Robin Houghton

Blog/ 19/04/2017

What’s inspired me recently, and a writing/submissions update

I’m not spending a great deal of time at the computer at the moment – can only blame the marvellous good weather! I’m in admiration of those taking part in NaPoWriMo this month, such as Jayne Stanton. I do sometimes do the ‘start a poem a day’ thing, although I tend to do it alone and during months when there’s nothing going on to distract me!

Having said that, I’ve been writing and submitting. Some new work is emerging that feels fresh, and I’m enjoying the process. I think I’d been hitting my head against so many old poems for too long, and making a conscious decision to set them aside feels liberating. So, I’ve got six poems forthcoming in the summer across four publications, plus there are currently 14 more out to magazines and a couple of comps, and 4 pamphlet submissions. If nothing comes of the latter then I think I have enough new material & project ideas coming through to abandon this particular ‘pamphlet.’ I’m using quote marks because it’s possibly not one pamphlet, but the seeds of several. Or just the start of a collection. We shall see.

Meanwhile, I’ve been getting inspiration from a number of sources. I’m not a huge reader of novels, even though I used to belong to a book group and would do so again. But I can’t resist a good recommendation from a trusted source, and two I followed up recently were The Warden by Anthony Trollope and The Grass is Singing by Doris Lessing. Poet friend Antony had suggested The Warden as an introduction to Trollope, and I wondered why I’d never read any before. Surprisingly modern themes, sly humour, and copious use of the much-in-vogue present tense. Loved it. And Doris Lessing – a real revelation. I raced through this book, a story and characters that really puts you through the wringer. So agonising it would feel trite to call it ‘tragic’. At times I thought I was reading Steinbeck. Where the heck have I been?

Then there are the websites that regularly get my mind jumping up and down. In a recent Brain Pickings, Maria Popova introduced me to Anne Lamott’s Hallelujah Anyway – “on reclaiming mercy and forgiveness as the root of self-respect in a vengeful world”. It’s the kind of fascinating read that I stumble on first thing and then can’t get out of bed till I’ve finished it.

And then there’s Dan Blank, a big thinker whose weekly email newsletter is probably the only one I actual read right through and have done so for ten years or more. His new book Be the Gateway is currently on my Kindle reader and giving me plenty to think about as regards writing ‘goals’ and refocusing on connecting with readers rather than ticking off ‘achievements’. A lesson I need to learn, but will I?

Other sources of ideas this month came from the Antiques Roadshow on TV, some NHS information booklets and the Wikipedia entry for Eddie Van Halen. Betcha can’t wait!

spring montage — Let’s go out and enjoy Spring!

Angst/ 03/04/2017

Eyewear Anthology launch & a scary flashback

Eyewear - Best New British and Irish Poets anthology

This one is dedicated to my good friend Lucy, who often comes with me to London poetry readings. I’ve taken her to standing-room only upstairs rooms in Victorian pubs, damp basements that turn into saunas in the summer, corners of (yet more) pubs where poets compete with the steady traffic to/from the gents, drunk hilarity from the bar and piped music. She listens, she smiles, she pays her way, she never asks ‘is it nearly over yet?’ and she never complains. And whenever I invite her, she comes along, cheerful as ever! Thank you, Lucy!

Yesterday she and I were at the launch event for Eyewear’s ‘Best New British and Irish Poets 2017’ anthology, at the Windmill in Brixton. I’m very grateful to have a poem in such an anthology, and in such good company. Luke Kennard, thank you for picking it up – I didn’t feel able to elbow my way in to your entourage yesterday to say so, so I’m saying it here. I also want to thank Charles Johnson who originally published the poem in ‘Obsessed with Pipework’.

The Windmill is apparently a legendary music venue – award-winning, longstanding etc. But it had a very strange effect on me. The instructions to find it were to ‘walk along Blenheim Gardens until you think you’ve missed it’ – and I can sort of see why. The road is quiet and residential. The Windmill is slightly set back, and has the appearance of a social club or a school games hut, quite the opposite of the gentrified gastropub one expects in these well-connected, used-to-be-gritty parts of South London. The first thing we noticed was a huge barking/drooling dog on the roof, presumably the one the landlord sends in when punters are reluctant to leave at night.

When I walked inside, I had the most weird sense of deja-vu, or rather being transported back in time to the early eighties, or even earlier. I was hit by a sudden smell – it was as if People Had Been Smoking in there – you know, like in the old days! And no-one had opened any windows since 1986. But wait! I don’t think there were any windows.

The place was dark and deserted but for a chap behind the bar. He was friendly, and sold us two very reasonably priced glasses of wine. I resisted the urge to ask for half a lager & lime, telling myself this is not Lewisham in 1978, I am not a teenager but I was drowning in flashbacks to school discos, freezing cold bus stops, dingy pubs with sticky floors and the acrid taste of snogs with boys who smoked and drank bitter. I tried to laugh it off, thinking it was because I’m currently loving my box set of The Sweeney (“fags, slags, jags and blags”), with all its wonderful shabby London locations and dialogue.

Things got going though, and after sitting outside in the sun for a while we made our way back in for the start and found it packed. Yes, standing room only – although we did find seats at the back for a while, until someone came to ‘fix the air conditioning’ above our heads and we had to move. We heard readings from Eyewear poets, from Luke Kennard (who was the selector for the anthology) and also from contributors, including Jayne Stanton down from the Midlands and Telltale’s own Jess Mookherjee. Todd Swift, Eyewear publisher and compere, was very entertaining and saw us through not one but two power cuts when the fuses went. And Jill Abram was there, at one point working the desk and getting the mic in order – she’s clearly a multi-talented woman.

When it came to my turn to read, I had the usual struggle with the lighting/reading glasses etc, and then when I started speaking I heard this rough-sounding Sarf London accent ricocheting round the room – is that me? I have no idea what was happening, unless it was the trauma of the flashback-stuff and being so close to where I grew up – plus The Sweeney – but I was channelling Denis Waterman (“Ere Guv, isn’t this the boozer where you nicked Fat Charlie in that blag?”) Anyway, I couldn’t do anything about it – if I’d have smartened up my vowels halfway through then it would have sounded weird – like I was putting on a posh poetry voice or something. And I wasn’t imagining this – I mentioned it to Lucy as I sat down and she confirmed it. Ugh! Is there no end to the stressful situations we put ourselves through??!

By that point I was too embarrassed to risk introducing myself to Luke K. So I left feeling rather sheepish about it all. We couldn’t stay to the end as I had to get back to Eastbourne, so I felt a bit guilty about that too. But hey, it was a lovely sunny day. And on the way home I picked up an email to say I’d had a poem accepted for Magma. So that cheered me up. I didn’t watch any of The Sweeney when I got home though.

Angst/ 30/03/201731/03/2017

National Poetry Competition awards night

This is where I open with a statement about the star-studded atmosphere of the Savile Club ballroom last night, where the UK’s biggest poetry single-poem competition reached its climax…but this is my blog after all, so I know you’re expecting something a bit more – um – prosaic? Something about my exchanging some banter with Patience Agbabi while delving into my bag on the cloakroom floor, or trying not to look like an imposter as I anxiously scan the room for canapés. Well, yes, that did happen. And I was nervous walking in. But it was a joy to be there with poet friend Lynne, who shares my trepidation for these things but who always appears to be an oasis of calm and wisdom.

First up was the Ted Hughes Award, a newish prized instigated by Carol Ann Duffy, who generously funds it from her annual stipend for being Poet Laureate. Is she just the most impressive Poet Laureate ever? Like a brilliant Head Girl. Detention for anyone who doesn’t love her! The award “celebrates new work that may fall beyond the conventional realms of poetry, embracing mediums such as music, dance and theatre.” Winner this year was Holly McNish, and I was happy to see Harry Man also on the shortlist, a very talented and modest person who I had the pleasure of encountering on a Jack Underwood course a few years ago.

After a break, in which more schmoozing took place and the wine flowed, and a few people starting wilting for lack of canapés (I told Lynne she should have had the Scotch Egg with Apple Chutney that I’d had in the Running Horse earlier – small but perfectly formed), the big moment arrived. As the seven commended poets in the NPC were named, we realised we were standing in the same area of the room as the prize winners, which amused me no end. Although someone earlier in the evening did say to me “Have you won?” in such a matter-of-fact way I almost said “yes” just to see the reaction.

NPC judges — Jack Underwood and Moniza Alvi, two of the National Poetry Competition judges

I admit I was struggling to concentrate on the third and second placed poems as they were read, but how often does one reading of a poem have an impact? And it was hot and there was a lot of standing. But I genuinely enjoyed hearing Stephen Sexton read his winning poem ‘The Curfew’, and reading it on the way home. Congratulations that man, what a huge pile to rise to the top of.

The whole evening was great fun, and there was a warm atmosphere in the room. I felt able to say hello to many people, unfazed even by the occasional polite but puzzled ‘I can’t quite place who you are’ look. (Although I never assume anyone remembers my name so I always re-introduce myself – good manners I think!) At one point I said to Lynne “Oh, [Poet Name] just said hello to me, that’s good isn’t it?” to which she replied, unimpressed, “Who’s he?” which rather put my stupid name-dropping antics in their place. I enjoyed meeting new people, including Richard Stillman who introduced himself as a Twitter friend, which is always nice, and who proved very useful for finding people in the room as he stood head and shoulders above everyone.

Big thanks to the Poetry Society for all of this. And commiserations to all of us who entered and yet again got nowhere – hey, there’s always next year.

Blog/ 20/03/2017

‘Poems & Pictures’ blog at the Mary Evans Picture Library

mary evans picture library - poems & pictures blog

We’re into our fourth week of dust, clutter and washing up in the bath. The joys of home improvements! We still don’t have a fully working kitchen, one cabinet is ten mils too big for the space, one lot of contractors isn’t returning our calls and may have gone out of business (or ‘done a Brexit’ in the new shorthand) and rellies are coming to stay on Thursday but DON’T PANIC. Our builder is doing a marvellous job and it’s all going to be lovely.

All this is just my way of saying sorry for not blogging lately. I’ve also got a bit of work on, which I slip in between coats of paint and electricians turning off the power.

So what to report? I’ve mentioned before that I’ve been reviving some old poems, all part of a general poetry cleaning up/recycling drive.

One such is ‘London Bridge to Waterloo East’, a poem that did the rounds a few years ago to no avail. Last year I was contacted by Gill at the Mary Evans Picture Library, inviting me to contribute a poem to their Poems and Pictures blog, something inspired by a photo from their vast library (more than half a million images!) I really loved the historic railway photos, and when I came across a bird’s eye view of the massed railway tracks at Waterloo Station in the 1960s, I thought of my poem and got it out. It needed some work, and having the image in front of me helped bring out something new. The resulting poem has just been published and you can see it (and the photo) here.

The picture library is fascinating in its range of topics. It’s the sort of site where you start browsing and it’s difficult to tear yourself away.

Angst/ 03/03/201705/03/2017

News round-up: the good, the bad & the ugly

Facebook blackout – the verdict

It’s now been two months since I stopped checking in with Facebook and I’m enjoying the freedom it’s given me. I’ve been writing, little by little, not an avalanche of new stuff, but a lot of reworking of old material. I’ve also found new possible projects popping into my head, which may or may not happen but I won’t beat myself up if they don’t.

Being Facebook-free did mean I missed the news of two great-nieces being born on the same day, but good old email did bring me a missive after a couple of days. My siblings’ children are procreating so fast I’m finding it hard to keep track of all the new rellies! Above is a photo of my granddaughter Hazel, enjoying herself on the beach a couple of weeks ago 🙂 Nothing to do with poetry but a nice photo I think! She didn’t write her name herself, but rest assured I shall be coaching her in all things poetry asap.

Good things, and a bit of navel-gazing

I’ve had another poem nominated for the Forward Prize this year, the one that came second in the Stanza comp. Thank you to Paul McGrane of the Poetry Society for putting it forward (sic).

The launch event for Eyewear’s ‘Best British & Irish Poets 2017’ is next month and so if I can get myself to London on a Sunday I’ll have an opportunity to read, which will be fun, and I’m very interested to meet some of the other contributors.

The lovely Kay Syrad has taken one of my poems for Envoi, a magazine I’ve just subscribed to again as it’s come round on my magazine subs rolling schedule. Really enjoying the current issue especially work by Abegail Morley and Neil Elder. The poem in question is another oldie that finally came good – the first draft was written in December 2012 and this was the 15th draft. The moral of the story: if you think the premise of a poem is good, keep working on it and hopefully the execution will get there in the end!

New Writing South have always been very supportive of my work and it’s thanks to them that I’ve been able to have some mentoring from a lovely experienced poet, to help me with a pamphlet. The editing, culling, reassessing and reordering of the poems was an inspirational process for me and the result feels strong. Whether or not I can persuade a publisher of that remains to be seen. Anyway, I’m now seeing certain poems in a very different light, I’ve murdered a few darlings, if you like, and brought a few more back from the dead.

Wonderful night at Pighog in Brighton last week, at a new venue that’s really promising. The theme was ‘erotic poetry’ but the red lighting saved anyone’s blushes – although it made it hard to see who was in the room, an essential part of the night! The readers were Catherine Smith and John McCullough, both of whom are always such good value. Funny, moving and absorbing readings. John’s The Frost Fairs (Salt) is one of my all-time favourite collections, and his newest book Spacecraft (Penned in the Margins) is another real gem.

And here’s a funny thing: when I was first on a roll with getting poems in magazines, about four or five years ago, I think I mistook my lack of humility for confidence, whereas now I feel it’s the opposite – being humbled (in the sense of a) not quite achieving what I expected/demanded of myself, b) the more fine poetry I read the more I see realistically where I stand) has somehow helped me become more accepting of my own limitations, and thereby more confident about what I can do.

Less good things (but not really ugly)

Oh woe is me for yet more rejections – or as I like to file them, ‘Declined’ submissions – three poems sent back from The High Window, and not for the first time – so perhaps my work is a poor fit there. Actually no other rejections to report during February, although since the winners in the National have all been notified, clearly I didn’t do anything there. Boo! Quite a few things are still out though, so who knows 🙂

That competition discussion

I was fascinated by the comments after my last blog post, it made me appreciate the range of viewpoints there are on the subject – much food for thought. Thanks so much for the lively discussion; I’m very lucky to have such interesting and engaged people reading this blog.

Blog/ 26/02/2017

Reasons to enter (or not) poetry competitions

Do you send poems off to competitions? If not, why not? OK we all know it’s ‘a lottery’. Nevertheless most of us would admit it’s exciting to actually win something. Or is it?

I often debate this with poet friends and in particular the reasons not to enter comps. Let me know if you agree or disagree in the comments!

Reasons to submit to competitions

1) A competition win gives you instant visibility and credibility as a poet
2) Winning a competition is a terrific confidence-boost
3) There’s good money to be won
4) Pamphlet (or book) competitions are the only way to get published
5) It’s supporting a poetry publication or organisation that I like

Reasons NOT to submit to competitions

1) It’s expensive / I can’t afford it

Actually these are two separate arguments.

For some, it’s the principle of paying to enter a competition that grates. The fact that it takes hours and hours of work to even put a competition together, let alone promote/ judge and deal with all the related admin, is by-the-by. In competition publicity the emphasis is usually on the material benefits of winning, or the prestige to be gained – how much you win, whether it includes publication, who has won it before and what they say about it, etc.

Perhaps if competition organisers were to appeal more to the altruistic side of people’s nature – in how, by entering, they will be supporting the work of the publication or organisation concerned – their might be less grumbling. Rather as charities do – where your money goes, how it’s spent etc.

And nobody should be shy about the fact that the poetry judges get paid – they are poets who are earning a living from their work, and we’re hardly talking Premiership wages. Are they supposed to read 3,000 poems for the love of it? (If indeed they read them of course – see note below on ‘sifters’). And who among us wouldn’t want the same treatment if we were in their position?

Not being able to afford the entry fees is another thing. Any solution to this I suppose requires people to self-identify as being in a very low income bracket, which I imagine not everyone wants to. Organisations like Arvon offer bursaries and there may be the opportunity of an ACE grant for professional development but I don’t know if that extends to competition entry fees.

I don’t know if it’s the case, but I like to think that the competition organisers might offer a few individuals free entry, if they are known to them. Maybe even state this in the ‘where your entry fee is spent’ section on a competition entry form – better still, ask people if they are willing to sponsor an entry by a poet who otherwise wouldn’t be able to enter, by paying some or all of their entry fee. I think there would be takers for that, much the same as buying someone a magazine subscription as a gift. I certainly know there are organisers of poetry readings who sometimes help people attend who otherwise wouldn’t be able to afford the entry fee or travel.

2) My poems aren’t good enough

Ooh, are you sure? Maybe there’s more to it than this, but I’m no psychologist, so let’s take it on face value.

You only have to look at previous winning poems to know that there’s no magic formula or identifiable standard which makes a poem a competition winner. Second-guessing if something is ‘good enough’ is an impossible task.

There’s lots of advice on the web about what makes a ‘competition’ poem. Once you start writing them and getting the odd comp success, I think you get a feel for which of your poems are competition poems. But it’s tricky to identify any objective competition-winning DNA.

Standard advice is to research the judges. But that means finding out about their taste, not necessarily what they write themselves. Judges can be quick to spot ‘lookalike’ work, and it doesn’t always pay off. Is reading ‘something I could have written myself’ really going to surprise and delight a judge, send them into raptures? Personally, I doubt it.

So yes, read the judge’s own work, but also check out the results of other competitions they have judged. Read any interviews with them. Ask people who’ve been on their workshops. Or conversely, you might seek out competitions to enter where the judge is someone you have some experience of, as a tutor for example.

Remember too that many competitions employ first-round judges, or sifters. I encountered one competition where the named judge was sent only 30 or so poems, out of all the entries. You may have to read the small print (or ask around) to find this out.

3) What if I don’t win?

Although it feels a bit scary to send off a competition entry, in the early stage of one’s writing career there’s actually very little to lose, in terms of the fragile poet ego. Unlike submitting to magazines, you generally don’t get rejections. If your poem comes nowhere, you’ve no idea how quickly it was sifted out, and you can just forget (or pretend you’ve forgotten) you even entered. Or you can tell yourself your poem was probably in the top 10% of entries, if it makes you feel better.

If you’re an established poet, with a national profile and several collections to your name, entering a comp calls for a thick skin. Imagine appearing on a longlist, but you don’t make the short list. Then you find a CW student with two published poems gets third place. Or wins. WTF!I’m sure competition organisers publish long and short lists as a favour to poets – so they can see how far they got, and feel excited to try again, that sort of thing. Ironically, the more successful the poet, the more this actually becomes a disincentive to enter. Perhaps competition organisers could add a confidentiality checkbox to the entry form which says something like “I do not wish my name to appear on published Long or Short Lists.” It’s never going to happen of course, because having a high profile poet on a long list adds kudos to the comp.

In fact you may even be thinking it’s a bit of a non-reason. If you don’t want to be seen to lose, don’t go in for the comp! I suppose that’s one answer!

4) What if I win?

If this is seriously a reason not to enter a comp (because you’re worried about winning) then I’m not going to persuade you otherwise!

There are potential disadvantages to winning a high profile competition, such as dealing with unwanted attention – people criticising your work or even launching personal attacks in a way that doesn’t happen until you win big or find yourself in the national papers. But I doubt anyone ever got trolled for winning the Kent & Sussex.

So there you are. There’s really no such thing as the perfect poem that everyone agrees is marvellous. Comp organisers and poet-judges need the money. The monstrous poet ego needs the affirmation. Social media needs a constant fuelling of ‘who won what and look at me I won and yay for all the winners’ etc. Let’s go compete, and may the best (ahem!) woman win.

Good places to get info on forthcoming competitions:

Angst/ 16/02/2017

On staying motivated

It’s one of those tricky periods right now. The poetry honeymoon is well and truly over. I’m existing on a handful of acceptances (for which I am humbly grateful). I’m surrounded by talented, prolific poets who all seem to be successful and getting noticed while I seem to be not writing anything that people want to read. I need the Spring the get going, dammit – I know a bit of sunshine would help. I also know this feeling will pass.

One saving grace right now is that I’m not a US citizen. Which must sound monumentally trite, so I must explain that in 1999 I was living in the US and was (I thought) not coming home, ever, to the UK. Just as my lawyers gave me the good news that my Green Card application had progressed to the next stage, and just as I was several thousand dollars the poorer, my job was reorganised. So I was back in the UK quicker than the time it took me to unlearn how to say ‘water’ in such a way that people understood me.

Anyway that’s all by the by, and now I’m thinking of my former colleagues and old friends and feeling embarrassed about comparing the plight of a poet who’s temporarily lost her mojo with a mighty nation living out a disaster movie.

I started the year very positively and I can’t really explain why I’m digging a trough for myself nor why my skin feels so damn thin right now.

However I’m so glad I picked up a copy of Charles Bukowski’s On Writing in the library the other day. I’m only a quarter into it and already it’s making me laugh, and more importantly I’m getting a sense of perspective.

The book is an edited accumulation of extracts from his letters, not a writing manual. This makes it all the more raw, and for me it’s exciting to get such an insight into what we might in a workshop call his ‘writer journey’ – although I can imagine what he’d say to that. It’s also seeing the evidence of a writer losing patience, losing their rag, and basically just losing it. “I’ll be honest with you. You might as well keep those poems for as long as you want to because when you do send them back to me I’ll just throw them away” (to a magazine editor after a long wait).

In a calmer state of mind – “Writing is a damn funny game. Rejection helps because it makes you write better; acceptance helps because it keeps you writing.”

He can be pretty cutting – for example, of the ‘littles’ – editors of magazines who he’s lost patience with for quickly losing interest and folding – “What have they done but camouflage themselves behind the facade of Art, think up the name of a magazine, get it listed and wait for submissions from the same 2 or 3 hundred tired names that seem to think they are the poets of America because some 22 year-old jackass with a bongo drum and a loose 50 dollar bill accepts their worst poetry.” Ouch! But who can read that without smiling?

Bukowski is a popular source of soundbites – there’s even a Pinterest page for them. I think I may need to turn to him on a regular basis.

Blog/ 13/02/201713/02/2017

Both sides now

A smooth drive to London yesterday for Anne-Marie Fyfe’s newest workshop, on the theme of clouds. As in ‘I wandered lonely as…’, or ‘from both sides now..’ And yes, Joni Mitchell did make an appearance, as did Debussy, Django Reinhardt, Billy Collins, Emily Dickinson, John Lennon, The Wizard of Oz and a range of Surrealist art, amongst others.

I’ve said this before, but I really do think these workshops are the best I’ve experienced. With so much stimulation – verbal, visual, musical – the sheer pace of it (although it never feels hurried), and the continuous nature of the exercises, you have no time to lose focus. It doesn’t matter if something doesn’t ‘click’ because there’s another question or exercise coming right up. Nothing seems to distract, not even the relentless traffic and sirens of the Old Brompton Road. You are immersed, coming up for air after two hours and wondering where the time went. Anne-Marie plans these workshops well in advance. Not only are there plenty of materials and handouts but it’s obvious that a huge amount of work and thought has gone into the workshop design.

In the late 1990s I visited the Georgia O’Keeffe museum in Santa Fe and became a fan – I couldn’t afford actual prints but came away with frameable posters of three of her paintings, my favourite of which is one of a series called ‘Sky above Clouds’ (pictured above). Last year the Tate Modern in London ran a Georgia O’Keeffe exhibition (the first in the UK, I think) – I was excited to see on display another Sky above Clouds, and realised I’d forgotten how BIG the canvases are.

I thought of this painting during the workshop, and was also prompted to remember how, as a child, I thought of clouds as 2D objects, decorating the sky, just as O’Keeffe depicts them, which perhaps explains why her painting appeals so much to me. I think I was well into adulthood before I had any appreciation of the scale of clouds, of their 3D shapes, of the distances involved. Seeing them from planes was a shock – how clouds can gather in huge towering columns unseen from below, and how the highest clouds are still way above you even when you’re above the cumulus.

Most of the participants came up with new poems or the beginnings of new writing. I was more moved to get out an old poem which has been on the back burner since 2013 – something in the workshop triggered new ideas about how to revive it. That’s not to say I didn’t also come away with fresh ideas, I certainly did – and twelve pages of notes.

Coffee-House Poetry Classes at the Troubadour on Sunday afternoons – great value for money and highly recommended.

Angst/ 06/02/201706/02/2017

TGI February

January is really my least favourite month – I think it’s the short days and dark evenings that are so depressing. It doesn’t help that the it’s the month of both my father’s death and my late mother’s birthday, so they are always both on my mind. However! Let’s not get gloomy. I did go to a couple of good poetry events and even sent a few poems out. I did a lot of reading. My ‘start a poem a day’ pledge didn’t quite run its course, but I did spend a good amount of time writing and in particular rewriting old poems. I did manage to start eleven new poems. I also revived one that I’ve been fiddling with for four years, and which is shortly going to appear on the Mary Evans Picture Library ‘Poems and Pictures’ blog. Which is a fantastic resource, by the way – more on that in a future post.

Meanwhile the ever-supportive Charles Johnson has taken some poems for Obsessed with Pipework, which I’m really pleased about. They are three of the ‘workplace’ themed poems I’ve been working on for several years now. I really believe in it as a sequence or a pamphlet, even if no pamphlet publisher seems to yet. Finding homes for the individual poems, slow process though it is, reassures me that I’m onto something and shouldn’t give up on it.

Yesterday I hosted a poetry day (or ‘salon’, although I’m slightly squeamish about calling it that!) – four lovely poets came over to talk poetry, read poetry, argue a bit over poetry, do a bit of workshopping and stroll along the somewhat chilly seafront. Not everyone knew each other, which makes it exciting but a bit scary (for me anyhow! Why do I put myself through things that make me nervous? Hmm.) I think everyone enjoyed it, so there will definitely be more. And it energised me to spend the next couple of hours poem-ing.

In case you’re wondering, I’ve not missed Facebook at all – every now and then I hear a bit of poetry news I wasn’t aware of, but that’s the point – anything genuinely interesting or useful to know I either catch on Twitter or can rely on friends to tell me anyway. I would have forgotten about it entirely were it not for the fact that you CANNOT turn off all notifications – trust me, I’ve tried. But overall it’s been a real relief to be no longer experiencing irritation/frustration and the total energy- and confidence-sapping behemoth that is Facebook. Hasta la vista, baby.

Lots to look forward to in the coming weeks including a workshop at the Troubadour, a wedding anniversary (15 years – gulp!), a Telltale Press AGM and Catherine Smith at Pighog poetry night in Brighton. Wishing you a Happy February!

Photo: a sunny & happy January day at Sovereign Harbour in Eastbourne

Blog/ 27/01/2017

Slam Dunk at the Printworks in Hastings

Last night I took the train (yes! there and back! and only slight delays!) to Hastings to Slam Dunk, a regular poetry night at the Printworks, where Hastings Stanza rep Antony Mair was doing a set.

Although it’s not far away, Hastings is still a bit of an unknown quantity for me, but it has an unmistakeably youthful and creative vibe that’s irresistible. There’s an edge to it too – and my first challenge was to find the way in, which turned out to be down a dark alley and without any external signs…a cross between a speakeasy and some sort of squatters’ den – ha! (The experience reminded me of a ‘foreigners only’ bar in Rome about 30 years ago where you had to know the correct (unmarked) door to knock on, and someone slid open the hatch to check you were a) not Italian and b) not male. Men were allowed but only in the company of a woman, and in the proportion one-man-one-woman. I don’t think Rome was ready for any other relationship possibilities in those days. It sounds bizarre but for me as an eighteen-year-old alone in a foreign country it was a ‘safe place’ away from the pests that followed a girl everywhere.)

Anyway, I was rescued by Judith who appeared at what I took for the emergency exit. The room turned out to be one of those cavernous industrial spaces taken over by artists and the hipster crowd – girders/concrete/crittal windows/bar made of chipboard/Edison lightbulbs etc – and buzzing with energy. The Hastings Stanza poets were there in force to support Antony – a few of us for the first time – and in fact the intrepid Roz Balp took part in the open mic with a high degree of panache (that’s her in the featured pic -trust me!)

The format was that open-mic-ers each read one poem, and there was a time limit (two or three minutes – I missed the introduction so not sure) – and after each reader the audience got to give them marks out of ten, with deductions if they went over time. Somebody then did a quick calculation and came up with a number – I couldn’t work out the formula, but there was much cheering as ’24!’ or ’26!’ were announced. Another knockout round followed, with an eventual winner, then a generous break, then the first headliner poet (the previous month’s slam winner – in this case, Antony), then ANOTHER headliner…. and all over by 10pm.

I’m not a huge fan of open mics, but I thought the format worked well, discouraging the bores who only want to go on and on, and keeping the audience engaged with a bit of friendly competition and banter. People paid attention but there wasn’t the reverential hush of your typical poetry reading – the bar was busy and we were kept entertained with blasts from the Dyson hand dryer in the loos behind our table.

The audience was mostly young, creative types, but all ages seemed to be represented – quite a few people even older than me! Several of the readers were young men with beards, fabulously long hair, or both, most of them reminding Steph of her first husband. We had plenty of anti-Trump rhetoric, relationship angst and a surreal poem from Brian Docherty which appeared to be about aliens taking hostage a bloke who tells them Winston Churchill is dead, all taking place on the set of The Only Way is Essex. I may have got that completely wrong, but entertaining as always is Brian. The average age of the poets was significantly lowered by the presence of 15-year-old Ruby, who made it to the read-off with her excellently angry and witty poems. Such confidence! She would have known how to handle those groping Italians back in the 80s.

Antony presented another fine set, although at one point he had to call for the ‘live open fire’ projection to be turned off, in case he had an epileptic fit. It was a teensy bit of a shame though, as the room seemed decidedly chilly once we were no longer looking at the flickering flames.

Final poet of the night was headliner Sally Jenkinson, who was a new name to me – as she said herself it’s great to visit a part of the country you don’t know and to come across new people. In Sally’s case she’s from Doncaster, but has been living in Brighton a couple of years. She gave a strong reading and I liked her style. It’s not easy to go last and she kept us listening to the end.

Then I only had to wait ten minutes for The Train, which actually took me home, and my dear husband surprised me by meeting me at the station. Top night out!

Author: Robin Houghton