A fistful of poets

Yes, more poetry. We are so lucky. Thanks to the glory of literary festivals (Birmingham and Wellington, Shropshire), I get to see four poets in four nights - Wendy Cope, Benjamin Zephaniah, Liz Berry and Moniza Alvi. If none of those names make any sense, take it from me that's an enormous range - between rhymed and unrhymed, comic and serious, political and sensual, contemporary and traditional. I'll get to hear each of them read their work and talk about it, and often in the talking there's a little nugget dropped which makes additional sense in understanding poems I already know. Can't wait.  

National Poetry Day

So, of course, I wrote a poem. Well, I knew I was going to, for a couple of days. First there was Jeremy Hunt at the Tory Party conference, confident that in no time at all he'd be able to staff the new approved, no-foreigners NHS. No surprise there. He knows about this stuff. He's been responsible for more British doctors leaving the NHS than anyone in history, so presumably you just turn the switch the other way, and it's all hunky dory.

then I remembered an amazing snippet from four years ago. Hunt was in trouble over the B Sky B negotiations, because he'd been cosying up to the Murdochs. Michael Gove, another Murdoch acolyte, toured the Radio studios in Hunt's support, saying why he should keep his job. Because he was intelligent and far-sighted? Oh, no. Because he was a terrific Latin American dancer, and did "an amazing lambada." You couldn't make it up.

That gave me my central image, the fluent, agile Hunt, dancing out of trouble. So I sat at the breakfast table in my dressing gown, finishing off the coffee and toast as I scribbled a twelve stanza account of Hunt's career - all rhyming, over 20 rhyme-sounds, but none of them with "Hunt." Cut it down to 8, send off a couple of begging e-mails, and that evening I'm performing it at Liz Lefroy's poetry evening in Shrewsbury. That was my part of National Poetry Day, and I had a ball.  

Suddenly, poetry is hot...

Poetry on the box. Who'd a thunk it? for years, telly averts have used doggerel which makes you want to curl up and die. Now Nationwide have the nous to use good poets like Hollie McNish, writing decent poems, which are about real people and not just flogging mortgages.

And now BBC of all places, has two hours of poetry on a Saturday night. Amazing. Railway Nation has a varied relay of writers, getting on and off the London-Glasgow train, just like Auden's Night Mail. Liz Berry, sly, observant and affectionate, picking up on the little horses in the Midlands landscape, but also on the vitality of two girls in her compartment. Andrew McMillan, sounding lyrical and intense, in the course of simple observation - we don't get that every weekend.

But after that comes Kate Tempest, sweeping in like a hurricane, somehow remembering a varied, detailed, humane monster of a poem with music, Let them Eat Chaos. Totally breathtaking.    

Ten Letters

I go to lots of poetry readings, and they're pretty varied. most of them are a mixture, good things, average things, things that need a lot more work. So it was a real pleasure last night to go to the Mac to hear Ten Letters, a sequence of poems about Birmingham. The poets involved were areal mix, in race, social background, gender and age. There were reflections on the changing face of the city, anecdotes from the Austin factory, memories of school and a stunning piece about the victims of gang violence. All of the performers had learnt their pieces, and clearly worked on how to present them  - no mumbling introductions, embarrassing pauses, or poems that outstayed their welcome. Each piece started with a short piece of video, a large picture of the next poets, briefly talking about their relationship with the city - then the lights come up, and they're standing there, launching into their poem. Wonderful stuff.  

What are we allowed to say?

As the world, and the media, get sillier by the minute, an old fogey takes refuge in old-fashioned rational argument. The London Review of Books is an extravagance, in that it gives its writers time to develop what they have to say, but those writers are generally not waffly and self-important - they take the time because they need go to go into detail, and one of the abvantages of being retired is that I do have time to spare for such reading.   

For instance, in the current edition there's a long article by David Bromwich on free speed. Rushdie, Charlie Hebdo, no platforming in US universities, and a lot more besides - including Timothy Garton Ash's current book on free speech. there's nothing in the article which is far fetched or outrageous, and lots of moments where I think - "yeah, maybe that's what I thought when..." But the overall effect is of gratitude, that I feel wiser, clearer, less confused. Somebody out there is serious about making sense of the world.   

The Gift that keeps on giving

Which may sounds like a strange introduction to Dominic Chappell, the walk-on part in the major tragedy that is Philip Green's career at BHS. (If you want the scores, PG sold BHS to DC for a pound. DC took £17 million out of the company; PG took £571 million). So I hadn't paid much attention to Dominic, until a couple of walk-on appearances in last week's Guardian grabbed my attention.

He'd got a £1.5 million interest-free loan from BHS so that he could rescue his parents' home from the threat of repossession, but was waving away any subsequent discussion of this with the assurance that he and his father didn't talk about such matters and it was nothing to do with him. Then he got picked up for driving at 64mph in a 40mph area (despite already having ten points on his licence). His lawyer pleaded for him not to be disqualified, partly because it might mean that he had to travel by train - and the last time Dominic travelled on a train he'd received critical comments on his conduct at BHS. 

The comic poem that resulted (see Special Pleading in Poems from the News) almost wrote itself, but none of the details, however outlandish - e.g. Chappell telling the speed cops that he used to drive a racing car - was made up. He did it all himself, and the sense of entitlement is just gob-smacking.

Lucia Berlin

It's a funny kind of feeling. A friend is telling you about this terrific writer, of whom you've never heard, insisting that although she died in 2004 and you've never heard of her, you really ought to read this 400-page book of short stories. So you're a little bit piqued, because how could they be that good and you not know about it, but the book's there and you give it a try. and then that wave washes over you - how could I be so stupid? Why offer any resistance at all to something as varied, as talented, as witty as this? She's like a streetwise Alice Munro, subtle in observation of detail and character, but tougher and more direct. There's stuff in here about drink and drug addiction which feels totally convincing, but she's not showing off or trying to rub your nose in the dirt. She's telling you how it is - for this person, and that person, and that situation. Such variety, and some of them really short - just a few pages, they do their job, and she moves on to something else.  the collection is called A Manual for Cleaning Women. Stephen Emerson, who put it together, concludes his introduction like this   - "Myself, I can't imagine anyone who wouldn't want to read her." No, I hadn't heard of her either, but he's right. 

Line of Duty

So that's it, done and dusted, series 3 of Line of Duty comes to an end. Already, they know there'll be a series 4, and yes, I suppose I'll watch it, but each time the mixture gets diluted. The core of it, the interrogation stuff, is still terrific, but there's too much else that isn't convincing. Kate going undercover, Craig Parkinson doing his crook cop act again (why did we have to know from the start what he was doing?), and the whole simplified, over-personal storyline around the Polly Walker character - none of this was really worthy of Line of Duty as we've known it in the first two series.  Daniel Mays was wasted before he began, which is why they had to bring Lindsay Denton back, and lean so heavily on series 2. Yes, it's been great, but i'm not sure it needs to be kept going for ever, not if this series is anything to go by. Why do they always have to recycle stuff, beyond its sell-by date?  

Undercover

Really sad, the day you part company with a show you'd hoped to enjoy. Undercover had all sorts of things going for it - serious presentation of a black family, engagement with complex political issues, stunning performers. But tonight i just couldn't stop shaking my head, and turned off. It's partly the real-life objections, from the partners of undercover policemen, this it isn't actually this way. Living in marital harmony with Adrian Lester for 20 years, before it comes out that hey, actually he's a cop. you can see why they wouldn't want to make him too obviously sick, but then what other kind of person would deliberately chat up, sleep with and then marry someone without telling them what they were up to? But it's not just that. It's the over dramatised flying top the US and back again, only to shout at a judge that her client is at risk. It's getting the DPP job and then deciding hey, all the resources in this organisation will be devoted to investigating a case from twenty years ago. Nothing happens this simply, in isolation, but because Maya's played by a terrific actress they assume she doesn't need to work or talk with anyone else. Charging down a corridor swapping barbed lines with a stuffy politician is fine for the West Wing, but it'snot how stuff actually happens. I tried, but enough is enough.      

Victoria Wood

Absolutely gutted. No, we can't afford to lose her. I remember going on course about TV sitcom writing a few years back, with lots of sharp young things, and getting very condescending looks when I said I rated dinnerladies.  And tonight I got out the old VHS tape of "An audience with Victoria Wood" just to listen to the finale again - the utterly stunning Ballad of Barry and Freda. Yes, you. Let's do it - or Beat me on the bottom with a Woman's Weekly. Yes, that one. Mounting rhythm and fabulous internal rhymes - they don't make 'em like that any more, but then they never did. The show was attended by all kinds of celebrities, and the camera keeps sweeping through the audience, picking out big names, helplessly laughing, obviously recognising that they ware watching and listening to someone very, very special. She was always unique, a real national treasure.  

Us and Them

That's the title of a poetry booklet i put together last year, with the subtitle - "the war in error." It's about the way the West has presented and reported the War on Terror. the final poem in it deals with homegrown, a play set in a London school, charting the process of how teenage kids might be attracted to go to Syria. It was, sadly, closed down before its first performance.

This week, Gillian slvo and Niholas Kent have launched Another World, a different piece of verbatim theatre, also exploring the radicalisation of young Muslims. The authors of Homegrown objected that this was an attempt by white liberals to divide the world into good and bad Muslims. I haven't seen either, but I'm sure that there's room for more than one dramatic exploration of this territory - if ever there was topic that called for subtlety and intelligence, it's this one. Treating radicalisation as a virus, and doubling prison sentences at the sound of the word 'Syria' isn't going to be a lasting solution. 

So many poets, so little time...

And here comes Wenlock poetry Festival, one more time. But this year it's different. As poet-in-residence, there are six slots on the programme where I feature, plus three events that I really want to go to as a customer - and that doesn't leave room for much else. So glad I caught the brilliant but unassuming Jonathan Edwards in Shrewsbury last week, because i have to miss him here. I'm running a workshop so I simply haven't time to go to anyone else's, but if I did it would be Andrew McMillan's - I've been reading his Physical, fascinated by what it says about dads and sons, and marvelling at the distance between his poems and his dads'. Talking of poets who write stuff I could never write, there's also Steve Griffiths' marvellous late love poems - I went to his launch in Ludlow, so that means it's OK to miss him here. There's more good friends and good poets I'll miss out on - Emma Purshouse with Nailmaker's Daughters (what a fabulous cover that collection has) and I can't go to Chris Kinsey's session, because I'm busy launching my second collection with Thirza Clout - that's 2.00 pm on Saturday, folks. Yet again, it is all happening - but we get to what we can.  

Down to Earth

The dream is over. In 2011, 2014 and 2015 i went to Guernsey, to collect poetry prizes won in their competition Poems on the Move. that means the lucky poem goes on a bus, but also gets displayed in the ariport, to greet you as you get off the plane. It has been a lovely ride, and I can't complain, but it's finally over. Ian MacMillan has looked at this year's entry, awareded three prizes and three commendations, with a total of thirty poems being displayed on various buses around the island - and I am nowhere. This is, of course, the defauit position for poetic competitors all over the country. I've been there before, and now i'm back again I dare say I shall survive. I feel slightly more resilient and detached, having had another taste of the process from the other side, shortlisting poems for the Wenlock Poetry Festival so that Don Paterson can decide the winners. three of us looked at 560 poems, and ended up sending DP a batch of twenty. Really pleasant, interesting and time-consuming, but nothing like an exact science. Three other poets might well have come to very different conclusions. We know that before we start, but it does no harm to rediscover it. The competitive icing is tasty and  - in brief doses - a boost for the ego, but its still icing. Back to the cake.  

Poems at the Asylum

It didn't sound promising. Come and do a few poems at a reading in an art gallery. They don't normally do readings. There aren't any chairs. they don't know if there'll be an audience, but they want to try it to see...The invitation came from Emma Purshouse, and that's a good start. she's a terrific performing poet in her own right, but also a warm and generous encourager of other talents. So, i thought, why not? It was cold and draughty, and the weather was foul, but who cares? An amazing mixture, in age, background, style and anything else you care to name, but there was some really good stuff in there, and a positive, supportive atmosphere throughout. Arty experiments can misfire, but this was a fabulous initiative I'd have been desolate to miss. 

This Changes Everything

And it does. That's an outrageously arrogant title for a book, but in the case of Naomi Klein's comprehensive, devastating argument about the conflict between capitalism and the climate, to me it seems entirely justified. as a writer and a person I think she's seriously impressive - always clear and logical, marshalling huge amounts of material, but also with personal touches of activists she's met, experts who've explained things, developments she's witnessed at first hand. she's always positive, looking for the response that will make things better, the tactics that might make a difference, where in many cases my instinctive reaction is to head towards despair. Not because I want to, but because the opposing forces are so powerfully entrenched. Yet again, she has found a way of presenting important arguments that makes them urgent and easy to grasp, without simplifying the issues or taking cheap shots. We're lucky to have her.  

Comprehensives, anyone?

Fascinating article by Kate Pickett in today's Education section of The Guardian, making the case for comprehensive education. Remember that? Everyone's kids get a decent education, and it isn't all about competition or selection.  Treated in the UK as a kind of wild dream, there are places which actually manage this quite efficiently (Finland, for instance) and the long-term gains are substantial - some can even be measured in test scores, though they don't go in for the luidicrous kind of testing we currently inflict on our kids. Pcikett's point is that there's good evidence for this substantial change. But she's only raising the possibility because Jeremy Corbyn sees this as a crucial part of social justice - and that hasn't been true of any Labour leader for more than 20 years. I remember. I saw it happen. And this is so exciting, even as a remote possibility. (No, I don't underestimate the massive forces of privilege and self-interest standing in the way, but it's still good to see the case made.)

Free at Last!

I thought I might never get to write this. Shaker Aamer is going to be freed from Guantanamo. that shouldn't be a surprise, since the Americans decided he wasn't any kind of terrorist threat nine years ago. They've just been hanging on to him because he's a troublesome organiser of prisoners, and might give very embarrassing testimony to UK investigations into our agents' involvement in torture. But it is great news, and a tribute to his enormous courage and willpower, refusing offers to spy for the secret services, and standing up for the rights of prisoners in Guantanamo. Neither of which earn you any rewards in the evil lottery that is the war on terror. Finally, Shaker gets to see his 13 year old son for the first time. Imagine that.

(If you want to do a quick-read revision of what happened to Shaker, the main events are covered in my poem The Ballad of Shaker Aamer, in the poems section of this website.)  

Terrace Cafe, Guernsey

This is me, sitting in the sunshine in Guernsey, having my last meal before returning to the mainland and normal life. Despite gloomy forecasts, we've had the same bright weather that I've experienced both times I've come to Guernsey before. I've heard Neil Innes, Will smith and A.L.Kennedy. I've read poems, written poems and sold poems, i've talked to other poets, local writers, and enthusiastic readers. and I've sat here munching a toasted chicken teryaki sandwich while gazing around at the harbour and the sea. This may well be as good as it gets.   

Media Cynicism

A good example of how the media operate. This is The Guardian guide, previewing a programme about Corbyn's candidacy:
" Something amazing happened after veteran backbencher Jeremy Corbyn entered Labour's leadership race to "broaden the debate." The debate did not broaden. Instead, it narrowed like a halo- or a noose, depending on your position."

Really? Is that what happened? Not from where I sit. Without Corbyn, would the other three candidates really have given us a wider, more interesting debate? Don't think so. He's the one who's changed the atmosphere, raised questions which would otherwise have been ignored, and generated an enthusiasm we thought was confined to supporters of the SNP. He may not win, and he may be wrong on some issues, but he's done wonders for this debate.

Recording 'Canary'

No, not wild life sound effects. 'Canary' is my radio play about electro-sensitivity, and after a series of lucky contacts I went down to Reading for two days to witness it being recorded. James Jerrold got four actors and me to invade his house and traipse through two spare bedrooms (control suite and recording area) in a non-stop buzz of activity. He says he stopped for ten minutes to eat a sandwich, but without documentary proof i'm not convinced. After a massive trawl he'd got down from 700 possibles to an all-star cast of your - who were all sharp, lively and friendly. A joy to work with, and they totally got what the script was about and how it should be read - except that, being actors, they added pauses and inflexions that I hadn't dreamed of. It wasn't as good as i'd hoped - it was much better.