

5) Best Performance by a UK poet:
1 Sam Cox (Portsmouth)
2 Martin Daws (Wales)
2 Mab Jones (Cardiff)
3 Cheri Gillings (Dudley)
4 AF Harrold (Reading)
5 Vanessa Kisuule (Bristol)
6 Kit Lambert (Wales)
7 Mark Niel (Milton Keynes)

6) Best Performance by a performer using spoken word, comedy or music.
1 Gwyneth Herbert
2 Miles Landesman & ensemble.
3 Sarah Moule & Simon Wallace
4 Rachel Pantechnicon
5 Rachel Rose Reid
6 Dudley Sutton

7) Best Performance by a performer working in English and another language(s):
1 MT Ali
2 Sofia Buchuck
3 Isabel del Rio
4 Keith Jarrett
5 Susana Medina
6 Yamilka Noa

8) Best Performance by an International poet:
1 Penny Ashton (New Zealand)
2 Stephanie Chan (Singapore)
3 Jon Goode (USA)
4 Ian Keteku (Canada)
5 Pierre Ringwald (Canada)
6 Heather Taylor (Canada)
7 Paula Varjack (Germany)

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2012-01-25T14:25:00.000Z

...Temple

Hmm. I mean Aum.

Word Count today...

2012-01-25T11:57:00.006Z

...1,303.

Hoping to continue later tonight but have to do some other work.

Jazz Verse Jukebox

2012-01-23T22:26:00.000Z

Okay, so forget I'm there - the other three poets are among my favourites, the jazz band is tight, and there'll be plenty of music. All in all, definitely looks like it's going to be a good night! More info here

And Today's Random Word Is...

2012-01-23T21:53:00.000Z

...Weird.

Ehm... O..kay then!

Word Count Today...

2012-01-23T21:46:00.001Z

...1,756, which isn't a bad number for an evening's work.

Still working on the novel, and redefining what it's all about. I'm back onto Part 1, narrated by a guy on a plane looking back to when he was thirteen and the fate of his family changed with the arrival of two mysterious women who have "a message" to deliver. And that's it in a nutshell. Part 2 is already part-written, although I've decided the narrator for that section should now be his mother, and the story needs to start earlier. I haven't decided yet what to do with part 3, but we'll see...

I've spent some of today looking at structure and time-shift, and the rest trying to do something about my internet connection. I mentioned before that I pretty much know what happens in the end, and I have the finer points of the beginning down to a t, but somwhere along the middle there's a muddle. And I feel I've finally come up with a solution in the shape of the mother's story.

After having to study Mario Vargas Llosa's Casa Verde when I was eighteen and being - to be frank - a bit confused at the time by his sudden time-leaps and changes in names of characters, I stumbled across his Letters to a Young Novelist, way before I even thought of writing a novel. And I remember being impacted by some of the mechanics behind it, even if I thought when I read it that time-shifting and character-bending were a bit manipulative. But that's the whole point, isn't it? Fiction is, by its very existence, one of the most manipulative forms of writing, whether the author has art for art's sake intentions or otherwise. The very best books I've read have dragged me all around the houses with meandering storylines and nebulous characters, but if you can trust the writer, and if the story's interesting enough and it's told convincingly enough... pah! you're willing to go there with them.

Since my first brush with creative writing technique nearly a decade ago, I've read my way through several books on form and style, including those that affirm it can't really be taught. And the most valuable lesson I've learnt is you have to write your way through some of it, and throw out a lot of work. To my detriment, I'll never be the type of person who storyboards my way through life. If I were, the thing would have been written by now, but it wouldn't be the story I want to write.

Anyways, that's enough from me for now...

UPDATE...

2012-01-18T17:45:00.002Z

...and, dare I say, a primitive one (smoothly does it!), as I have a lot of finer details to work out.

So my trip went well, despite having to make several changes along the way. I'll post more on that later, hopefully with more pics like these:

On the poetry front, the next month or so looks to be a good one. Next public gig is at the Farrago Zoo Awards next week, then I'll be doing a few open mics, then some more gigs which I'll also give more info on later.

On the writing front, you've guessed it, I'll be working on The Novel and a few more shorts, one of which I've just redrafted for an anthology coming out in the Spring. Everything else, I'm waiting to see how it fits. I've begun a non-fiction project which may or may not work, so we'll see. I'm also looking to do a few music collabos soon.

So, onwards! I'll update the rest of this blog later and I should be posting more regularly from here on in.

And Today's Random Word Is...

2012-01-18T16:21:00.000Z

...Primitive

(Grumpy) New Year and ting...

2012-01-18T15:33:00.001Z

So, we're nearly 3 weeks into 2012, and I'm glad I haven't made any concrete resolutions, otherwise I probably would have broken them by now, just in time to make new ones for the Chinese New Year, coming up this weekend.

A relative of mine, who will remain nameless, promptly vowed - on Facebook, no less - to stop reading online comment pages this year; that would probably have been one of things I would have resolved too, had it not been for him forwarding me a link about the whole Diane Abbott foot-in-mouth incident, and a funny comment piece which I've now lost somewhere to cyberspace. And so this is what I've come back to: with the way overdue conviction of Stephen Lawrence's killers, the absolute proof that we are still hotly sensitive to the nuances of race and racism, in all its forms, as demonstrated here and here. And that, no matter how many times I press refresh on all the news sites, it's pretty much the same stuff. I'm just...doing it... now! And, yep, Occupy London wins first place (as it did in November), with Eurozone bailouts and the IMF coming next down the line, followed by stats on youth unemployment and yeah, I get the message. Pretty much the only other "news" is the 100th anniversary of Scott of the Antartic's expedition. If you don't know who he was by now, try Wikepedia. Oh, hold on, if you're going to attempt that during the blackout, try following the advice here.

I feel like I'm on one of those soaps where you can watch an episode months later and still pretty much follow everything that's (not) happened.

So, in the spirit of not moving forward, Merry Christmas! And Bah Humbug, in equal measure.

comparetheconfusedsanta.com: shimples!

Update: Decembering

2011-12-07T04:52:00.004Z

I have it on (good?) authority that London is bitterly cold, Jeremy Clarkson is a complete idiot, and political correctness has, of course, gone barking mad – again (too tired to post link, just search for any comment site). And, of course, the kind of shocking stats that only come round once a year have returned, bringing with it some understandable cynicism as well as criticism of common ignorances that still persist.

I’ve not yet been gone two weeks, but stepping completely outside of your home environment, with little access to emails/phone etc can have the effect of making everything completely surreal. Or maybe it’s just me?

I’m travelling around, and currently in a not-so-small-anymore town in the Dom. Rep. where I once lived for a while. When I was last in the region, running water and electricity were limited, no one had broadband and horses were almost as common as 4x4s. It was a 2 hour journey to the airport through bumpy roads and the occasional (dodgy) police checkpoints. Now, whilst the power still goes out once in a while and water isn’t always forthcoming round these parts, the new toll road is as fast and as smooth as my Wi-Fi connection, there’s a massive baseball stadium round the corner, and I’ve just had a spin in my neighbour’s new wheels. Viva el progreso!

I’m also learning to appreciate the contradictions that life throws at you, and there are many here, because inequality seems to be exaggerated to the extreme. But I don’t want to talk about that now, especially as someone who is essentially an outsider, with only a week’s worth of observation under my belt. I came here to reconnect and relive, not to make socio-political commentary about the Caribbean.

My English is starting to get a bit confused, as is my Spanish, and I’m sure many of the bilingual people out there with similar experiences can testify to the complications that arise from adjusting to a second language. My dialect – or, better said, idiolect – is returning, along with several words and phrases I haven’t utilised for years, but it's not always coming out with the same fluency as it once did. It's a little frustrating not being at the same level, and just goes to show that language comes and goes, as does knowledge in general. You don't use it, you lose it!

The poem, Search for my Tongue, by Siddartha Bhatt – which was on the GCSE syllabus when I was at school, and still is – resonated strongly with me the first time I returned to the UK after being here. Suddenly, in London, I was struggling to resurrect a native tongue I barely used here, and it felt easier to shout Cuida’o! than Watch Out! (which nearly got me involved in a traffic accident).

As this web page demonstrates, there are certain concepts that simply work better in one language over the other and some that can’t be translated. I, for one, would like to see an equivalent of the endearing diminutive –ito/-ita which, correct me if I’m mistaken, we only really have when it comes to names, in the form of –y. I think I’m way past being called Keithy, though.

Christmas is approaching here, just as it is, incidentally, elsewhere around the world; however, the fact we’re in a tropical climate means nothing when it comes to fir tree decorations and depictions of snow-capped sleighs. In fact, whilst I was in the capital, I was amused to see Coca Cola’s annual Christmas tree, complete this year with a house with a chimney, right near Christopher Columbus’s old digs. Hmm. No further comment.

I’m not sure how much I’ll manage to blog up until Christmas, but I will do as and when I have the correct combination of time, energy and internet connection.

Hasta ahorita!

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-12-07T04:08:00.002Z

...Reveal

Which is nice and appropriate for what I've just posted below!

Postcard for the Album

2011-12-07T03:49:00.002Z

These streets are made of domino slaps on wooden boards and diesel fuel

From irreverent motors wheezing up towards the old barrio they call Vietnam

And the same bachata song they’ve been playing till late all week

And the sleep of the dead

And the mangy old dog that hauls itself along and doesn’t chase the pickup trucks

Bearing gifts of freshly beheaded hens

But from the gutter barks its hoarse desire

A tyre on the ground marks the spot

And I’m learning again to make new friends

Out of the words I didn’t quite catch

Like the baseball OUT! I was supposed to deliver

And the tight-skin shiver of morning water from the rusty tap

And the sizzle of the outdoor pan

And the machete man and his sugarcane cart

Because these streets were constructed from all the spare parts

That make up the broke-down lives and histories I once knew

They were created by the stickiness of the self-same sun which hugs my shirtsleeves close

And slurs my tongue

And blurs the Polaroid perfections of all my recollections

Until you and me are here now dancing

Pega’ito outside some bodega or another where rum-soaked minds drink

The music of our dreams

And eat the tarmac of my silence.

UPDATE...

2011-11-24T02:26:00.000Z

So quite a lot's happened in the past few days, and it looks like this could be my last post for a while. I'm off to the airport in a couple of hours and will have limited internet access over the next few weeks until Jan. I'm also leaving Camden for now as I've had to move out. So all that's left to do is find a random word to last me the next few days...

Logging off!

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-11-16T17:37:00.001Z

...Key

I like that. This could open doors to all sorts of ideas

Postcards from Home, Part 4, I think...

2011-11-15T02:14:00.005Z

Wish you were here.

Maybe we could drink in the irony

Of these soldiers of the night

Who wrestle not against flesh and blood

But against the dexterity of their own fingers

And infinite boredom

Maybe we could lay dexterous hands on each other

And I could wear the warmth of your skin around my neck

And hope some more

I need not now gulp a goodbye from my throat

Or wheeze another song

Through the overhangs of Monday's spine

I need not now succumb to the promise of soggy chips

Balanced on trembling digits

Because it is possible

That a warrior’s cry lies waiting

To be expelled from lungs

Long since sacrificed to the Smoke

And so, perhaps, I can hold these hands up

Against the Neon-lit streets

Against the tide of idle thoughts

Against the peculiar world

And answer your calls

Maybe you could say it is man’s duty

To tuck these thoughts in

And bite the tongue

And the bullets

And the bit pulling you back

And maybe I should stop wishing

To change the state of play

Me on way home the other day, photo is of a queue at midnight for Call of Duty 3 (the controversial modern warfare video game) ... Random idea in my head now which I've conflated with random idea in my head then... not sure if it works, but I'll play with it tomorrow)

Spanish (& English) Poetry Showcase!

2011-11-14T13:52:00.000Z

So tonight is probably going to be one of the last - if not, the actual last - gig I do in London this year before I go off travelling.

For those of you who don't know - er, probably most people - the first time I ever went to a poetry event, it was a Spanish poetry night. I was kind of coaxed onto the stage and I remember reading out the poem "Walking Around" by Neruda (decent translation here, original here) which is probably still one of my favourite poems. So it's kind of fitting that I end the year poetically where it started several years ago.

I've also just heard Canadian poet Ian Keteku will be performing too, who I last met at the World Cup Slam in France (he won the title - and deserved it!), so there'll definitely be an international flavour to the night. If I have time to translate a more recent poem of mine into Spanish, I will. In any case, expect a mixture of English and Spanish, with a few poets translating both ways.

P.S. This should also be the last time that photo appears on a flyer. I mean, from all of my facebook pics, you'd think I was actually attached to a microphone... I'm not, honest!

Remember the 'Vember!

2011-11-14T13:44:00.002Z

I wrote this last week and didn't post...

Well, it's only a few days - two weeks, actually - until I go travelling for a bit, returning in 2012. I've been trying to resist the urge to bundle 2011 up prematurely and start making all those promises to myself that I did last year (write more, finish the novel, become a better person...) but there's still, like, a tenth of it to go, so who knows what's coming next?

I couldn't help but moan in frustration when I got an e-alert from a writing forum, entitled 'Silly Season approaching' - the silliness in question being the mustachioed men of Movember and the 'I've-always-had-a-book-inside-me' ambitions of NaNoWriMo. Predictably - I rarely see things in black-and-white these days - I have mixed feelings on the latter although, ultimately, if someone can write a decent novel in a month, who am I to judge, simply because I can't do it in a year! Some people need the discipline of a strict time-frame, and I should probably include myself in that category. Having said that, I understand why people react negatively to projects such as this: to the casual observer, it can make writing seem easy, like you can just pick up a pen and out comes this bestseller, as if writing is a hobby on a par with crossword-filling and stamp-collecting. A few hours set aside here and there, and a well-structured, grammatically immaculate 90,000 word gem comes out. Voila!

Anyway, since I last updated, we've had Halloween, Bonfire Night, the seven billionth person on the planet, a resignation from Berlusconi (if he really exists) in addition to signs Europe is on the brink of financial collapse... oh yeah, and more annual poppy controversy (including Royal intervention). With all this in mind, it does feel as if there is a certain silliness in the air, or at least a lot of trivialisation and crassness. And I don't really want to qualify that comment much further, except to say :P

I'm hoping the next week or so goes smoothly, catching up with old friends, wrapping up work projects etc, and I'll continue to update until I head off.

Embracing the "silliness" in the meantime!

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-11-14T13:25:00.000Z

...Tube

(I think I would have preferred 'bus', but you can't pick and choose)

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-10-27T17:38:00.000+01:00

...Temper.

GRRRR!!

Close Up

2011-10-27T17:33:00.002+01:00

UPDATE... (if it don't feel right, don't write)

2011-10-27T17:23:00.003+01:00

Ok, so I lied about the today/tomorrow thing. Sorry. Punctuality isn't my style.

There's always something fascinating about watching the tiny world from above, particularly when you're on an island. Only a few miles away from the English coast and the clouds scatter, and every text costs you a minimum of 12p, and things sloooww, right, down, because most of the stuff you have to do will just have to wait a few days unless you want to be stuck with a larger phone bill than the already large phone bill you have.

Last week, there I was in Jersey with John Paul O'Neill (cue link to a really old bio page) and Deanna Rodger (cue link to podcast poem/discussion), leading a few workshops and setting up an Interschool Slam. And it was a good week working with Year 9s (13/14 year olds) on the theme of "journeys". Working with teens is always bound to lead to surprises and contradictions. The loud kids somehow managed to focus for a ten-minute freewrite, the quiet kids wrote about rock 'n' roll and learned how to shout on stage, and others even suprised themselves by what they came up with.

In between, we had time to head to the beach and pontificate on the finer points of life, religion and, of course, Gaddafi. I find the hypocrisy of "the West'"s position too unsettling to feel joyous. No doubt, if I were born in Libya, I may feel differently, and I may have been queuing up to see his body (which I had to dubious privilege of seeing anyway, while watching Channel 4 news). I guess it's true that, however much you value independence of thought, most of that thought originates from where you are born and where you live.

in "thinking mode"

Speaking of birth and independence of thought, today I've been reading some of the comments/letters to the unnamed 7 billionth child due to be born next Monday. I plan to use the 7bnth child for the theme of a poem I'm writing, and I'll comment on my progress when I do.

Apparently, it was only 12 years ago when the Guardian Newspaper asked Salman Rushdie to write to the 6th billionth child. Understandably, for someone with a fatwa against him, simply for writing a book - a book! - he spent some time talking about how religion is "[w]rong, wrong, wrong", in a piece called Imagine No Heaven. The conclusion of the letter was to imagine that there is no heaven and, "at once the sky's the limit!" I can't share in that assertion, partly for the fact that the unwavering beliefs and ignorance he speaks of lay on both sides of the religous/non-religious divide but mostly because the sky is only the limit for those born with passports and easy-to-come-by visas. Discuss...

So I was roaming around West London the other day - I often am - and I spotted this. I'm used to pessimistic - and often dodgy, in all senses - scribbles on Camden walls ("Immigration enriches the prison population" and the like), but this made me stop for a second. A gravestone for Originality.

Since the scriptures recorded the phrase "There's nothing new under the sun", people have been reinventing it, and bemoaning all attempts at newness. In a poem I never quite could get a handle on, Reason(in)gs (Unfinished), I wanted to explore something a teacher of mine did actually say, which is that people are just clones of each other, and since he'd started teaching 20-odd years ago, he'd only met about a dozen original pupils (not the more generous 30 I gave him in the poem). With that in mind, I wonder how many other graffitti artists around the world have drawn something similar recently! And how many people have commented. And whether, if we subscribe to the fatalism of our "cloneliness", we should all just stop talking, writing, singing, exploring...

I was amused a few months back to see a perspex frame around some graffiti on the wall of a house near mine. Since then, I've seen the same in a couple of other places. Banksy did it, so it's valuable. And sellable. Unsuprisingly, a few days later, I learnt in the Camden New Journal that the owners were trying to sell the art (but not the house!) for £4,000. Phew! And, I guess, for me it solidifies the fact that there truly is nothing new under the sun. Greed will always be with us. I mean, Banksy may be a good artist, but how to sell a drawing on a wall? I'm not sure it was theirs to sell, and it seems a bit ridiculous. Or am I just being judgemental again...? I'm prepared to be challenged on this. A challenge is as good as a rest, or something like that...

On the poetry front again, all is good, and I have a few things in the pipeline awaiting confirmation. I've also just completed a poem today, and I'll have to choose carefully where I perform it (yeah, I know)! Fiction is going to be interesting over the next few weeks - I've jotted down a plan for a series of stories I'm writing; I'm resurrecting a project I thought I'd put to bed over a year ago, and I guess it must be wake up time now. The novel is something I'm prepared to sit on for a while. My motto, for the time being, is if it don't feel right, don't write...

Went to Sage & Time yesterday and it was a good night! Abraham Gibson's poem about Margaret Thatcher's African lover hit the spot, as did Tim Wells on the riots, and Hackney shootings. (And how could I have forgotten Captain of the Rant! I'll never buy pre-sliced veg again, after his rant/poem on the subject...) It's great that poetry can be versatile enough to take the rough with the humorous, often simultaneously. Like the street graffiti I see around me, a lot of poetry seems to be taking on a political awareness that wasn't so common before. Things are getting serious. And I think it's a good thing.

On that note, I intend to stop by the Occupy London site later today or tomorrow. I think it showed some guts for the canon chancellor of St Paul's Cathedral to resign earlier. If you have no idea what I'm on about, it's all to do with the global protests that have been going on. More info on UK and world happenings can be found here and here and elsewhere (seem to be linking a lot today!) I'll write more once I do!

UPDATE...

2011-10-24T19:52:00.001+01:00

overdue!

It's coming soon (today/tomorrow)

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-10-24T19:52:00.000+01:00

...Poisoning

Hmm. This one leaves me with a bitter taste in the mouth

Tonight: On the Spot - Improvised Poetry Battle

2011-10-17T13:16:00.001+01:00

Yep, yep, yep! After the last poetry battle that took place at Tristan Bates Theatre as part of the Midnight Matinée, you wouldn't have thought they'd let us back! Expect shocking rhymes from a bunch of poets who - with the notable exception of Curious - have never really taken to the 'battle' scene. Forced to improvise, the results are hilarious.

This time round, there'll be a few more poets and a few more games to liven things up. Freestyling aside, we'll each get to do a mini-set and there's an open mic spot too so, all in all, it looks like it'll be a fun night.

The sad thing is I actually thought I'd be good last time! I'm used to freestyling at home, in the shower (like to scour, there for half an hour, thank God I switched to N Power... you know how I flow, innit though! That kind of thing...) Let's just say there were a few instances where we were all rolling on the floor laughing. No doubt this time there'll be even more belly laughs.

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-10-17T12:36:00.000+01:00

...Total

(Yep, that's it)

Thinking Harder

2011-10-11T16:23:00.003+01:00

BHM '11

So it's October again! It's Black History Month again and, once more, people are discussing how relevant it is. These two facts are certainly more predictable than British weather.

Once more, my feelings are mixed - a bit like the BBC's mixed race season (see how I did that?) On the one hand, you have the Prime Minister, David Cameron - David Cameron for goodness sake! - writing a nice little address for the official BHM guide, which you can view here. In it, he talks of "shared values", a "spirit of togetherness", and he mentions our "broken economy" and "Big Society", all in one meaningless sweep - seriously, what does it all mean? It reads like any standard company letter, with keywords such as "delighted" and "opportunity" thrown into the mix, complete with his big brand ideas.

In this modern age, you have to be seen to be endorsing the right products, saying the right things, smiling at the right moments (and in the right way, unlike our last PM!) And whilst, sure, there is plenty of substance to ground BHM, it risks becoming yet another box-ticking exercise to "keep the natives happy".

Sometimes it feels as if it's being used as an opportunity to roll out a spate of programmes to fit the quota of "cultural" identity. And then we can all educate the kids about Mary Seacole and Martin Luther King and Nelson Mandela, then forget about the whole thing, right? A poet I have much love and respect for, Anna Le, sums up my sentiment in this poem, with this line: "Who eats enough in any one month that you need not eat again for the rest of the year?"

On the other hand, it's great to see things changing. When I was at school there was almost no reference to Black people in History outside the context of slavery and Empire. Outside of the classroom, there were few programmes with black or Asian actors on television, pop magazines - and especially lifestyle/fashion ones - deliberately avoided having black artists featured on the cover and 'black' was pretty much confined to cops-and-robbers shows, sports programmes and rap videos. So, while the present day could do with a few improvements on the race relations front, at least efforts are being made to make history more inclusive.
This month allows several previously-forgotten aspects of history to be made accessible to a wider audience. Who am I to do anything other than applaud that?

History deserves to be taught in all of its fullness; however, history will always be subjective, will always be written by the victors, and retold according to the whims of the zeitgeist (and endorsed or disregarded by the leaders of the day). So, right about now, I'm more concerned about the future.

(And not a single black model in the advertising pages, so I hear)

Jiizas: Di Buk We Luuk Rait Bout Im

Lately, I've been listening to the Gospel of Luke in Jamaican Patois. I heard of the translation project a few months back, which aims to complete the whole New Testament next year, when Jamaica celebrates is 50th year of independance. The whole idea of a Patois Bible has come under a little criticism and derision from Jamaicans and non-Jamaicans alike, but, sifting through the snobbery and paranoia of forum threads, it has made me think harder about a few issues.

Now, I'm not looking at it as if I were some kind of linguistics scholar. What interests me more is the seemingly conscious shift from defining Caribbean language patterns as 'broken', non-standard, or simply 'dialects', to referring to them as patois, creoles and even separate languages. To me, it's part of the 'officialisation' of a language that's always felt organic and natural to speak and hear; this is bound to have some positive and negative effects.

One thing it brings up is the standardisation process. By commiting a lexicon to paper, you could say it stems its development; a lecturer of mine, quoting someone else, once referred to dictionaries as 'graveyards for words'; I do wonder how he would describe a bible, then? Purgatory? Because language is a living, evolving thing, and commiting it to paper - particularly a form of language that has a predominantly oral tradition - can, arguably, limit its evolution. So the argument goes.

The phonetics-based system the translators are using to write is also a complicated issue. Take the title: 'Jiizas: Di Buk We Luuk Rait Bout Im'. It isn't particularly easy on the eye, nor does it give any visual clues to readers of any form of English as to what it might mean. 'Jesus: De Book Whe Luke Write Bout Im' is simpler for some, but using this more common transcription would create other problems. Another writer, here, has highlighted the issue much more simply and eloquently than I just have...

Anyway, I'm not so hung up on that side of things. The most important argument, I think, is that of the 'officialisation process'. Let's face it, certain accents/dialects/languages are taken more seriously than others. Growing up in the UK, Jamaican Patois and, in fact, any sort of Caribbean inflection suggested informality; from comedy shows to Malibu ads, anyone on television speaking with a Caribbean accent of any kind needed a 'laid-back' reggae backing, some dreadlocks and possibly a little spliff nearby. Yeah man! And where popular culture has borrowed from Jamaican language in this country, only its cruder forms receive any attention. A five-year old precurser to that foolish man David Starkey's speech about the "whites becoming black" (I'm loathe to link him, actually) can be found in - of all the most politically correct papers - The Daily Mail (I'm loathe to link this too). The premise of the article is that so-called Jafaican - a melange of words, with a strong influence from Jamaican Patois - is 'wiping out' native slang.

In the meantime, we've had Rastamouse, making a bad ting good, and the idea has apparently sold to several countries outside of the UK. At least for small children, Caribbean-derived dialects/patois have lost some of that air of threat around them!

If, outside of the Caribbean, people are beggining to respect the dialects and creoles that it produces, it only - to me at least - follows as a logical step that inside the Caribbean, this process should be occurring ever the more. Wherever you stand on religion, that isn't the point. The point is how we view language is changing and, as a writer, I think that's a good thing. Others may disagree. Discuss.

Failing Well and Failing Often

I've been searching for an article that was forwarded to me a few months ago. I simply can't remember who sent the email - though I've narrowed it down - and I can't remember who wrote the article. Simply the main premise, which is that in order to come up with a piece of work that is exceptional in both creativity and daring, you have to prepare to fail.

Of course, the idea of 'failing courageously' transcends writing and other art forms and is equally valid for almost any other endeavour. As I scoured the web, looking for this elusive article, I found this video by a Harvard lecturer, this article from The Economist and hundreds of other pieces of motivational 'material', mostly marketing and business-oriented with catchy little expressions, like 'how to fail often and fail well' etc. It's mind-blowing to see how many failures there are out there! But the premise is always the same - if you are doing something new or different, expect it not to work the first time... or the second. And maybe not even the third, if at all. There'll be a reason why most other people haven't chosen the path you have, so you can either try the road that's already been tried and tested, or you can experiment with something new, but don't expect it to work immediately - and don't expect it to be accepted or understood.

So, yeah, I get all of that, but it doesn't change the fact that failure is a difficult thing. When it comes to business, great, if you have the money, but in the creative sphere, reputation is key. I've mentioned before the times when I've been reluctant to perform new poems, simply because, on an emotional level, if you feel you've failed with something you've written - from your soul! - then it can be a real blow. And the reverse is true: I have one or two poems which some people know me by. To them I'm not Keith, but "the dude that did that poem". Which is great, until you realise you have to keep writing more!

As far as the novel's concerned, I rarely talk about it. It's an ambitious project, and the more I write, the more I realise I need to refine it, add more complex structures, change the narrators, tighten certain chapters, and make the story clearer at the same time. On some level, by returning to the first chapter and beginning again half a dozen times, I've failed. And I'm actually ok with that failure. I understand it's natural. Etc. etc. Blah, blah. But it hurts every time.

Fiction is one of those weird things. There are a few rulebooks out there but, ultimately, there are no rules. The fact about fiction is you're making up a whole new world - or universe - from scratch, even if the story is based on reality. The only limit, perhaps, is you have to convey this all in words, and the words are confined to the language(s) you're writing in. So there are plenty of opportunities for failure. And the biggest failure comes about when when the story fails to convince. And the only failsafe measure of determining whether it's convincing or not is to show it to people, and to put your work about. And if you do that, and fail, and continue to write, you are undergoing a challenge only a madman would take up. Which probably corroborates my assertions that the act of writing itself is a form of madness...

Anyway, it's time I actually did some, so I'm logging off!

Drafts Day Folder, 2: Office

2011-10-11T01:56:00.001+01:00

We are not a muse

We are not that blend of spilt milk

And tears you seek

We are not weak office

Tea and a soggy digestive

For you cannot swallow us whole

We are not a muse

And we are not a key

On a board

So you can surf for daydreams

By stroking our heads

You cannot

ESCape so easily with us

We are not a key

Or a door-

mat for you to stomp

Over or through

We are not your Windows

We are not the glass

Of your ceiling

To shatter

Or peer into

We are not your mot juste

Slipping seamlessly into your sentience

And rolling

Off your tongue

Onto the cat

Which is holding it ransom

We are not random

Doodles on sticky notes

Or sore throats

Mimicked down a Monday morning

Phone

We are not your home

We are not your muse

We are not the plot

You have lost

On the way to the desk

With your label on it

We are not the fabled

Water-cooler whispers

Fanning through the room

We are not that Friday feeling

Or the weekend blues

Or Gloomy Sunday

Sung on a static

Radio

We are not a muse

We are just four walls

To chain you to

And a squeaking chair

That revolves

But doesn’t move

You

We are the bane

Of your brain

And the main

Of your stay

And we are just a hair

Breadth away

From being this close

This close

To you

Stepping loose

And walking

Free

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-10-11T01:31:00.001+01:00

...Discard

(But don't think about it now)

London Slam! Championships

2011-10-09T16:23:00.000+01:00

Featuring on Thurs at Farrago's London Slam, and interested to see who takes the title this year! More details here.

UPDATE...

2011-10-06T15:12:00.000+01:00

It's National Poetry Day today. This year's theme is "Games", no doubt inspired by the Olympics, set to hit us poor folks in London next year. I had taken it upon myself to write a poem using the games theme, but it's not happening right now.

Tuesday's gig at Hackney went well. I did a couple of new poems, and sat through an interesting Slam! Anyone who was there can testify to that... Next gig is a feature at next week's Farrago London Slam Championships. Details to follow later.

I'm about to continue writing another chapter and at the same avoiding reading the news for the rest of the day, which is difficult. Earlier this morning, I decided to dig up a few drafts of poetry I want to work on - among them is Existence (see below) which, in retrospect, feels a bit naïve to me. But it's been interesting linking a few phrases with the things that inspired the poem, like New Labour's 1997 election video (cheese alert!). Now, I was only a bebby back then, but I can't forget the absolute feeling of hope and confidence that a lot of people had.

Anyway, in absolute defiance of NPD, I best get on with writing some solid prose!

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-10-06T13:19:00.000+01:00

...Ice

Now that's cool...

Drafts Folder Day, 1: Existence

2011-10-06T11:01:00.000+01:00

I'm not an optimist
I'm not a pessimist
I'm not a "realist"
I just exist

I exist as in just living
Scraping by on the scraps of promises we're fed
Like "Things can only get better"
Like "We're all in this together"
Like "Yes, we can!"
Believing in change
But still ending up short-changed
Every time
By the grey men
In grey suits
Who dictate our fate at a whim
But they're only skimming the surface
Of muddy waters
While the rest of us are treading through the sludge
No strength left in our legs to resist
So we just exist

I exist
Surrounded by noise
Like the noise of lips smacking
To make promises that aren't kept
The noise of targets unmet
And hopes dashed
The crinkling sound of the mysteriously absent
Bankers cash
The grumbles of the silent majority
The noise of TV applause
Coming from the flat behind
The noise of the mind
The deafening sound of too many opinions
Vying for room
In this vacuum we live in
The noise of lips pursing
While purses clip closed
The noise of minds slamming shut
Hearts sealing up
And arms, designed to embrace
That now only know how to explode

But, please, don't count this
My contribution to the weight of noise pollution
As the views of a bitter pessimist

Because I also exist
In unexpected smiles
And stolen glances on tube rides
I exist by believing that everyone has some good
On the inside
Whatever "good" is
I still exist for this

And at the risk of speaking for the nation
I believe that somewhere
In between the cracks, the shells, the shards
Of what they call "Broken Britain" we all exist
Between paycheques we exist
Between rounds we exist
While friends pretend to not notice
Whose turn it is to pay the tab
Between chips and pins we exist
And even at the end of clenched fists
We exist in the hope of kisses
And in between these kisses we exist
Coming up for air at intervals that we only hope will get narrower
Because deep inside we still believe
That things can only get better
And that ~~we're all in this together~~
(no, sorry, let's face it, some of us are way more in it than others)
But we believe that yes, we can
We can change
We can improve
And we persist
See-sawing in between dreams and aspirations
And despite disappointments from the grey men
We still surprise ourselves with our innovations
And our ingenuity

So, no, I'm not a pessimist
Nor am I an optimist
Or even a "realist"
Because I value dreams more than truth
And hope more than cold fact
Every day
I exist for just that.

Remember some of these slogans? A poem I found in my 'drafts' folder, which I must have written early this year... Ok, time for an edit

Email forwards...

2011-10-05T10:21:00.000+01:00

A friend sent me this in the e-post this morning. Think it chimes in nicely with the Word of the Day. Talk about turning writing into something vital!

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-10-05T10:16:00.001+01:00

...Vital

Ha! Got just the thing...

HAMMER & TONGUE TONIGHT IN HACKNEY!!

2011-10-04T12:49:00.001+01:00

More details on facebooook. Promises to be a crazy night, if not only for Henry Bowers!

Mysterious Ways (or Typing in Tongues)

2011-10-03T01:24:00.000+01:00

Some say she misheard
"In the beginning
Was Word..."

That she began
Searching
My Documents
Allowing the spell
Of her checker
To work in mysterious ways

Some say she is a Profit-
eer
Trying to con-
jure
A career
From finger spasms on a keyboard

Some say the Lord
Poured his Spirit
Into epileptic hands

The rest of us don't
Understand
NDHDIUBGUGTRUCGNRTUGTIGRTIGRGBNRDRGNGGJNRIC

Ok, sorry... Didn't mean to trivialise something that would otherwise make me angry but there is a funny side to the story.

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-10-03T00:59:00.003+01:00

...Repetition

Here we go again...

OCTOBER... all over (and a few clichés thrown in for good measure)

2011-10-03T00:59:00.000+01:00

Yep, in the old days, it would have been the end of hurricane season by now. There's a finality about October that makes me gulp a little. By the end of the month, clocks will have changed and the days will be noticeably shorter and TV adverts will have got that little bit more Christmassy. But, for now, things are happening a little differently; I've been rocking a vest and shorts all weekend, and a lot of people in the street, even less. And, yes, things are going to change soon, but the season's going down fighting.

Writing has been pretty difficult as I'm never sure which philosophy to subscribe to. On the one hand, there's a good friend of mine who wakes up at 5am every day to write. She works a nine-to-fiver and uses her lunch break to write. She goes to the gym after work and, while she's running, she's listening to music which relates to the people and time she's writing about. She'll come home and read a book or watch a film that, again, isn't entirely irrelevant to what she's writing about. And when I see her, we'll talk about - you've guessed it - writing. And she'll probably use words like discipline or deadlines or dedication and I'll feel quite geed up by her passion, which makes me love her to bits (and if she doesn't have any success then we're all doomed!). For her, writing hurts. It's hard work. It's time-consuming. It isolates friends and relationships, and it's pretty much a second job. She writes whether she's in the mood or not, and solidly.

On the other hand, there are people I know who insist that writing should always flow easily, that you should only write when you're in "the zone", and if you don't put finger to keyboard, or pen to paper, for days - perhaps even weeks or months - on end, it doesn't stop you being a writer. For them, any attempts to impose order on the creative process is doomed to failure. In fact, one of these people writes the most amazing prose ever, but I don't think he's even written anything this year! And, yet still, there are some predictable authors you know are about to drop another book every couple of years, whereas other disappear for ages. Junot Diaz, for instance, is one of the most incredible writers I've read and it took him 11 years to write his last novel, so I doubt he was writing solidly all that time, military-fashion.

Anyway, all this to say I've found it difficult. It's always tricky to answer questions like "how's your novel?" or "what's it all about then?" or "when you gonna finish the thing?" even when it's all going well. So, on the bad days, I end up wondering why I spend time doing something so ridiculous as creating another world in my head - complete with its own stories and characters - and writing it all down. Especially as it is such hard work that rarely gives out any tangible reward. Writing fiction and poetry is a kind of madness, and I won't be the first, or the last, to say this. And calling yourself a writer without being able to point to your latest besteller sometimes seems madder still.

It's a real pain typing the word "cliché" on here because, unless you want to cut-and-paste you have to remember that you press ALT and 130 to make the "é" symbol, which seems a little extreme/long-winded for such an insignificant but overused word. And the reason why I wanted to type the word "cliché" is even more long-winded - and perhaps irrelevant. In fact, I've decided to delete the paragraph in which the aforementioned word appears altogether. The jist of it can be summarised thus: I was doing this small-talk thing with a friend-of-a-friend kind of person I met and got really awkward about answering where I'm from (in this case, a loaded question with an answer that didn't satisfy him) and what I do (which I'm never sure how to answer for several reasons). Thankfully, the conversation veered itself into "safe" territory and we ended up discussing language and "favourite words", but it bugged me that it bugged me. And the cliché of the conversation, and the cliché of it bugging me blah blah blah, yeah that bugs me even more.

If there's anything that unites writers across various disciplines, it's that you avoid cliché at all costs. Some people get so sensitive to it that they end up coughing and spluttering at the mere hint of cliché, in conversation, writing, advertising, wherever. Whilst I agree clichés often highlight a lack of imagination, I also find many "anti-clichéists" are simply snobs. There are people among them who insist authors like Dan Brown, and all his readers, should be hanged, drawn and quartered for butchery of the English language. In fact, I went to a lecture once where students applauded when this was suggested by the speaker. Anyway, I think I'm veering of topic, since this was meant to be a to-the-point update, as promised about 2 weeks ago. But, there you have it, sometimes when I write "later", I mean in a couple of hours but on the odd occasion, it means a couple of weeks.

In any case, it looks like an interesting week coming up, with one gig at Hammer & Tongue (details to follow) on Tuesday, and National Poetry Day on Thursday and, most of all, with my drive to write resurrected, mostly because I've solved an issue I had with the novel. But I better get the week off to a good start and prepare for tomorrow!

UPDATE...

2011-09-15T15:56:00.001+01:00

...coming later!

Word Count Today....

2011-09-06T14:39:00.002+01:00

...1,520

and rising (I hope).

I've just begun part 2 of the novel, written in first-person. It's slightly frustrating because I have to go right back to the beginning again - that's how I've structured it - but it's good to be with a new voice, going over the same story from a different perspective.

I may spend some of the afternoon working on a short, and tweaking some more poetry I've written recently. Feels good to be in full flow for a change.

FB

2011-09-06T14:30:00.002+01:00

You want to know if I still go church
And if “those” rumours are true
You conceal these queries in a poke
And a few LOLs

We exchange smileys over lunchtime
Clicking in a way we never did before
And there are invitations to chat
Pop-up windows opening up to the soul

In vain we try to reconnect
Over vague reminiscences
Like that alleyway in Ilford
Littered with our secret pasts

I do not ask why now
I’ll leave these questions to the confessional
Of your inbox
While we make do with polite bitching
Over the status
Updates of a particularly mouthy friend
We both share

We play tag
Clicking on old photographic gems
From the albums of mutual friends
We 'like' this game
And we’re not shy of announcing it
Over... and over again

I do not ask why
And there are words I find
Too difficult to pronounce
On this particular keyboard:
You still have a way
Of making my fingers freeze

You are the one I forgot
To block
The one I cannot simply delete
From my mind
You make me feel
Like this network
Is closing in around my neck

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-09-01T21:24:00.000+01:00

...Siding

Hmmm. I'm just glad I didn't get "fronting". Although I could have had some good rhymes out of that one...

SEPTEMBER, remember! (and other sayings...)

2011-09-01T21:11:00.004+01:00

Pinch, punch... another month! According to the "old time" hurricane poem (June, too soon, July, stand by, August, it must...), this is the month to remember.

So far, one day in, it looks more like the month to put on layers. Summer hasn't been all it's promised, and then, again, that reminds me of yet another poem I have hanging up on my wall, beginning: "To persevere in hope of summer/To adapt to its broken promise..." No one stays in the UK for the weather, right?

Well, in any case, this summer's gone by pretty quickly. Apart from taking pictures of the name "Keith", which seemed to be plastered all over Paris walls (and someone was kind enough to write "ass hall" underneath the first one I saw), I haven't actually achieved that much. But I've forgiven myself. It's summer! The living's easy, the cotton's high and the fish are jumping, whatever that means to you.

The writing's also not been going as badly as it could be. The poetry seems to flow more these days, whereas the prose requires more dedicated effort. And the wording of that last sentence sends horrible shivers of memory down my spine (anyone whose school reports were littered with "potential" should be able to relate). It's getting there, it's getting easier, it's going to get done. It has to. Enough said!

Meanwhile, I'm really chuffed for a friend of mine, Olja Knezevic. She's just had her first book published - soon to be translated into English, I'm told - and it's already caused quite a storm in Montenegro. It's called Milena, and Other Social Reforms, and from snippets I've read, it's mind-blowing stuff.

Speaking of storms, have you heard the one about the latest big hurricane - with the deceptively innocuous name, Irene - being blamed on New York's lack of fiscal responsibility? Michele Bachmann, who wants to run for US presidency, has been running off her mouth again. She already looked an idiot by contradicting herself in her "I don't judge gays" interview, but what I find odd is that she's being given air time. I'm probably just as guilty for reprinting this but, surely... seriously.... say whaat? Once again, it feels like the time it takes for history to repeat itself is narrowing into microseconds. Remember this? The televangelist who blamed Haiti's pact with the devil (over 200 years ago, mind) on the earthquake that hit them recently? Or this? Feminists, abortionists and homosexualists blamed for September 11th? I have no problem with people voicing their beliefs - better out than in, as they say - but if you're in front of a TV camera, or expecting people to get behind you... really? The two previous people had to apologise, and now the latest has laughed it all off as a joke. Ha ha!

And this all makes me remember the simple rhyme we were taught as children:

"There was a wise owl who lived in an oak

The more he heard, the less he spoke

The less he spoke, the more he heard

Why aren't we like that wise old bird?"

I was recited this a few times as as kid, by way of telling me to shut up. That, and "children should be seen and not heard", although the latter was usually said with tongue in cheek. What I never got to ask was, what was out there that the owl needed to hear more of? Or, more importantly, did he really speak less because he was so shocked by what he heard? There seems to be a strange cause/effect thing going on here.... Or, actually, did he speak less because he was eavesdropping and would have been given a huge beating if he was discovered?

Never mind all that... What really bugs me most now is knowing that the less the owl speaks the less other birds get to listen to the owl... There is a reverse side to this whole business here! If he shuts up completely, the whole concept of dialogue disappears. And I think dialogue has its place, even if all you learn from it is that the person(s) you're conversing with has some ideas you find dodgy.

I find Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet interesting for this (you know the book that became a hit among yuppie folk back when I was in nappies...) The subject of the book, the "Prophet", states that "you talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts" and that, "in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered". Here, like in many writings, both religious and secular, keeping silent is seen as virtuous.

That idea of silence as a virtue is one I've adopted by default, as I'm never short of opinions being offered, whereas the people who keep their thoughts hidden and eyes furrowed - like that "deep" person sitting quietly in the corner while everyone else is racing around fighting over some big idea - always catch my eye. They're the ones who seem to be above it all. The ones who seem to have it figured out. They shout with their expressions and it can be quite unnerving, or desirable, depending on the circumstance.

Or maybe the real reason I like to stay quiet sometimes is I think I might be wrong, or sound stupid, or reveal too many secrets when I speak? Maybe a little of all of these... In any case, I don't rate the wise owl's wisdom as much as I used to. Sometimes, only listening to the sounds of other people is just as mad as ranting out loudly to yourself in the street.

UPDATE...

2011-08-09T00:31:00.000+01:00

Things have been a bit weird... Haven't updated here for a while and I might not be blogging regularly over the next few weeks until I resume my normal routine in September. But here's the basics:

Poetry

Up until the last week or so, I've been writing fairly consistently. I've submitted a few poems to competitions and I plan to redraft some of the poems I've posted on here. I'm also rediscovering what it is to enjoy reading poetry, as well as listening to it.

It was also touching to be a part of the memorial to Fran Landesman last Friday. I've quoted her on here before - she was a witty lyricist who was also a regular at a poetry night I've been involved with several times. Her song, "Scars", in particular will stay with me - and the following lines:

Don't be ashamed
If your covered with scars
On this planet of ours
That's the way we keep scores

Prose

In the past couple of weeks I've learnt that deleting words is harder and more time-consuming than writing them in the first place. I've been working on a couple of short stories but the novel is an "no-go" topic at the moment. The stories, on the other hand, are coming together nicely!

General

As I write, there's a lot of unrest over the Capital and, apparently, it's hit Camden High Street tonight. Being near a police station, I'm used to hearing sirens all the time and it doesn't sound much different to me. But I'm at home, mum, so don't worry! Some of it, I feel, is inevitable. [Sighs] And I think the repercussions will be painful. But I don't feel it's my place to comment too much right now, even though it seems that's all everyone else is doing.

Despite recently posting to say the same thing, I had almost forgotten how much weight is given to speculation and hearsay on the news these days. Although, I'm still waiting to hear the following: "The reason why these riots are happening is because our youths can no longer take out books from their local libraries. And sports shops were targeted because they need trainers so they can walk the extra couple of miles to their nearest libraries". If that were the case, I would applaud it, but the atmosphere of opportunism and anger is far more difficult to pin down to a political point. So instead, like everything else, I fear this episode will be used as just yet another rag doll for people to use to their own ends whilst the actual underlying problems will remain.

Gigs

Looking forward to Wiersze W Metrze on Saturday, showcasing some of the best of Polish (and UK) poetry! I'll post full details on if I can in the morning.

Have a few things planned for the Autumn, but that's it for August...

The Sound of Alone

2011-07-28T01:28:00.001+01:00

The drip of a tap
A flush from upstairs
The passing of years
Like the tick of the time

The sound of alarms
Microwave dings
And lukewarm water
Showering down
On a morning soul

The press of a remote control
Reluctant under the thumb
The silence of mute
The hum of the fridge
And all the other things you know
Pitch perfect

Like that creak of the door
And the groan of the floor
And that mattress
That knows you so well
It sighs under the weight
Of your dreams

Now, do you remember your dreams?
Like the chair remembers
Your bends
And dents accordingly

Recite them, please
Those whispers of verses
That itch for release
And the twitch of desires
That hide underneath

Will you simply turn the volume up
And drown them out
Like you drowned the floor in clothes
That your heart was too heavy to fill?

Empty their contents
Into greedy ears
And voice them!
Savour them on your tongue
And then spit them into life!

For it is night
And the cars outside are nearly still
And the streets are drunk
In revelling
And there is music
Oh, there is so much music
Embedded
In the back of your throat

Can you taste each note?

Sing them out loud
But don't commit them to page
For the words won't stick down
They will float away

Like your memory
Of this feeling
When you awake
To the drip of the tap
And the warm of the shower
And the mind of the gap
And the rush of the hour

SAGE & TIME TONIGHT!!!

2011-07-27T15:03:00.000+01:00

Woo weee! It's all happening! (The wise old owl has landed!)

Sage & Time is celebrating its first birthday, and I'll be one of about 30 poets to bless the stage. Looks like it's going to be a very packed, fun-filled night!

It'll be at the Charterhouse Bar (near Smithfields Market), and doors open 7pm! More deets here (Facebook page).

Thoughts, July 26th

2011-07-26T16:22:00.001+01:00

I think I'm turning into a cynic.

Yeah, I know. Roll your eyes, kiss your teeth. Whatevs. I don't actually want to be cynical about certain things but it's this part of my nature that keeps bursting out. Worse still, I look for a cure on Google by typing "Cure for...", and it tries to autofill the rest, like it knows me. First up, it thinks I'm looking for a cure for cancer. And then Aids. (Try typing in the results for either and you'll be in cynic heaven). So when I finally get cynicism down, the first results that come up are no help whatsoever. First, there's a site claiming an exceptional American Rabbi to be the ultimate cynic cure. But nothing about the practicalities, although I guess it would help if I were Jewish. And it would help if he were still alive (he died in 1994). And then there's the Cynic's Sanctuary, which lists 714 things to be cynical about, which can only exacerbate the problem. So before I get bored, I randomly select another page, which suggests Tokyo is the perfect cure to cynicism. But, apparently, I have to lose something there first and look for it the next day, or week, or whatever, because the Japanese - or, more specifically, the people of Tokyo - are very honest and like to return things. So, in 2005 (the article was written in 2006), 100,247 mobiles were reported missing and, of those, around 90,000 were handed in to the police.

Sorry, I don't mean to be cynical, but I'd hate to buy a ticket to Tokyo so I can lose my phone, just so I can end up being one of the 10,000 people who don't get theirs back...

The other thing on my mind that everyone's talking about is the News of the World/ Murdoch Empire story. For me, it's starting to wear thin. I know people who gladly read sensationalist stories and talk about celebrities as if they know them. I'm guilty too of flicking over to 24-hour news channels, as if there's a constant stream of stories out there (and I suppose there is, but most of the stories are deemed too uninteresting for public consumption). And I feel like I'm the only one who wasn't surprised there was a lot of illegal activity. How else do you feed public thirst for the latest scandals? Are people just going to volunteer to hand over their dirty laundry for public inspection? Methinks not.

So, whilst I'm glad to see such a hateful paper go, and some of the power behind it, I don't think it will end corruption, either in the media or the police. And I think there is greater political corruption to be uncovered. And, worse still, there are other papers out there making money out of it by playing the "sanctimonious card" with really bad morals...

For instance, I was suprised when the Norwegian Massacre story broke out and no one knew any details about the killer. Yet, the following day, The Sun decided to run an article calling it "Norway's 9/11" and there were reports about how Al Qaieda has begun using "blue-eyed blond haired" allies to carry out its atrocities. I can't really state my point more eloquently than Will Sturgeon does on The Media Blog, but it really does seem that speculation has become the new news. So, whilst on the one hand, there are papers illegitimately sourcing information to fill their pages, there are others out there with nothing to go on, filling it with rubbish that may or may not be true.

To highlight the point, when Amy Winehouse was reported dead, I knew it would be a matter of minutes before all the stories came out about her going on a drug binge etc etc. But, according to actual reports so far, no cause of death has been stated. And no drugs were found at her house. So, for now, it should be left simply as that. She's had a colourful enough time of it in the past few years without the need to embellish her departure with more tales of drugs cocktails before bed time.

She was almost certainly Camden's most famous resident. And despite the celeb status, she was only a few months older than me, and lived only a few minutes walk from my flat, so there was something shocking for me about someone so close in age/location etc. So I was really sad to hear the news. And I still am. Although, this week has been the first I've heard of the "27 club". Once again - and, perhaps insensitively - it's a way of labelling and classifying people, this time troubled musicians who die aged 27.

Anyway, on Sunday, I walked by the Square roughly where I thought she lived, and of course, I came across the shrines. Bearing in mind I do live in Camden, I've never seen so many cigarettes and bottles on the streets, in such a small area!

Malibu, yeah great, but why the Caffe Nero cups??

I'll leave it here for now and get on with some work...

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-07-26T14:28:00.001+01:00

...Outlook.

Grr! Just when I'm off work, I get a word that makes me think of work emails! If I get Windows next time, then something's up with the generator I use. Having said that, it reminds me of sitting in a workshop in Jersey, back last September, and all the participants had to use the word Vista for this free-writing exercise. I think I was the only one who had computers on the mind, so it probably says more about me than anything else...

Untapped

2011-07-26T14:19:00.000+01:00

They call it tapping
Like the gentle pulse of two fingers
On a desk
Like the squeeze
Of water from a pipe
Like a broken rhythm
And shiny shoes
Going clickety clack on a stage

But this is no tap dance
Designed to entrance
You with its subtle footwork
There is no artistry
Or delicacy
Or elegance

This is the heavy hand of headlines
Stamping across the page
Stories sold
And money paid
To hush mouths
And open others

This is the tears of mothers on tape
This is tales that wag
And Wags that tell
And teeth that tut
Over front pages

This is the smell of rotting trees
Branching out into the spying game
This is the rootless world in which we live
Where we feed off murky sources

And they call it tapping
Like two shy fingers stroking on a door
Or like a gentle wake up call
From a lover

But this is life
This is the news
This is information

On tap

Teen Angst(?), Part IV

2011-07-26T13:50:00.010+01:00

Ok, something else from the past... Again, written around 14.

I'm reluctant to post this, but I've just found this again and feel like sharing. I guess it's one of the most personal things I wrote at the time. There's enough of a gap between now and then but I still find it troubling to read:

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-07-20T23:01:00.002+01:00

...Spy

How mysterious!

UPDATE....

2011-07-20T15:23:00.002+01:00

I'm remembering how to enjoy writing prose. Yesterday, I finished a short story which is, frankly, not an easy read - nor was it easy to write - but it was certainly a lot of fun.

They say you should start off with what you know, and I know what British rain is like, and I know what Pentecostal churches are like, and I married them together - with the help of some actual rain in the background and a text back from my brother, reminding me of a few ol' time choruses.

On the poetry front, I haven't written much this week, but I have been reading. Which is good, I suppose, as I like to think of myself as much more of a reader than a writer. And I seem to be buying more books than I can read at the moment. So at least I know how I'm going to be spending my summer...

Tavistock (168)

2011-07-07T18:05:00.003+01:00

It's just another square, today
Trees, grass, a statue or two and traffic stuttering along
Me on the top deck
Sat next to a man in pinstripe
With bad taste in Lady Gaga songs

But his white leads aren't connected to any bombs
And soon this bus will pass
Until we reach another square
And then my stop
Where I get off
Limbs intact and late again
And damp with summer rain

LOUNGE ON THE FARM HERE WE COME>>>>>>>>>>>>

2011-07-07T17:05:00.000+01:00

At LOTF tomorrow and looking forward. Back Sunday, with any luck...

More deets at http://www.loungeonthefarm.co.uk/, and possibly a couple of tickets still going!

Teen Angst(?), part III

2011-07-07T16:59:00.004+01:00

POST- COMMENT: Yeah, I didn't think about the significance of choosing this particular one until just now... Hence I've just written Tavistock (above).

Something else I wrote around age 14... Handwriting's meant to improve with age, apparently, but mine's definitely got worse:

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-07-07T16:53:00.000+01:00

...EXHIBIT

I like this one... a lot to work with

JULY, stand by...

2011-07-07T16:41:00.001+01:00

So, since I last updated this blog, we've seen in a new month, and I've celebrated a new year of my life. I miss being excited about getting older! But it's just another year, and I wasn't all that enthused about the whole thing, so I didn't really celebrate that much - although, actually, thinking about it, I never have done.

According to the hurricane poem I remember from childhood, July is the month to "stand by". (June = too soon). And I do feel this is a bit of a standby month. I'm waiting for school to break up, so I'll have more time free to write and travel, and I also have my fingers crossed for a couple of projects, which I'm waiting to hear about.

I had an interesting conversation with a friend last night and, it's true, no matter what you do - even if it's meant to be enjoyable - it's very easy to be so busy that you don't give yourself the time to enjoy it all. Up to now, that's how I've felt about writing prose. If I'm working on the novel, I need to give myself enough time to clear my head and connect with the characters I'm writing about. If I'm too busy, it doesn't work - my head space is someplace else and, at best, all I can write is a mediocre poem or a paragraph that gets deleted the next day. So I'm making it my duty to spend enough time with my characters, and allow myself to get absorbed in them. It's pretty hard to do when I have my phone on and I'm sitting at a computer that's connected to the internet - I have an awkard love/hate relationship with Facebook, Wikipedia, YouTube and Gmail - but it seems impossible to be totally rid of them.

In any case, I've decided that this is a winding-down month for my social life - and perhaps for poetry too - and it's time I start completing this thing!! Further update on the novel to follow!

Postcards from Home, Part 2

2011-06-24T14:06:00.006+01:00

A postcard can be a kept as a keepsake, something you keep for the sake of it. It can also serve as a memorial to holidays past, in which case you may call it a souvenir. Because "souvenir" is a French word, it makes the concept sound grand, but it really means the same thing as "memento" or "memory". Souvenir items are generally bought or stolen; a memento can be a more nebulous term, and is not always used to describe tangible items. A sexually transmitted disease, for example, can be a memento from a particularly enjoyable night out, whereas taking a souvenir from that same night out might involve borrowing an item of clothing.

A postcard is also used to convey a message; for this reason they are popular. There is a printed message on this postcard, in the form of a caption, which reads: "I greet from London". The caption is what makes the people in the photograph laugh, not to mention the situation of finding an outdoor postcard booth, in front of a museum, on the way to a pub. By the time the camera flashes, their laughs have settled into smiles. And by the time the postcards begin printing, the photographees are keen to get to said pub.

The six smiling figures all tell their own stories; that is what storytellers do.

In a few weeks from when this is taken, a photograph of the postcard will appear in a Montenegrin newspaper. The article will only have a loose connection to the postcard; it will be written by one of the members of the group being photographed. Others may lose theirs or give them away.

In additon to being a souvenir, the postcard could be described as a kitch (not kitsch) article: kitch as in "kitchen", because, that is where you will leave it until it slips behind the fridge. And the day you find it again, a few weeks later, you will remember (je souviens - from where we get "souvenir") that particularly good night out when someone thought it would be a good idea to use the photocard booth outside the British Museum on the way to the pub.

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-06-24T13:47:00.000+01:00

...Ideal

And it's kind of an ideal word to get going with, really... Ideally, I'd like to write a manifesto filled with all my ideals. Or a talent show (Pop Ideal) or a game show (Ideal or I don't). But, instead it will help me with the next chapter of my novel... info to follow.

Dave from Romford (Transcripts, part 1: Listening to the Radio)

2011-06-24T13:01:00.001+01:00

"Let's get this straight... or whatever
I ain't got time to be poe-litically correct
Most times I don't even know my right from my left
I'm colour blind and tone-deaf
See? I am proud to be politically incorrect

"And I'm not being funny, right
But at the end of the day
If you catch my drift
I like to call a spade a spade -

"I don't care what shade you are...
You could be red... purple... green
But I mean what I say
And so I like to say what I mean

"So, let's get this straight... or gay, bi,
Whatever your perversion
I ain't one for casting aspersions
You stick to your truth
I'll stick with my aversion
But that ref, he was an absolute twa-"

"-I'm afraid we've just lost Dave from Romford, please remember to keep it clean and keep it brief. You're listening to Talk Sport, do we have our next caller on the line?"

Teen Angst(?), part II

2011-06-19T19:04:00.001+01:00

I've had a toothache all day, and it's reminded me of something I wrote when I must have been about 14:

Even some fools
Have Wisdom
Teeth

I hope
I don't
Wear
Mine

Down

Yep. Short and to the point...

Nothing Left to Fight For...

2011-06-19T16:19:00.116+01:00

Around a year ago, I began writing a poem, opening with the refrain:

"There's nothing left to fight for/ We've fought all the wars/ Settled all the scores/ Championed every cause... And there isn't such a thing as injustice anymore".

This was, of course, meant to be taken with some irony, as I don't actually believe this (let's get that clear first!) But I was unable to finish the poem, in the same way I couldn't give any definitive answer at the end of "Tell Me What You Believe", a poem I started writing around the same time. In that poem, it builds up by listing the huge sacrifices others have made for their rights. So when I ask, at the end, "Is there anything you give a fuck for?" the only appropriate conclusion I could think of was, "I thought so." As I wrote it, I was kind of overwhelmed by history and figures, and were I to answer that in any other way, I would have felt disingenuous (I must add, I also ended the poem like that for another reason which I won't go into here).

Whilst I can allow any resolution to remain ambiguous in "Tell Me What You Believe" - as it's a personal question - I don't feel I can do the same for the unfinished poem above. But it's all a question of relativity; for instance, as much as the recent government cuts to services will affect me - can I really put the closure of a library on a par with a Libyans left stranded at sea, after fleeing their homes which are being bombed to "liberate" them? What I might see as an unjust system when it comes to, say, police stop-and-search tactics in London, pales into insignificance when I pit my sense of "injustice" in my experience against those who really know the meaning of the word. And so, I simply stopped writing the poem because I couldn't develop it any further from the sarcastic "Forget your glass ceilings/There ain't no space/It's been replaced by an accessability ramp/Outside every front door". I mean, where can you go from there?

I recently picked up an anthology of New Caribbean Poetry. In the introduction, the editor claims dub poetry has 'sputtered into a dull silence', and has failed to 'produce anything remarkable' in recent years. The problem, he goes on to say, is the fact that the old oppressors, the colonialists, or "whitey", are no longer in charge, and so the strength of this genre - and the wider genre of protest poetry - is weakened; in other words, "nothing left to fight for", or rather, no easily identifiable antagonists to rally against. By contrast, he says, one slam poet, now living in North America, has the "advantage" of homosexuality, which she uses as a tool for her protest poetry. The 'unwelcoming door has lent her poetry urgency', he adds.

The potency of exclusion and/or suffering for creating "art" is not a new concept. There have been studies on the issue (Google them!) And when it comes to the storytelling tradition - and I count spoken poetry as part of this - there's a double whammy. The performance poetry scene - and most notably the slam scene - often prides itself on being relevant to the "people", lacking the pretentions of other art forms (here's a brief history of the development of slams). And since its recent beginnings, protest poems, anti-war poems and "angry" poems in all their forms have proved popular, more so than, say, nature poems, "happy" love poems or poetry about "all the nice things that happened today" (I'll exclude comedy from this for now). In the same way - and hence the comparison to other forms of storytelling - there are few successful novels I can think of in which the protagonist/hero does not have to face one major challenge or another. Adversity makes for a good story and, almost certainly, a good poem.

Coming back to the anthology and the comments on dub poetry, I agree, reluctantly, that a mighty wrath against injustice or hostility can offer up some of the most creative, cathartic experiences; however, I also believe it has the potential to perpetuate the "them and us" binary. Those who listen to, and read, protest poetry are the 'right on' and 'righteous', the others are the unenlightened, the overseer, or whatever negative epithet related to slavery or religion you can think of. A common enemy, or a common obstacle to happiness is fertile ground for some of the best writing; on the other hand, a series of petty grievances and/or faraway threats risk alienating the crowd, or patronising them. But at least, in both cases, there is some external barrier from achieving a goal. Some power from above, or below, has caused insult, or anguish, or hurt, or fear and the poem becomes a performance space in which to vent these concerns.

If I were ever to finish the poem I've started (actually, is a poem ever "finished"?) I'd like to somehow come round to the fact that there are endless causes to be angry about. For instance, why is money being wasted on pointless exercises like trying to ban a haircut from school? Or sending kids to jail in the US, over a blow-up doll prank (whatever the full story is, it just doesn't make for good publicity about the US legal system, does it)? And yeah, why were those Libyans left to die in the boat in the Mediterrean Sea, and why can we not stop the death toll rising, considering it's not that great a stretch of water? And, actually, why are so many people crossing over from the African continent into a potentially hostile Europe? Surely, if ever there was a source of injustice, we can find it in our waters.

The potential problem with poeticising these injustices is that it runs the risk of placing responsibility elsewhere. And whilst there is plenty of wrongdoing perpetrated by others, it risks being impersonal, accusatory, boring. During an argument many years ago, I remember hearing the expression - and being incensed by it - that "if you point your finger at someone, three more fingers are pointing right back at you". What makes for a more uncomfortable experience is working through the internal conflicts, and looking at places where I/you are part of it, creating a sort of internal "jihad", or struggle with oneself, to borrow from Islamic terminology.

In the society I'm used to, where "democracy" is prided, "diversity" encouraged and freedom of expression tolerated, it's difficult to rail up against the system in its entirety. "Fight the Power" sounds a bit stale, because if you haven't fought it by now you probably voted for it, in one way or another, even if you subscribe to the Deanna Rodger school of politics (I love that poem).

One poet I've heard speak on occasion is Fran Landesman. In one poem, which begins "You can't tell the good guys from the bad guys...", she talks of being "buggered by ambivalence", because morally everything has become a shade of grey. There are no "goodies" and "baddies" like in the old days - things might have been much more unfair, but at least they were easier to put in their place.

I probably will never finish the poem. For one, I'm not sure the irony suits. Secondly, it's something I started too long ago. And fighting for a particular cause or a particular set of values... well, that's something that's become less clear over time for me. To borrow words from Deanna, justice, and the pursuit thereof, "is often mistaken for seeing light at the end of the tunnel". And, also, somehow I think it's not a case of fighting "for" or "against" causes, but fighting "with" and "alongside".

Anyway, I'm rambling on...

Gigs... Deets and so on

2011-06-13T20:55:00.001+01:00

Last week
So, last week, I was one of five chosen slammers for International Alert's "Poets for Peace" fundraiser. Raymond Antrobus, Curious, Stephanie Dogfoot, and Michelle Madsen were my spars and - wow! - what poets to go up against! It turned out to be a low-key but very cool night. And, it was a close call but, eventually Curious freestyled his way through the final to be the winner.

To be honest, until I was asked to do the gig, I hadn't heard much about International Alert, but now I have, I'm taken by the steadfast way they have been promoting peace across the globe. For more info, you can always click here.

This week

Confused the dates for Hammer & Tongue, which I thought was tonight, at the Green Note Cafe on Parkway in Camden :(

Weds, however, I'll be at Touch Me I'm Sick! for the first time - and I'll be featuring!

And Fri, I'll be there for the final Bingo Master's Breakout to take place at St Aloysius Social Club. It's a Poetry-Bingo-Karaoke night and, seeing as I've never been to bingo, but I can hold my own in a karaoke fest anytime, I'm looking forward to checking it out.

Now I've looked over these again, basically, I'm not leaving the borough this week, except to go to work.

Later

Will keep ya posted, but good things to come, including a feature set alongside The Bro's Grim at Bang Said the Gun! The night's lively and the tag says it all: "poetry for people who don't like poetry". Expect noise and laughter etc.

More things later, like "Lounge on the Farm"... but I'll be updating this sometime over the weekend!

If...

2011-06-13T16:05:00.001+01:00

If I tell you I love you
Will you please close your lips?
And if I silence them
With a kiss
Will you then let me breathe?
And if I say I'll never go
Will you please just leave
And let me be

Rips (because you called me morbid)

2011-06-09T10:46:00.001+01:00

If I flirted with you, Death
It wasn't because I wanted to be possessed
By your embrace
Not because I was taken in by the folds of your cloak,
The skeleton of your waist
Or the hollow of your face

If you thought I was ever impressed
By your other conquests
Or by the sharpness of your blade
Or the bones around your neck
Then you were wrong
Because your bling don't mean a thing

But don't get it all twisted:
I did lead you on
Teased you with my bravado
And drove you to cliffs
Where I stroked at your cheek
And leaned for the kiss

But I wasn't ready to taste your lips
I suppose I just wanted to sniff the high
Of your desire
Dance to the flames of your ego
Because sometimes I get by like that
And sometimes I get haunted by
Recollections of the people you've collected:
An eclectic mix
Of friends you've picked
And plucked away from my grasp
And sometimes, bwoy, I get jealous
And, just sometimes, I get furious
At your shameless tactics
Of throwing yourself at anyone that comes your way

And I know you got a thing for young men
And I know you love guns and you like wars
But then you always want more
And you can't settle with just the one
So you take the young with the old
Regardless
And it's that undiscerning drive that's got me curious
That's got me wanting to peek inside that hood you've been wearing
Like it won't ever go out of fashion

Anyway, if you feel I was flirting with you, Death
There ain't no passion sparking up between us now
Try not mistake my sly glances for advances
And if you think I want to take you by the hand
Then don't hold your breath
Because you're not ready for me yet

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-06-07T09:40:00.000+01:00

...ADULT.

UPDATE...

2011-06-04T12:29:00.000+01:00

Haven't posted on here for a while. Partly out of being busy, and partly because I've been revising some of my first draft poetry and feeling guilty about the slow progress with my novel. These things don't just write themselves, apparently! So it kind of ruins my enthusiasm to update a blog when I know I should be completing another chapter.... Grrr!

In the meantime, I've been to Stockholm and really enjoyed it (see above). I've also been to a few poetry gigs, as well as weddings and birthdays... and I've been stopped and searched (again!) while taking pictures of Obama's entourage, when they visited London. Apparently, I must just "have that kind of face", which the snipers on the roof picked up on. Yeah, charming!

I've been reading voraciously too but, as usual, buying more books than I can read. And one or two have blown my mind, especially Kei Miller's The Last Warner Woman. I've also been - what a cliche! - cursing the estate agents who are currently trying to sell the flat I rent. And looking for more part-time employment. And that just about sums up my life at the moment.

Then, of course was the sad news of Gil Scott Heron's passing, and the tributes that have begun pouring out. I can count myself among the many people who have written their own version of The Revolution Will Not Be Televised when I was a teenager. Seriously, the amount of times I've rocked up at an open-mic night and heard rappers or poets performing their own twist on it - too many to count! The only other poem that I know has inspired so many imitators is Howl. Both have remained timeless.

Gil Scott Heron was revolutionary; he managed to help shape a culture during a time of great political unrest. The impact of his words still remain today and that's a great testament to the power of words themselves. So on days when I question my compulsion to write - even when I'm not actually doing much in the way of writing - it does inspire me to think that something as intangible as a poem, a book or a song can stir people up and make a difference.

Coming up later this weekend: Today's Random Word, Teen Angst part 2, Gig info, Novel update and maybe a poem or two... Phew!

A postcard from home, part 1

2011-05-20T15:19:00.001+01:00

I do not wish you were here
So don't expect a mug
Or an "all I got was this stinking..." t-shirt
Or some novelty glasses

No charming bracelets
Or Union flags
Can wave away my sentiment

I do not wish you were here
And not because I see you as extra baggage
Or because I'd try to lose you
Darting through traffic and dancing through crowds

But because I'm too proud
To share these newly-widened pavements
These dark canal paths
And those Justin Bieber hoodies (ironic?)

With you

I do not wish you were here
Not because I don't care
But because I do

Hmm... needs a redraft...

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-05-20T14:33:00.001+01:00

...Exponential

I like it...

Exponential has potential

Mother's Day, Part 2

2011-05-20T14:19:00.000+01:00

So I've figured - me being the reluctant letter/card/email writer that I am - that now is about the time my Mother's Day card would have reached the States if my grandmother was still alive. Considering that in the US, Mother's Day was the 13th this year (I think), then by the time I sent a card or let my mum's complaints over the phone get to me - you know how it goes: that none of us, her children, ever write to Grandma, whereas all 15,000 of my other cousins do - it would have been about now or early next week that the card would arrive. So it's honest if I write something now rather than dead on time.

Sadly, she died last year and I was asked to write a poem about her for the funeral. I thought it would be hard, seeing as words often fail me at the most inappropriate moments - and I'm meant to be a writer! - but, after talking to other members of the family a couple of days before, I simply transcribed what they said and what we felt.

Underneath the schmaltz of the poem, there truly is something magnificient about someone who can stop strangers in the street, and either tell them off like children, or invite them to stay, or give them food and/or clothes. The kind of person who can command that sort of authority and respect is rare. And so, in response to all of those facts, I wrote this:

My Grandmother is like no other grandmother you’ll ever know
My grandmother sings hymns on her chair, with a plait in her hair
And she prays, and she gives, and she shares, and she cares
With a heart big enough to sustain dynasties

My grandmother’s left a legacy
So tangible you can see it in smiles across the globe
She’s touched lives she’s barely known
Because that’s the kind of grandmother who used to sew clothes for
strangers
And feed her neighbours with food she never had
A woman who made others glad
And didn’t think twice
Always ready to give advice
Picking up pieces of other people’s lives

My grandmother is like no other grandmother you’ll ever know
Because you could bask in her anecdotes and her gentle words
And you could bathe in her proverbs
Which still reverberate across the Atlantic and back
And what my grandmother lacked she never showed
Because she was a proud woman who always gave and never owed

My grandmother dressed in smiles
She also loved to look smart, she was a woman of style
As well as substance
She used the scriptures for sustenance
And carried her own elegance
Until the end
She was a mother to many, and to even more a good friend

My grandmother is like no other grandmother you’ll ever know
An example of duality without hypocrisy
Renowned for her generosity and her obstinacy
Loved for being candid, always spoke her mind
Yet she was still loving, and considerate and kind

My grandmother is like no other person you know
Because she’s left behind a legacy so tangible
You can feel it in the lives of people gathered here
A legacy so potent you can smell it in the air
And you can hear it in the words and the stories others tell of her
From Kingston to London, Atlanta to Florida
A legacy so clear you can see it in the eyes
Of people she’s clothed and fed
A legacy that means she may now be gone
But will never be truly dead

Because my grandmother lives on in our memories
We celebrate her life
And though she will be sorely missed
We can all count ourselves blessed
To have met such an extraordinary person
Who is now, finally, at rest

UPDATE

2011-05-17T14:03:00.002+01:00

/poetry - quieting down again on the gigs front, though Teabox at Richmond last Fri was particularly good - an intimate night. planning on going to a few gigs over the next couple of weeks and just listening. also, have a lot of first-drafts that I want to do something with. I kind of want to order my "non-performance" stuff and think about getting a pamphlet together.

/novel - slower than I could have foreseen; having extra time and using it wisely will help!

/shorts - another story published; a few more ideas and I'm also ready to resurrect my Anansi series. stuck on dialect choices though as a few of the stories use an Anglo-West Indian patois that I don't think I can sustain throughout, nor do I want to.

/life - reading a lot. looking for more part-time work. writing another essay - and now thinking of linking it with another essay to make a series. tired but mostly upbeat.

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS...

2011-05-17T11:51:00.000+01:00

...CRUELTY.

Hmm. Looks like things could take a nasty turn...

(Btw, the point of this random word thing is to think about the word and incorporate it into a piece of writing, if stuck at any point for inspiration... Or just to think about the word and move on... Like, Whatevs.)

We name our babies before they are born (delving into abstraction)

2011-05-06T05:02:00.004+01:00

Something comforting
Not in a Southern way at all
Like, for instance, a cross-
Word from your mother
Because you didn't call

Something borrowed
Like a leaf
Out of my book
Or a shoe on the other foot
Or your own time:
Our days are as grass, you know

So something to pluck
You up:
A string
A thread
A stray
Hair on your head

Something to lead you astray:
A distraction, if you like
And a retraction if you don't

Something you won't say
For fear of being cliché
Or blasé
Or passé
Or je ne sais quoi

A raison d'etre
Unaccented
And uncomplicated
And unhurried

What you seek
Is what you'll find
If you stare enough
Into your navel

There are still lessons
To be learnt
And cords
To be cut
And skin
To be slapped

And still they complain
That you never cried hard enough
The first time

Reason(ing)s (Unfinished) #2

2011-05-06T04:29:00.001+01:00

Because if I allow
My brows to unfurrow
And my lids to fall
I'll be left with nothing
But shuttered eyes

And if I focus on the blinds
And the stillness of it all
Cars will still whizz past
The window

The breeze will still touch the glass
And breathe an echo
Of the cryptic question
That you asked

I cannot face the dark

I cannot turn
My back on yesterday
Even as it melts into my lashes
Clings to them
Heaves each hefty hour until
The drop
And

Yeah

There you are
Waiting behind my
Eyelids, man
Wielding your axe
And baring your soul/teeth/jewels

(Delete as innappropriate)

I give in.

AV baby!

2011-05-05T19:52:00.016+01:00

So if you didn't already know, we've been off to the polls again, voting about whether we need to change our old voting system. So basically, we're voting on the vote.

I'm voting yes, not necessarily because I believe the Alternative Vote is the best system, but because it's probably a better system than our current one, and slightly nearer to Proportional Representation... And also because I know so many other people are voting no, not because they've thought about the issues but because they want to punish the Liberal Democrats... Anyway, none of it matters, does it? The result will still be no, regardless, and life goes on... regardless.

All of this reminds me of the first ever post I put up on this blog; and I don't think much has changed.

Challenge #1

2011-04-28T19:58:00.001+01:00

Task:

Survive tomorrow without using, hearing or reading the phrase "Royal Wedding", and without using or hearing the names "Kate" or "William".

Total Success = 1000 points
Partial Success* = 500 points

*see definition under "deductions" section

Bonus points for:

Names
If you/your partner's name is "Kate" (400/200points)
If you/your partner's name is "William" (300/150points)
If your name is "Kate Williams" and you're a royal historian (700+1000 = 1700points)

(In case any of the above applies, use other diminutives for that day. Phone, text and email friends now and instruct them to call you Kathy, Katherine, Bill etc as of today)

Exposure
Switching on the television (200points)
Listening to the radio (100points. Add extra 100points if UK station. Add further 100points if BBC)
Buying a newspaper (400points)
Going abroad and telling people you're from the UK (200points. Add extra 500points if visiting the US)
Speaking to an American tourist (400points)
Using public transport in Central London (200points. Add extra 50points if the Northern Line, deduct 100points for using the District Line. These are my rules so go figure.)

Deductions for:

Cheating
Wearing headphones (-100points. Detract further 300points if using headphones in the vicinity of a television or radio or other communication device that is switched on. This only applies if you're not using the headphones to listen to a television/radio broadcast)
Wearing a blindfold (-100points)
Not leaving your home tomorrow (-200points)
Not answering the phone or the door (-50points per instance)
Humming/singing loudly to yourself when in public (-200points)

Single words
Hearing, reading or using the word "royal", or any variant - eg "royalty" etc (-300points)
Hearing, reading or using the word "wedding", or any variant/synonym - eg "marriage", "nuptials" etc (-300points)

The above deductions refer to the first instance the word is employed. Thereafter, for each subsequent occasion, 50points are to be deducted, per word

Partial success
If the phrase "Royal Wedding" or "Kate" or "William" is used, heard or read at any point tomorrow by participants, you cannot claim full 1000 points.
In the first instance, 500 points will be deducted.
Upon each subsequent violation, 100 points are to be deducted.

Good luck and God Save the Queen!

And Today's Random Word Is...

2011-04-27T17:30:00.000+01:00

...Secondary

Getting Grown, Man About Town, Two Points of View

2011-04-27T17:23:00.001+01:00

I've just been [up/down?]loading some pictures from my phone onto the computer and came across the above, and the below.

A mate of mine used this ageing device phone app thing on me. I think it was meant to add 40 years on, but really all they do is stretch the face and deepen lines. I still found the image slightly disturbing, but there may be a story in it somewhere.

These days, I can hardly leave the neighbourhood without finding dodgy references to Camden. Not only was there a shop in Tooting Market called Camden Town last weekend - and they were selling those very tasteful t-shirts which you can find in the original Camden Town markets, of course - but when I was in Spain last week I also came across two "Camden Town" shops (one of which is above). Talk about successful branding!

December 2010

When I can't write, or I'm just procrastinating (like now), one of the things I might find myself doing is taking pictures of my surroundings. I must have about a dozen of these photos, and it's great to see some sun reflecting off my local for a change!

The Other Day, 2011

Tongue Tied

2011-04-27T16:43:00.000+01:00

Performing as part of a charity fundraiser for Zimbabwe, on Sat 7th May. Come along!

Tooting Takeover!!

2011-04-27T16:41:00.000+01:00

Dirty Hands Poetry Collective and special guests (including me) are going crazy this weekend, if last weekend's antics are anything to go by! It's all a part of the Brick Box Tooting Spring Festival. Full deets can be found on Facebook

UPDATE...

2011-04-26T16:14:00.000+01:00

is coming later...

Happy Easter!

Have a few gigs coming up here and there. Back from a great break. Loads of things to say/do etc. so I'll be posting up here later. Also could use some help with blogger formatting as the 'Upcoming' section and my attempts to add paragraphs is a little annoying.

Lazy

2011-04-26T16:11:00.000+01:00

Let's get lazy
Together
Slouch back into each other
And slur our tongues
And let them lie
Between the grooves of our song
And dance slowly

Let our dischevelled minds
Collide
Let our heads flop
And our gazes sag
Let's drag our shoes
Along paths sloping down
We'll meander in our syncopated rhythm
Not following maps or plans
And our hips, they'll just be shelves
To rest tired hands

Let's get lazy
You and I
Let our eyes roll back
And our mouths yawn wide
Let's ride through time
With our arms hanging loose

Let's not care
About which of our elbows is on whose table
Or whose hands are whose
Let's not pay lip service to ettiquette
Let's stick two feet up to such things
And let the breeze sway our minds
While the time hangs low in the sky

Let's get lazy
Together
You and I
Or you and me
Me and you
Let's not care about grammar too
Because you will punctuate
Each half-finished sentence
And I will be entranced
By your effortlessness
And we will be floating on our laurels
Coasting
Somewhere off into the hazy distance
Where the living is easy
And the people are free
I just want to be
Lazy
Together
With you

Mothers' Day part 1

2011-04-10T19:00:00.000+01:00

"If this were my wish to grant you
I would plant another hurricane on these isles
To watch you dance
Away that mild-temperedness from your spirit..."

from 'Dear Mum'

So last week today was Mothers' Day.

Recently, I've been writing quite a bit of poetry which has gone to places I never thought it would. When I write prose, I have the support of my workshop buddies, The Unwriteables, and we're so named because when the first members got together, they decided to write "bravely", touching topics outside of their comfort zone, and experimenting with style and form. The testing ground for most of my poetry, on the other hand, is when I first bring it to the stage. And it's difficult to experiment with new poetry when you know what kind of audience will be at a particular poetry venue, and you start to guess what they want to hear, either writing accordingly, or leaving out anything you're not sure about for a set, and sticking to "greatest hits" (examples of my own can be found on my other blog).

So, thinking about the Unwriteables ethos, I wrote a poem to/about my mum. It was her birthday the week before and I hadn't bought her a birthday present because I had no idea, after all these years, what to get. And, thinking about all the things you would never say to family, I came up with a poem that was quite uncomfortable but cathartic.

I couldn't resist reading it out at the Farrago Spring Slam! during my set, and halfway through, I regretted it. How personal! And how raw! It's certainly something I wouldn't show to my mum, even though it was addressed to her - so why did I go there?

It's difficult to write poetry that's honest and perhaps a little offensive when you want to be liked, and when you want to keep your personal stuff, well, personal. It's probably the last time that poem will ever be heard - at least in its current form - but, thinking back on it with the perspective of two weeks, I'm glad I did read it out. As much as hearing poets rant about their feelings can be a bit tedious and painful, it can also be liberating. And it's more honest than preaching about politics or war or whatever else we bring up to the mic. I might work on the poem and make it punchier, or abandon it altogether, but it's all part of the process, as they say...

A (very) belated Happy Mother's Day!

UPDATE...

2011-04-10T17:59:00.001+01:00

Peterborough Cathedral

Heheee! Out of nowhere, some of what I was writing has been saved under "Draft".

Taking up from where I left off:
So I haven't updated much on here this week, partly out of being busy, and partly out of needing to recharge my energy. A few important things have happened in between the gaps. One of them is Mothers' Day (at least here in the UK). Another was April Fools' Day (same). Both inspired some mad poetry which I will post snippets of later today.

Then there was Saturday in Peterborough. I managed to arrive early to see a bit of the city and I'm still not really sure what to make of it. I mean, they had a Wimpys there - I hadn't seen one of those place in years! And the cathedral sticks out as an amazing piece of architecture, right at the end of what is now a huge shopping strip. Poundland and 99p store enthusiasts like me will like it, although I'm not sure if it's everyone's cup of cha.

Anyway, being one of the judges for Poetry Rivals (link to follow) on Saturday was interesting, not least doing the "Youth" category, which ran from 8-18. After hearing something like the 32nd poet come up on stage in the afternoon, it was a strain (and don't you just love the way I weaved that word seamlessly in?) to weigh up the qualities of all the poems against each other, particularly whilst weighing up the age factor. The winner, you can imagine, was excellent and did a touching piece about getting drunk (yeah, I know!) with friends, and one of them dying.

So that day I spent part of it wondering how you can "judge" poetry, per se - not an original thought, as many critics of poetry slams (too lazy to insert example links at the mo) have really laid into this concept, hailing it as the "Death of Art", or as too "performance"-based, and less about the quality of language. I see their points but have my own counter-arguments to that (but would be treading old ground - others more eloquent than I have summed it up already).

What I'm more interested in is the concept of "fun" and the fluidity of language. For me, a performance poet should be bringing their raw energy to the stage, or at least shining a bit of "truth" into their poems. Anyone can stand up and read "I wondered lonely as a cloud" or other somesuch verse, but when you have written a poem yourself - or you've at least made a poem your own - it becomes personal; revealing, even. Maybe the word I'm looking for is "intimate". In any case, that's what I love about spoken word, over the written word. That, and having fun with language. The use of sound, including volume, tone, etc gives it a richer feeling that can resonate with the soul. It's a halfway point towards music and song. And, in fact, I've been near-hypnotised by poets I haven't even understood fully. One Polish, and the other French. On both of these occasions, I knew what the poems were about - although my Polish is non-existent, and my French slang, likewise - but the delivery transmitted an energy I simply wouldn't have got from the translated text.

And that's just how my mind works, jumping from one thing to the other, while actually what had been on my mind was the actually judging, and what defines "good" poetry, and how to decide what is better: an "excellent" poem for an 8-year old or a "really good" poem for a 17-year old, and whether it's worth forgetting the whole thing and telling all of them to just enjoy writing and performing poetry. Answers on a postcard please!

Coming up, Mothers' Day...

And Today's Random Word Is...

2011-04-07T13:33:00.000+01:00

...Strain

(That will be a stretch!)

UPDATE...

I just did a post and the computer crashed... In fact, nearly an hour's worth of rant, plus an extract from a poem.

Will repost later!

2011-04-07T13:30:00.001+01:00

AND TODAY'S RANDOM WORD IS....

2011-03-31T13:34:00.001+01:00

...Worthy

Nice! Already have a few ideas about this one.

(In case you haven't noticed, I'm just using the Random Word Generator as featured on my 'links' bar)

Teen Angst, part 1

2011-03-31T13:23:00.004+01:00

So I've been resurrecting some of my old writing from when I was a teenager. Despite a lot of it being awful, and some of it being unreadable - literally, as my handwriting is terrible - some of it's touching and brings back a few memories, good and bad.

This is something I wrote when I was 14 or 15:

Atlas (The World is Mine)

2011-03-31T10:08:00.003+01:00

My friends tell me
I stoop when I walk
As if I have always
Carried the world on my shoulders

No wonder I have become obsessed
With my weight
Scaling back for weeks
And then feasting on dumbells
When I feel weak

I am preparing
For my biggest feat:
I want to make the Earth move
For you

For you move me
To walk head up
Through streets
And not bow down
Under the pressures on my neck

I still sweat
I still quake
But now I am learning
To forget the weight
And walk proudly on

And I know it will stay
But I will be strong
And I won't let it sway me
From standing tall
From standing up

From spinning things around
On their axis
And learning
To see them differently

You move me
To be me
But though our planets may collide
And our thoughts may coincide
You are not my world

And I am not yours

CHILL PILL TONIGHT!!

2011-03-30T11:42:00.007+01:00

7.30 @ Soho Theatre

The Week

2011-03-29T13:50:00.000+01:00

Poetry

\producing quite a lot of new poems at the moment. I've also found myself occasionally posting direct onto this blog or typing into my phone while I'm on the go.

\been to a few gigs recently and getting a good energy from hearing other poets. Particularly enjoyed being at Keats House last weekend.

\performing at Chill Pill Weds! Looking forward to the relaunch. Am also looking forward to two Farrago dates - one at RADA on Thurs, and the other as part of Poetry Rivals in Peterborough on Saturday

Prose

\writing has stalled a little in the past week. I haven't learnt to do fiction on the go in the same way as I can poetry, so it means I need to set aside the time... So looking forward to my two days off this week, and seeing what I can produce.

\reading, on the other hand, is good. After worming through several books this month, I've now started reading Submarine by Joe Dunthorne and The Fifth Figure by Jean 'Binta' Breeze.

\research - I need a few recommends on Black British History and Caribbean Folklore, and particularly Anansi stories.

Midsomer Murdered

2011-03-28T19:27:00.002+01:00

Turn your contrast right down
Because the brown in your hue
Means you are not fit
For clubbing tonight

The manicured lawns
And village greens
Are too genteel
For chocolate skins
They will not be muddied
With your type

There will be no axes ground
Above your head
No pillows to smother you goodnight
No abductees
No poisoned teas
Because this is not your territory

They say this is the last bastion
Of English eccentricity
So shut up and live
Those of other ethnicities
You are too dark
To stain these stable doors
With your blood

You must suffer
Long life in your urban terrain
You must stay this side of our stile
And not come within range
Of our strange and unpleasant land
Where neighbours nurse nefarious plans

You may never claim
The dubious acclaim
(Or privilege?)
Of being one of our Midsomer murdered
So please leave our village
And go back to your cities
And watch, and learn
And live

Just having a bit of fun! Something that caught my attention last week... The executive producer of the "quintessentially" English detective programme was caught out saying he would never hire black or Asian actors as it would ruin the "eccentric" "Englishness" of the show. And of course, he later "retired", and of course, a few comments in the papers show support for him, and of course the ratings have since gone up, and of course, the show is a lot of nonsense anyway, BUT of course, it also shows that ignorant minds are still out there.

End of.