Category: Poet’s Tips

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On giving a poetry reading via Zoom

I’m very pleased to be taking part in an online reading this coming Friday 19th February at 1pm. Live Canon, the lovely publisher of my 2019 pamphlet Why? is hosting a series of weekly lunchtime readings, and this week it’s the turn of Adham Smart, Gillie Robic, Laura Theis and myself.

I’ve only done two readings before on Zoom, both very brief, and I find it a bit of an ordeal – BUT I’m learning. Here are a few of the issues I’ve been working through, which I thought I would share. (The issues go from ‘easy’ to harder’ by the way…)

Preparation

Of course the first thing is preparation. Going on past Live Canon lunchtime readings, I’m assuming the slot is about ten minutes. I’ve not had this confirmed but I know it won’t be less, and I also know from experience there’s rarely such a thing a too short reading. I’ll have decided on the poems to read, practised them and timed the whole set, including introductions. This is of course standard prep, so nothing different from an ‘in-person’ reading.

Set-up

I’ve learned this the hard way – get your laptop in place, use an ethernet cable if possible (rather than wi-fi) and check how you will look with the lighting that’s available. All at least 15 mins before it’s due to start. We’ve all done plenty of Zooms by now, and I’m admiring of people who’ve cracked this. I’m still learning, but I think the best bit of advice I’ve had is to light your face from the front. Also, check what’s behind you. A dressing gown hanging up on the door? A weird ‘shape’ that might be a printer or a cat basket or whatever – anything that’s going to distract people and have them thinking ‘what IS that thing?’ instead of meditating on one’s lovely poem – get rid of it, or change position. I open up ‘Photo Booth’ on my Mac and use that to check the view!

What to wear

You have to kind of get into the showtime mood, whatever that means for you, and it’s difficult when you’re all cosy at home! You know all that stuff about not wearing slippers when you’re working from home, standing up when taking a difficult phone call and so on – I think it’s the same if you’re giving a reading. I would say dress up a bit, even though no-one’s going to see what you’re wearing. And I definitely prefer to stand up, but failing that, sit forward rather than back.

Energy

Standing up isn’t just a psychological thing, it helps you breathe better, and you can allow the energy to flow through your body, which I think is the number one way you connect with an audience. Energy doesn’t mean bouncing about. It’s just means you’re alert and reaching out, you’re more likely to give an enjoyable reading. I have to warm-up beforehand: I do things like make stupid faces in the mirror, do a few jaw exercises, take some deep yoga breaths. It may sound over the top but I think it really helps the reading. (Yes I know, I’m setting myself up a bit here – I hope the actual reading lives up to my own advice!)

Engaging the audience

This must be the hardest thing on Zoom. I don’t have the definitive answer. One of the things I enjoy most about readings is the live audience – you can see how they’re reacting, you can address people through eye contact. And on Zoom? You’re lucky if you’ve spotted your friends, who could be on page 2 of the mosaic, you could be faced with a patchwork of faces and blank screens with names, some of which are something like ‘K’s laptop’. Everyone’s muted. Ugh!

The last reading I did, I had the poems on my computer screen so I could read off them and not keep looking down. When it’s just your head and shoulders visible, if people are looking at me (and hopefully they’re not all the time!) I want to seem as if I’m addressing them. I know I like this when I’m watching a poet read, and a number of people have told me they like it too. The downside to this strategy is, if you’re on a laptop, you might find your Word document (with the poems on) obscures the Zoom window, and with no ‘feedback loop’ you just have to carry on and trust people are there and haven’t all gone home, or that your connection has died and you haven’t realised, so you’ve been talking to yourself for ten minutes. Another way might be to pin your poems on the wall above your screen, which come to think of it might work better as you’ll be looking at a point just above the camera. OK now I’m overthinking things, and making myself more anxious…

You might find points these useful, or you may disagree – if you have any tips to add, please feel free to share.  If you can do so before Friday lunchtime, even better!

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Advice to a poet, and a curious birthday thing

Q: Who are these poets and what do they (almost) have in common?

poets-born-on-29Oct

(Answers below…)

Advice lines

Recently I came across this delightful and very relevant piece on the Poetry Ireland website:

Advice to a Poet – words of wisdom from Maurice Harmon, critic, biographer, editor, literary historian and poet.

Even the title has an authoritative feel! But this is no harangue. When I read it I’m picturing a kind but firm teacher, one who challenges but encourages at the same time. So many good thinking points (‘All forms of laziness are fatal in poetry’ ….’You must, and will, find your own way of saying’ … ‘Poetry is above all a way of telling the truth’…’Does it make a difference?’)  I don’t know about you but I have to read essays like this on a regular basis, to remind myself what the hell I’m supposed to be doing, because it is so, so easy to stray down those lazy byways or lose sight of the reasons I’m trying to write poetry.

Advice comes in many forms of course and sometimes poets don’t even know they’re giving it. One of the things I like about Rattle magazine is the regular poet interview at the back, and I’m just at the section of the Eavan Boland Sourcebook where we get to read interviews with her. There are always gems to be found in these chats, I think; there’s something both voyeuristic and educational about hearing what a poet has to say about their working methods, inspirations and general thoughts about what gives.

On a somewhat drier note, in the spirit of starting my ‘literary education’ from the beginning, I’m also reading Aristotle’s Poetics, translated by Anthony Kenny (Oxford World’s Classics edition 2013), although I’ve learned quite quickly that it’s actually about tragedy and ‘the epic’ rather than lyric poetry, which doesn’t get a look in. Aristotle rather slyly suggests early on that he’s going to come to ‘comedy’ in due course. And then he doesn’t. What a tease.

Calling all poets with late-October birthdays

I’m fast approaching a ‘landmark’ birthday, and I’m reminded that I share it (the date, not the year) with fine poet Sarah Howe (above right). So just for fun I got researching poet birthdays to see who else is in this 29th October club. According to his family at the time, John Keats was born on October 29th, although official records list it as 31st. Killjoys! Mary Herbert, Countess of Pembroke only just missed out – she was born on 27th October, as was Dylan Thomas and Sylvia Plath. So, if you, or any poets you know of, were born on October 29th (or let’s say 2 days either side, although that’s not quite the ticket) do let me know and we’ll sort out a club logo or secret handshake or something. (When handshakes are allowed again, of course.)

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Those tips from Don Paterson again…

I was doing a bit of editing yesterday and looked back on some of the notes I’d made from various workshops, and then I remember this blog post from 2012. Yes, nearly 8 years ago, a heck of a long time in politics but a few seconds in poetics. Anyway, I thought I’d reblog it, as it still made me think (and laugh):

A Few Tips from Don Paterson

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Those poetry ‘banned words’ again

banned words in poetry

Another perennial topic that poets always seem to enjoy debating – what are the ‘banned’ words? The word ‘shard’ came up the other evening at Hasting Stanza and I couldn’t help but mention that it was ‘on the list’ – to which the response was, ‘can you do a blog post about this?’

Is it really the case that certain words, inserted innocently into what might be an otherwise excellent poem, can somehow poison the entire piece? That it can ruin your chance of getting the poem published, shortlisted, or even taken seriously? What are these words? And who decides what they are?

The debate has fascinated me ever since I first fell foul of the banned words police, using – yes – shard, in a poem that I took to workshop a few years back. There was no mass outrage, just a gentle murmuring about it having to go.

The first thing to remember is that many people will say the banned words thing is ridiculous. The second is that those same people will often, when their buttons are pushed, turn out to have their own personal list of words they’d never use. I don’t think there are words that everyone agrees should be avoided. Even the most commonly-quoted ones (shard, myriad, tesserae) sometimes slip through. But editors/judges/tutors have their own opinions, and you can’t always know what they are.

I also think that, like language generally, the list is probably in continual flux. The point being that the ‘banned words’ aren’t necessarily evil or tasteless in themselves, they’ve just been overused, misused and abused. But if everyone studiously avoids ‘cumulus’, there will come a day when it will sound fresh, and we’ll start using it again. And you’ve only got to look at today’s poetry magazines to realise there’s a new generation of words that are shaping up nicely for membership of The List. I also think there should be a ‘bad sex in poetry’ sister award to that for Bad Sex in Fiction. But that’s another post!

If you’re interested in avoiding the banned word landmines, Frances Spurrier lists a few classics here.  Mary Lou Taylor attributes a number of them (including ‘shard’ and – one on my personal list – ‘soul’) to Bill Greenwell.

There’s an ever-evolving list (although I’m not sure if anything ever gets taken off it) at the suspiciously anonymous Pretend Genius. Gems here range from the obviously archaic ‘quoth’ to the more baffling ‘Jennifer’ (number 46). Jennifer? Really? (If you know why, please let me know!) Anyway, I can say with 100% certainty that I have fallen foul of this particular list many times. (‘Black’? ‘Leaf’?) Plus, ‘death’ appears twice… so maybe I’ve just been had. Good fun though 🙂

If you agree or disagree please tell us – have you done well in the NPC with a poem about shards of light peeking through the cumulus? Perhaps you’ve been told never to use the word ‘potato’ in a poem? We need to know!

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Marion Tracy spills the beans

On becoming a poet in Australia, putting images in the wrong order, and John Ashbery’s baskets: in conversation with Marion Tracy.

When I asked poet friend Marion Tracy if she’d like to guest on my blog, we both had several ideas of what form it might take. We met, and chatted through it – I’ve known Marion for a while and always admired her forthrightness and ability to ‘cut to the chase’ in workshops and with poetry generally, as well as her skill as a poet. I knew whatever she wanted to share would be intriguing and different. So, we had a conversation, and here’s what came out of it. It’s a pleasure to have Marion here on the blog and I hope you enjoy this as much as I did!

RH: It’s the obvious question I know, but could you tell us a bit about how you got started writing poetry?
MT: I wrote a few poems for my school magazine and also wrote poems in my teens and early twenties. I then tried to tackle writing a novel while pregnant and realised how difficult that is. Then the pram in the hall did its inevitable thing.

When I first sat down in Australia, ten years ago now, to start my first poem, I had very little idea of what trying to be a poet entailed. I had taught Carol Ann Duffy’s poetry to A Level students but I didn’t even know that there were such things as poetry magazines let alone something called ‘contemporary poetry’.

Anyway, I called the poem ‘On first sitting down with a white sheet of paper’ then I changed ‘sitting down’ to ‘staring at’ since that was more true. My mind went completely blank and I thought what on earth will I write About?

So, talk us through the ‘learning curve’…
In Australia I joined a memoir group and then a writing group which included poetry so it just really grew from there – I do like an audience! The workshop leaders in Australia were excellent – although they knew very little about English poets – it was all American poets for them. But they gave good advice. For example, I was asked about a phrase in a poem and I replied that I put it in so the reader would understand. ‘No, never do that,’ they said, ‘always write for the most understanding and clever reader that you can imagine’.

Although the urge to explain never really goes away, I now enjoy jamming two images together and just laying them down. One of my self-taught techniques is an extreme version of what’s often called ‘flow writing’ – pick the best sentence, write more, and so on. What I like to do is: write an ordinary poem, highlight only the best images, put them together in the wrong order, add in a bit more here and there – job done!

Do you keep a notebook?
These days I’m surrounded by notebooks, about twenty or so at least. They’re full of ideas for poems, sometimes based on words from TV, radio, newspapers, conversations. For example, I was at home in Oz and the ‘Antiques Road Show’ was on, and I heard a clock expert use the word ‘escapement.’ I vaguely knew it was something to do with the mechanism of time and thought about Time escaping, or someone trying to escape from Time. It was a pig to write because I decided that time would be masculine with simple rhyme and the escapee would be feminine with long prose lines. About seven years later it was published by Stand magazine (after it went off to and back from eight other magazines).

Words/phrases I’ve got queuing up now include wasps’ nest, ghosted, under the bridge, horse headed mummers, ruler of the spirits, the remembered present, butcher birds, the chorus, incognito and etc etc to the crack of doom. I collect little techniques I notice too but that’s another story.

Goodness! I feel like you’ve opened up a little window into your brain for us to peer through, what a privilege. Going back to the idea of putting images together ‘in the wrong order’ – tell us a bit more about that…

In a lecture on ‘Post Modernism and Difficult Poetry’, it was suggested we should cut our poems up, then throw them on the floor, then pick them up and keep them in the new random order. This is great fun and is surprisingly useful (as long as the ideas and phrases are all dancing around the same core) and of course I always cheat a little.

John Ashbery was mentioned at this point, and since I usually have no idea what his poems are saying or meaning I have decided that maybe, only perhaps, he has several baskets in his study labelled things like ‘random nature reference’, ‘philosophical ideas’, ‘place names’, ‘personal emotion’ and so forth. Then when he wants a poem he just picks a few from each basket and rearranges them.

It’s hard to tell if you’re being serious to be honest!

I am being serious – but as you may gather, I think it’s vital to ditch the over-solemn approach to poetry. A poem is a machine and some poets are better mechanics than others. I don’t believe in the Muse, although it’s a useful conceit (I think more about the Mood, as in, am I in it?) and I’m not keen on the idea of the poem somehow existing in the ether as the poet struggles to write it. ‘The poem wants to be…’ isn’t really helpful for me. It’s true that when the words are on the page they have a resonance beyond the poet’s intentions but ultimately it all, including the connections, comes from the poet’s brain.

It’s interesting to hear you say that – I suppose I agree with you to an extent, but perhaps the ‘Muse’ is just one way of describing the indescribable – the magic, the ‘where the hell did THAT come from’ thing.

How about sending poems out, dealing with rejections – any tips?

I wrote a lot of poems before I started sending off seriously and that was good because, like Mother Hubbard, I was able to not care too much – there was always another magazine, another poem. I treated it like the game it is – you win some, you lose some. Some magazines have a style or theme they are keen on so I sometimes would write with that in mind. But I became aware paradoxically that difference is highly valued, so if you try to fit in you will never be as good as you could be. Sometimes unusual poets have to create an audience for themselves.

OK, any final words of advice that you’d like to pass on?

Plenty, but here are a few thoughts: description does not make a poem. Anecdote does not make a poem. Description and anecdote and unusual words do not make a poem.
Hospitals, herons and hares are overused tropes (in other words, poetic clichés), also a bird flying into the blue at the end of a poem, also in fact epiphanies of all sorts, such as my final statement below…

A poem should be a wasp’s nest full of humming and resonance, words and ideas moving about randomly, crashing into each other – threatening.

 

Marion Tracy has two degrees in English Literature and was a lecturer in Colleges of Further Education. She lived in Australia for seven years where she started writing poetry. She is widely published in magazines and her pamphlet Giant in the Doorway (2012) was published by HappenStance Press. Marion’s first full collection Dreaming of Our Better Selves was published this year by Vanguard Editions.

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Notes from a workshop with Andrew McMillan

andrew mcmillan photographed by Innes Morrison

As promised in my last post, here are my notes from the workshop I did on Saturday at the South Downs Poetry Festival, with Andrew McMillan. I’m including links at the end to other workshop notes, in case you find these posts useful.

I was really impressed with Andrew’s workshop. It’s tricky to teach a one-off session like this when you’ve no way of knowing who is coming to the session nor what they hope to get from it. As well as asking us to each say (briefly) what we hoped to take away, he also offered participants the chance to feed back after every exercise, and the chance to read aloud the example poems. Andrew had planned the session well and we motored through a lot of great material, but his calm and relaxed style meant it never felt hurried or forced. That’s exactly what I want as a participant – to feel challenged by the material, confident in the teacher and unaware of time passing.

So here’s a summary, in which I hope I’ve captured the essential points.

‘All poems fail – which is why you have to write the next one.’

‘Be prepared to throw your life off a cliff.’

Go to the place that makes you feel uncomfortable. Write the thing you wouldn’t want your mother to read.

How do you get at the plain truth of something and still make it sound fresh? Think about the notions of ‘truth’ and ‘honesty’. Getting to the ‘poetic’ truth might not mean presenting the actual truth of what happened.

The thing you want to tackle may be too big or overwhelming to get to grips with. So drill down to a small detail and let that be a metaphor for the big thing.

Example poem: ‘Your Blue Shirt’ by Selima Hill (from Gloria: Selected Poems. Bloodaxe. 2008)

‘How plain can it be and still be poetry?’

‘All poetic metaphor exists because you can’t find the one word or phrase which encompasses what you really want to say.’

AM loves it when plain language is used to express a simple truth, eg W H Auden: “Thousands have lived without love but none without water.”

Readers need time to pause and think.

It’s important to achieve balance – moments of ‘high poetry’ can contrast with those of mundane or ‘plain’ language – the contrast and balance can make each moment effective. Compare for example to music with its highs and lows.

Example poem: ‘Filling Station’ by Elizabeth Bishop (from The Complete Poems, 1927-1979)

If something’s not working, try stripping out everything that’s not essential – adjectives, fancy verbs, ‘wow’ words etc. Find the ‘survival mechanism’ of the poem. In this way you’re left with something sparse but dense. THEN you can think about building it up.

Example: ‘His Stillness’ by Sharon Olds (fantastically moving!) – from Selected Poems, 2005 (Cape)

Uncertainty can come across as more honest

The idea of not being sure about something can somehow be more honest and can allow a way in for the reader.

In a way, all memory is false because another person present will recall the same thing differently.

Example poem: ‘A Spruce New Colour’ by Tom Paulin (Love’s Bonfire, Faber 2012)

Consider balance and contrast in language choice and tone

Try to avoid writing about a serious subject matter in too high a register – it can seem a bit ‘poetic’, not really honest. Explore ways around this by varying the language.

Example poem: ‘I will love the twenty first century’ by Mark Strand (from the Ambit Magazine Retrospective) – where he gives the more ‘serious’ ideas voice via a third person, which the voice of the poet then undercuts.

One way of framing a serious topic and to foreground it without losing credibility and staying grounded/true is by bookending it with more down to earth details.

Example poem: ‘Dave and the Curried Soup’ by John Sewell (Bursting the Clouds, Cape 1998) – a mid section of energy and sexual excitement bookended by the banal details of a soup (‘The trouble with Jerusalem artichokes…’)

Last thoughts: ‘What people will think when reading your work … is not important’ (ie don’t let that fear inhibit you … you have the freedom to write whatever it is you need to write) – AM says when he wrote the poems in Physical he wasn’t thinking about them being published let alone read!

‘Poems need to vibrate on the page with energy.’

‘Something has to be on the line when you write a poem.’

If you’ve enjoyed this you may be interested in previous blog posts where I’ve passed on words of wisdom from poets:

Notes from a Don Share masterclass

Mimi Khalvati on editing and what to bin

More words of advice from Mimi Khalvati

Tips from Don Paterson

Mimi Khalvati on form, and a few ‘banned’ words

 

 

 

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Should poems be read from memory?

Robin Houghton reading at Mayfield Poetry Festival

I’ve only really started reading poems from memory this year, but rarely an entire set. I admire those poets who not only memorise long, often VERY long poems, but communicate them with panache and seeming ease.

But is reading from memory a requirement of a memorable reading? Does reading from memory always enhance the listener’s experience? Just how much extra work are you setting yourself – and is it worth it? What if the poet’s nervous enough already – isn’t it better for them (and the audience) to stick with reading it off the page?

I asked two poet friends (and experienced poem-memorisers) to get their views on it, and also asked myself the same questions.

Tony Gill, aka Gilli Bloodaxe, has performed in clubs, a crypt, a barge and at festivals little and big. His first collection Fin was published this year by Matador. Peter Kenny is a poet, playwright and serial collaborator, having worked with musicians and writers in all kinds of genres. His pamphlet ‘The Nightwork’ was published in 2014 by Telltale Press.

Peter Kenny
Peter Kenny

What makes you want to memorise poems – particular reasons?

Peter Kenny: I’m starting to memorise my poems and try to perform them from memory when I can. I write to communicate with people, and I think shuffling and hiding behind papers is obviously a barrier. It’s nice to give the audience eye contact and focus on bringing the poems to life rather than simply reading from a page. I don’t like readings where the poet seems to be talking to themselves.

Tony Gill: I think that when a poet (or anyone actually) stands and reads, there is a physical barrier (the book, a piece of paper) between them and their audience. The poet is saying “I’m reading this poem in this book”. Without the book, it’s a more natural communication, it frees you up to move around and wave your arms, you’re telling a story like a Viking at the fireside…

Robin Houghton: Reciting from memory really feels like you’re making a connection with the audience, but you do have to make eye contact. That business of ‘focus on a point above people’s heads’ is the worst advice ever given, I think. People have told me they hear more of the poem and take in the words more intensely when they’re being spoken to rather than read to.

Do you think it’s something all poets should try to do, or does some poetry not really ‘need’ to be delivered from memory?

TG: Yes!

PK: Interestingly, the reading I found most electrifying was actually not from memory at all: I saw RS Thomas when I was a student and he read from the page without giving the titles of his poems or introductions, but was utterly brilliant.

RH: Some poems work much better from memory. But I think a poet can still deliver effectively off the book, as long as s/he adds value somehow to the audience experience. This could be (for example) looking up and making frequent eye contact with listeners, or it could be animating the poem in a way the audience wouldn’t get just from reading it on the page.

How do you go about memorising poems – do you have a routine/schedule? How much time do you think it takes to learn a new poem?

PK: It takes me several days to learn a poem. I just stand in my kitchen and say the thing over and over for ten minutes for three or four days and I usually have it. Also when you are memorising something, if it is persistently unsayable, then something’s usually wrong with it.

TG: Some are easier than others – if there’s a structure, or if they rhyme. Once I’ve learnt it, I see if I can recite it over music, which is quite distracting. The amount of time depends on the length of the poem. But generally not that long.

RH: So far I’ve only memorised reasonably short poems. If the poem’s in stanzas then that helps: I do it one stanza at a time. (If it’s not then I might temporarily reorganise it so that it is!) Lots of repetition out loud (it helps if there’s no-one around). Remembering the links between each stanza is important – the last word/phrase of one and the first word/phrase of the next. Because once you start the stanza you’re off and running.
I try to ‘see’ the overall shape – the start, the build-up, the aside, the climax etc. It can take me a while, and several actual readings, until I’m secure.

Any top tips for a poet who’s never managed to read a poem from memory – how might they go about it?

TG: Just do it!

PK: My stepdaughter is an actress and she reminded me to have a few physical movements or body positions for different bits of the poem. Using your body as well as your brain to prompt the next bit seems to work quite well for me.

RH: The only other thing I would say is to practise, and in front of an audience. Practise at the low key/low risk readings where you have enough adrenaline to make it real, but no big deal if you stumble because you’re among friends. It will build your confidence for the bigger readings. I always remember the saying “an amateur practises until they get it right, a professional practises until they can’t get it wrong”. I still have a long way to go on that score!

Have you ever dried, and what’s your advice if that happens?

PK: I have dried completely at least twice but I’m fairly philosophical about it. You’re not in the middle of a play and putting everyone else off. When you make a mistake you feel like there’s a yawning chasm of time when you are giving the reading, but the audience might not even notice as much as you think.

RH: I had a near-miss once, but held it together, and quite recently I dried completely and had to reach for the book. I was annoyed at myself but you just have to laugh and not make a thing of it. The audience doesn’t want to see you distressed.

TG: Only when I’ve had a drink, which I never ever do before a reading.

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Reading from memory – the sequel

Lauderdale House - Poetry in the House

Well I did it. Yesterday evening at Lauderdale House in Highgate I recited two of my poems from memory. It was actually the perfect set-up – no microphone (which I usually like having, but in this case I was concerned it would prevent me from moving freely), the chairs set out in a semi circle, so I felt like a real story-teller. More about it in a mo.

First of all, I have to say how grateful I am to Shanta Acharya for giving me the opportunity to read at Poetry in the House, which she has been organising for nearly 20 years, without any outside funding. The evening began with an invitation to join Shanta and the other readers for a bite to eat at a nearby restaurant. A very sociable start to the night and one I particularly appreciated, because I knew I wouldn’t have even a moment to socialise at the end, being at the mercy of the 22.47 from Victoria.

The size of the audience was impressive (a lot more chairs had to be added after I took the above photo), and Shanta’s hosting style is wonderfully relaxed – all the readers’s biogs were on the flyers that people had in their hands, so she dispensed with verbal introductions, other than saying our names, and I liked that. It really seemed to put the poems to the fore, rather than the personalities. And what poems – all the sets were very strong.

Richard Skinner was launching his Smokestack pamphlet ‘Terrace’ (more on that shortly – we have pledged to swap pamphlets but will be doing so this evening at the Vanguard Readings) and treated us to ‘a Nebuchadnezzar joke’ and a beautiful poem written for a friend’s wedding which has yet to take place, amongst others. When Richard and I were talking earlier I was interested to learn that he never attended poetry courses or workshops, despite his impressive track record as a poet and the fact that he is Director of the Fiction Programme at Faber Academy. For my part, I replied that although I do go to workshops, I had to concede that the individual poems I’ve had the most success with hadn’t ever been workshopped. Hmm!

I was intrigued by the poetry of Mona Arshi – sometimes surreal, always surprising – who was ‘pre-launching’ her first collection, Small Hands, which she told me at supper beforehand was one of the first poetry books from Liverpool University Press. Another poet I want to read more of is Philip Hancock. I really enjoyed the mix of unselfconscious invention and gently ironic observation which I got from his poems. I’m not very articulate at explaining why particular poet voices resonate me with, but his did. Geraldine Paine‘s thoughtful and touching poems had both humour and beauty and Alan Murray‘s cheery pessimism and clever word-play certainly got the biggest laughs of the evening, but don’t be fooled by that, there was some heavyweight work in there.

I had the opening spot, which I was pleased about, because it meant I could then sit back and enjoy everyone else’s poems. I’d set myself the task last week of memorising a poem. In the end I did two from memory – the opener being a short and relatively easy to remember ‘list’ piece. I took Peter Kenny’s advice about tying in certain movements or gestures – I think that definitely helped to put the phrases in my mind. Being in the centre of a little ‘arena’ was also a bonus. I actually really enjoyed it, especially the silent pauses – the feeling of power, when you can hear a pin drop and you sense that people are waiting for your next words, or perhaps on edge wondering if you’ve lost it – is indescribably heady!

Halfway through the set I read one more from memory, a poem from my pamphlet, called ‘Closure’, which I’ve read often and which was written over a period of many years, so I really felt I ought to be able to remember it. As it happened, I did fluff a couple of words, but I didn’t let it show on my face and I don’t think anyone noticed. I was just a bit disappointed that I said ‘scar’ instead of ‘zipper’, since it’s one of the key moments in the poem!

So, onwards. I think I’ll do pretty much the same set next week at Pighog in Brighton, another great venue to read in, although I will be behind a mic there so I’ll need to prepared for that. If you’re somewhere within reach of Brighton do come! It’s just me and a performance poet / mulitmedia artist called Andreea Stan who I’m not familiar with, but from her Vimeo channel it looks like it could be an intriguing experience. Take a look at this – The Ocean is Almost Seven Miles Deep.

I can thoroughly recommend trying to memorise a poem or two. I opted not to have the book in my hand, because I think that would have made me less confident. Maybe that sounds odd, but not having anything to ‘fall back on’ does mean you commit to it fully, and I think that’s the key – you have to be entirely committed to delivering it from memory, and so practice as much as you need to do that. That would be my advice, anyway. I also think the audience responds to you better if you have nothing in your hands – I’ve certainly felt that as an audience member – there’s an immediacy, an intimacy that’s compelling.

Angst/

Dealing with Literary Rejections: Six Viewpoints

Dealing with rejections

Rejections - Charlie Brown

I was asked yesterday ‘how’s the writing going?’ which is always an interesting one to answer. First you have to gauge if it’s a genuine enquiry, or a generic ‘how’s things?’ A non-writer friend probably doesn’t want to hear a long moan about rejections. But submissions, and in particular rejections, is one of the unavoidable and recurrent themes of a writer’s (certainly a poet’s) life.

For me, the problem starts with the word ‘submission’. It’s so, well, so passive. To submit is to rollover onto your back like a cat with its claws retracted, begging for attention. It just ain’t dignified.

There are thousands of articles and blog posts about dealing with literary rejections. And can we get enough of them? I don’t think so, judging by the social media indicators. I’m not the only one to be fascinated by how others deal with the rejection game. I’m just as fascinated to know how the rejectors deal with it too. There are two sides to it, but perhaps it’s easy to forget that when you’re the submissive party.

Here are six viewpoints on rejection that I’ve enjoyed. You have to read them to get the full stories, but I’m giving you a flavour.

“No Thank You” – On Rejection and Writing by Chuck Sambuchino in Writers’ Digest.  “You can’t please everyone, and the moment you try, you cease to write anything interesting.” Chuck runs with the idea that all rejections are subjective, and you can rationalise them all you like but ultimately you just have to deal with it and not let it unsettle your writing.

Rejecting Rejection by E Kristin Anderson at The Writing Barn. Rejection slips are just part of the submissions game – there are no acceptances without rejections along the way. “You can’t win if you don’t play.”

“Never Give Up” — or How One Writer Got Published in Poetry Magazine After 12 Rejections at the Bookbaby blog, Chris Robley tells the encouraging tale of poet Todd Ross who was eventually published 15 times in Poetry magazine, despite his previous 12 rejections by same.

Submission, Rejection, Acceptance, Reward by Roy Marshall. Paying attention to the detail of cover letters and appreciating the ‘good’ rejections can bring some comfort. “Once or twice I’ve felt less pleased by an offhand acceptance than by polite and careful rejection.”

Ten Levels of Rejection (and What to Do About Them) – Nathaniel Tower takes a close look at the exact wording of rejections and draws some biting conclusions. “Not all rejection is equal.” Great to see the ‘passive aggressive’ rejection (beloved by certain publications) finally unmasked! (Number 4)

And finally, Robert Peake gives some soothing advice in What Should You Learn from Rejection Letters? at ReadWritePoem. “The very fact of rejection is insufficient grounds to conclude your that poems are terrible, that you are a terrible poet, possibly a terrible person, and that giving up writing for good would be a service to humanity.” Oh we hope not, Bob, we hope not.

 

Comic strip copyright Peanuts.com