Tonbridge Poetry Trail Poetry Reading

I walked the trail of poems in Tonbridge last weekend and was delighted to see my poem 'The Window Seat' up in the Beyond the Grounds café window. I enjoyed this moment, followed by a welcome cup of in-house hot chocolate on the very same seat that I have come to enjoy, with the views, both inside and out, that inspired the poem. 

Then this evening was the night where all Poetry Trail Poets available read their poems for the delight of the surrounding poetry lovers. The running order followed the Trail itself. I was a third of the way down. It was very enjoyable and it was nice to read poetry live locally, as well as hearing the talents of the fellow poets in town. I hope to engage more with this lovely and friendly community. 

The Tonbridge Poetry Trail

Poetry in Tonbridge is alive and kicking (or should I say 'walking'?) with the Tonbridge Poetry Trail organised by the 'Roundel Poetry in Tonbridge' group. Throughout the month of October, 24 poems written by 24 poets will be displayed in 24 participating shops around the town. I was fortunate enough to get involved by being asked to write a poem for the 'Beyond the Grounds' coffee shop by the river, which is now displayed in the shop window. It is entitled 'The Window Seat' and is based upon my experiences of using this same location to think and work in nice surroundings of a weekend. This was an exciting opportunity to get words shared beyond the written page.  Later there will be a Poetry Reading evening where the poets involved will share their poems, an evening that I am looking forward to in order to finally get connected with the other local poets in town.

Deeds & Words - A Festival of Women's Voices

I had the welcome opportunity to attend a poetry reading on 7th October at 'Deeds & Words Tonbridge - a festival of women's voices'. As part of the three day programme, two established poets, Elisabeth Cook and Rebecca Goss, read poems from their own published and soon to be published collections. Whilst listening to their stories through their words and looking at those present in the audience with me, I reflected how many people must write poetry but simply aren't published. If we all got published the world would be saturated with words, but would that be a bad thing? We all have stories to tell and we can all learn from sharing and listening to each other. Regardless of the merits of being published or not, it is great how writing poetry is so accessible to many. You just need a pen, some paper and the courage to write down some thoughts and see what happens. Granted, some  people will be more successful than others on a first attempt, but there are plenty of 'How To...' videos online to help. With a continuous view to keep an open mind regarding the theories of poetry writing (I tend to write mine automatically, like a personal journal), I attended the follow-up workshop by Elisabeth Cook: 'Starting to write: A Practical workshop.'

This was a great opportunity to hear a poet's perspective and try out a different approach. First of all, as part of the warm up, she offered some lovely observations about poetry: 'It's really important that we do give certain experiences a voice and recognise that they do matter.' - 'Don't dismiss anything as not exalted enough to use in a poem. At the heart of it is observation' - 'Things observed in a certain way have a sacramental clarity', and finally, 'You discover your feelings about objects by writing about them. You discover meaning. Let yourself play.' So we did just that. We observed our surroundings (quite a bland and dark indoor studio interior), focussed on a few objects and tried to write around them. This was my creation (of no title):

The shiny cavern of the curve of the chairs,

are looked over by the lights

as if to say:

'It is by my might, not thine,

that you shine so bright.'

The bright light of the beams of the lights so high,

are looked over and across at by the wires

as if to say:

'It is by my power, not thine,

that you shine so bright,

your glory I deny.'

The power of the wires that are curled so high,

are looked over and across and up at by the scaffolding all around,

as if to say:

'It is by my might, not thine

that your power flights,

that your beams shine so bright,

that your curves are alight.'

At this, they all agreed,

the sound resounding back

into the background of this scene

so yet unseen

by you or I.

7 October 2018

Copyright EH 2018

As part of the discussion, we also touched upon line breaks in poetry, something that has intrigued me before whilst writing or retrospectively. She offered these thoughts: 'In poetry, line breaks are incredibly important, the line becomes something you see, a unit of meaning.' This has given me fresh perspective on the allocation of line breaks and I shall mull further both as I continue to write, and as I re-read ones that I have yet to type up. 

Poetry Unplugged

So, this evening I finally took part in an open mic event. I've read poems out at a local poetry reading before, and spontaneously at conferences or church events, but this was with microphone at the Poetry Café 'Poetry Unplugged' event in London. The poetry readings were in the basement below the café, so I bought a drink at the bar upstairs and went down below to sign myself up for a reading. The room was small, with enough seating for about 40 people. I noticed that I was number 35 on the sign up list, so I was in for a long night - though understanding the etiquette that you don't leave half way through once an evening has started, especially if you read in the first half. The small crowd grew and the buzz began to build. There were such a range of characters in the room: old / young; modern / traditional; student / professional; 'arty' / cool; and other such society sector categories. The young American next to me, here on a creative writing course for the summer, began practising his 'spits', taking the tension up to the next level. The man to my right was calmly reading over his lyrical creation, perhaps practising, perhaps choosing which to read. I had been informed by the MC that poets would have 4 minutes at the microphone, to do with whatever we wished. I began to mull over my own choices: should I bare my soul and read 'Disappointment' - a tale of heart ache angst, lightened only by the love that I feel from heaven, thereby exposing my faith, or stick to a more 'socially acceptable' theme - school or death, perhaps. Whatever, I put my hair up. It's going to get hot in here. 

And so it did, throughout the hour and a half of poet filled angst at the mic, I needed some air. It was half time and I hadn't been up yet. I had signed up just fifteen minutes before the cut off time after all. I made mental plans to sign up earlier next time. However, it turned out that the order you sign up, isn't always the order in which you speak. As one of the proclaimed 'Poetry Unplugged Virgins' I got to go ahead of the remaining regulars towards the end. Having heard a range of poets and points of view, I dived in and read 'Disappointment'. It was met with noises of deep appreciation from the front rows of the crowd. It was hard to know how it was being met whilst concentrating on delivery, but I was there to flex my poetic muscles and to find my voice in a place where any viewpoint would do. I was there to push through any insecurities about what I should and shouldn't read in front of others. They (the abused; homosexuals; God haters...) have a voice, and so do I. Their voice is no more important than mine and nor is mine more important than theirs. I have a voice and have a right to be heard. It was also good to find a place where poets were understood, where angst of the soul was accepted as the 'norm' and where sharing words was considered to be an evening out well spent. I have found my home: amongst poets.

Adoring Alliteration Adventures

During a poet's workshop yesterday I discovered a love of "form" i.e. writing poems with some constraint to them, rather than simply off loading my soul's mumblings without a care for metre or rhyme (see 'Poetry - Intellectual vs Soulful' blog post). It was rather refreshing and I discovered a craving for experimenting more with word creativity. This is what he said about alliteration: 'It's a battle between you, the writer and what you want to say, and the constraint (i.e. having to write with only words beginning with a certain letter). The skill is to make it look like you are writing what you want to say (rather than your words having been obviously directed by the constraining letter).' I had a go and here is the result: 'W' being my spontaneous, unplanned constraining letter:

Wild are the winds of my wanton words,

Wrapped around Wednesday's wicked wrangling of wanting word whores.

What, when, who and why,

Waste not words or do and die.

Copyright EH 2012.

He also spoke of 'Oulipo' the French poetry group founded in 1960, which sought to add constraints to writing in a reaction against the Surrealists. Their idea was that the more constraints you have, the deeper into your consiousness you will go in order to write around it, hence you are freer than the Surrealists ever were. How fascinating! He offered us a poem where we had to guess the constraint. No-one managed it but once said it seems obvious. Only the vowel 'e' was used. This is called Univocalism. I'll offer an attempt of my own when I can get my head around that one...

World Book Night 5th March 2011

I'd only been to one poetry reading session before, back during Book Day 2009, and that was filled with secondary aged students eating their lunch with crumbs dropping into their laps as they eagerly listened to the next poem to be read. A kind audience. I braved reading one of my own poems at that one too. This time, however, on World Book Night 2011 the audience was comprised of seasoned poetry lovers, cooing with excited appreciation for the next "Betjeman" or "Keats". I discovered "Diary of a Church Mouse" to be rather entertaining when read with the voice with which it was intended. I also discovered that my knowledge of our poetry heritage was dire. (I need to either read up, or learn to nod or coo in the right places.) The local Book Night organiser, whose focus on poetry readings was responsible for enticing me in, via a good friend's invitation, read her selected poems like a stage actress whose pronunciation of vowels were all simply perfect (a history of elocution lessons it transpired). She put her heart and soul into each reading, not thinking for a moment to feel subconcious of the onlooking audience. She read with her whole body emphasising the roll of the poem's rhythm. I looked on in awe wondering if I had the same sounds when I spoke or if my lack of elocution would betray me. I jumped in when the chance came to read my poem with an announcement that I was offering "one of my own". (It's a hard job to follow Keats but someone's got to do it). I stayed safe with the first one "The Peace of 6.a.m. on a Sunday". Then later, once others had the chance to read too, I offered two more to give them some air, (there is no point in writing 479ish poems just to leave them gathering electronic dust on my hard drive): "For She Who Hates Herself Not to Eat" and "The Cycle that Turns", both based on my observations of young people during my time either as a teacher in a secondary girls school or as a volunteer youth worker. I had some good feedback and was encouraged to keep writing. This was a good day in my journey into the sub-world of poetry readings.

Book Week 2009

Book Week 2009 at the school where I work was once again alive with book character dressing up days, favourite book videos and an air of enjoyment by teachers and pupils alike. I dared to take part in the poetry readings meeting, albeit sticking to a relatively "safe" poem - no pupil likes to see a teacher cry after all!


The Peace of 6 a.m. on a Sunday

The peace of 6 a.m. on a Sunday.
A bird is singing in the trees.
It’s his wake up call to one and all,
He says “Join me if you please”

Join me in this new day,
But there is no work to be done,
Because Sunday’s here, it’s a day to revere
Let’s praise the Lord it’s come.

I shall sing here from the tree tops,
I shall sing here all day long.
For I love the peace of a Sunday,
But it’s the morning that fuels my song

It’s at 6 a.m. on a Sunday
That I choose to start my song.
The rest of the day other sounds start to play
So in the peace is where I belong.

My song sings out in the silence,
For nothing else do I hear.
Wake up now, it’s time to get up
With my song I draw you near.

Wake up from your sleepy slumber.
Cast the dreams aside for reality,
But if you cannot yet bear to be aware
Then relax and listen to me.

The peace of 6 a.m. on a Sunday,
There’s a shrill sound in the trees.
I thank the Lord for putting him there,
The bird wakes me up with ease.

I turn over under my duvet,
I curl up in a ball.
There’s a warmth in there from which I choose not to tear,
But I thank God for that bird so small.

Copyright EH 2008. All Rights reserved.