Well it was half an evening of poetry, and half annual general meeting. The details of the meeting don't need to be gone into. The read around was rather interesting because it was a kind of speed reading event, with everyone reading their poem without discussion. It's perhaps not something I'd like to do every week but it did mean that we got through a lot of material, and perhaps heard work that we might not otherwise have.
Christine read a very interesting poem about Goebbels children. Not a subject that gets discussed often, and certainly not one that is given the humane treatment that she gave it. There was a new bloke there who did a most curious piece of performance art. His poem was about how only women and poofters dance - or so his father told him. As a poem it was ok. The curious aspect was that it was written across numerous bits of paper, that appeared to be unconnected with each other - bits of one stanza were on the same piece of paper of bits of another stanza, without seeming rhyme nor reason, Which had me wondering about the process. But regardless, his delivery was strong, and there was entertainment value in watching the poem literally unfold. Steve read a rather good poem about horses and colours and a city - that in terms of sense may have benefited from discussion, but was an aural treat, and rather sensuous. Kevin did a couple of his atonal spikey pieces which is always a treat. John gave a couple of nicely observed vignettes. Frank gave us a lyrical piece that had apparently once made John Hegley cheer.
I had rather too much Mordue Workie Ticket, and offered Remembrance and the Tryptich. In truth I was rather pleased to read both of these without discussion. And it took my best cynical Mockney persona to get through Remembrance without blubbing.
Instead of writing nonsense, I decided to flex my mental muscles by writing sketches of what I saw n the train journey journey....
and again the square windows, lit for tea
slip past with brakes release, into the country
of back yards, bicycles, bar-b-ques, love seats
which in summer soak all work's stress.
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swaying in our seats the familiar
anouncement
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the familiar robotic intones
plays out, then pips and beeps, doors close.
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the cows like cricketers
stand ready
heads down
waiting for the bowlers arm
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under the steady gaze of the church clock
cows stand ready, heads down
for the bowlers arm to turn once more.
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tunnel embankment, embankment tunnel
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black mud road
through the green wall
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a thwack, follow through
stand and walk on
trolley behind
still a fair way from the green
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last years sycamore pods
hang like foreskins
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a dead swan
waits on the canal
for sale signs litter
the new built flats
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Guisley enters in grey slippers
from the cow pastures
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It remains to be seen if these lead to anything.
I did see a deer, which poetically speaking should be inspiring, at the time I was thinking about the disorderly order of the the countryside between Ilkley and Burley - stands of ungrown trees in plastic rabbit proof sleeves, the sloping land bisected by triangles of bushes, field boundaries, paths, etc. Oh and there was a hovering bird of prey, and six crows flying in antagonistic formation in the grey and misty sky.
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Cue random picture for the facebooks seasoning...
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