Garyswordz

If a prize existed for the most exotically named event and venue, this would win easily, and so it was with some expectation that I made my first visit .The name comes from a line in James Joyce’s “Ulysses”; “The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit,” the former phrase also the inspiration for a local poetry publisher. The vaults themselves are 19th century coal vaults which acted as stores for canal transportation and have now been converted into a cavernous, and atmospheric bar. The ceilings are still vaulted, the original tiled floor remains, and the windowless interior is vented by an exposed suspended stainless steel ventilation system which is quite brutal in appearance. However a combination of church pew benches, wooden tables, sofas, and freestanding lampshades creates an altogether softer, louche, ambience which would not be out of place in a David Lynch film set.

Every event has its own character, and that is set by the host, who has two options. Those are to either act as an unobtrusive facilitator for the event, or to act as the hub around which the event turns. Host Barry Patterson is in the latter category. A physically imposing man, loquacious, eloquent and a fine poet in his own right, Barry encouraged, enthused and ad libbed in equal measure. His “Astronaut” piece is a fond and affectionate paean to the Moon landings, and “Happy Birthday Howard” also caught my ear about the controversial H.P. Lovecraft, enfant terrible of the “weird fiction” genre.

The spirit of the evening was captured by a young woman , Carey, who had been before, and had this time brought some of her own work to read for the first time. Yet such was her apprehension, that she had asked a friend to go up to read on her behalf. But as that friend made her way forwards, Carey had a change of heart as she witnessed the literary equivalent of a mother having her babies taken from her, and read herself instead. “Thinking” and “On the Cathedral Steps” were described by Barry as “good old fashioned introspection”, were warmly received, and I am sure that Carey will be back. The relief as she stepped down, saying “that wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be” was palpable, an endearing reminder of how tough it is to stand up to read in front of others for the first time, but also evidence of what a supportive environment Night Blue Fruit is in which to do so.

The polar opposite to Carey was the vastly experienced Mal Dewhirst who had opened proceedings fresh from his exploits on the Great West Midlands Poetry Relay. “Polesworth Word Triathalon” was a clever Olympic style word challenge, “Dungeness” a beautifully observed landscape poem and his final poem about Liverpool and the Cavern Club and its music had a particular resonance in a cavernous club.

Sometimes an open mic can deliver the unexpected, and tonight it came in the form of Sukhat (phonetically correct but almost certainly not the way he spells it).Flamboyant, and a little left-field, Sukhat romped through a series of poems about vampires and “The Dream I Had” ( at 3.40am), in a surreal, but hugely enjoyable performance. His attention getter is brilliant, he arrives on stage with bundles of large writing pads, upon which there is just one poem per pad, and after delivery he smashes the pad down onto the floor which resounds to a very satisfying thump. Quite extraordinary- and a lot of fun.

Martin Green’s vignette about poems written on the inside of a cigarette packet was good, “Citizen” Andy Biddulph was on top form with his political polemics, Josie conjured up a memorable erotic image of a walnut smooth chest and Colin Dick, poet and painter was as inspirational as ever.

Closing the evening was Anthony R Owen, a man whom I have had the pleasure of listening to quite frequently in recent months, and he never ceases to impress. Not content with the success of his collection, “The Dreaded Boy” he debuted a sparse, beautiful homage to the victims of Hiroshima in a series of self styled “anti-haikus” which worked very well indeed. He also offered what amounted to a meditation on Heinrich Heine, the 19th Century German Jewish poet whose work was burned in the Nazi dawn in 1933 at Berlin’s Opernplatz, an event which had been anticipated in his play Almansor, written over a century earlier, in which he said: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen.” (“That was but a prelude; where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people also.”)

Night Blue Fruit meets on the first Tuesday of the month at around 8.30pm.

2/8/11

The office of Birmingham Poet Laureate is honorary . What you do with it is pretty much up to you. Current office holder, Roy McFarlane has seized the opportunities that such a title affords and grown the position to new heights, not least with his Bring & Share Poetry evenings, the last of which this was with him in office. Previous events have used Valentines Day, Mothers Day, and Fathers Day as their themes. This one was a double header, a promotional launch for “ Celebrate Wha’”, an anthology of contemporary Black Midlands Writers and a platform for poems on Freedom, a combination which worked splendidly.

We were fortunate to have the publisher of “Celebrate Wha’”, Andy Croft, of Smokestack Books in the audience for the occasion. A “smog monster” from Middlesbrough, Andy is a hugely distinguished author in his own right, with some 18 poetry books, four novels and forty two books for teenagers to his name, as well as a poetry column in “The Morning Star”. He has performed his own poetry around the world. Smokestack has a bold manifesto, it claims to hold open a space for what is left of the English radical poetic tradition in the twenty-first century. It champions poets who are unfashionable, left-field or working a long way from the metropolitan centres of cultural authority. It is also committed to the common music of poetry; is interested in the World as well as in the Word; believes that poetry is a part of and not apart from society; argues that if poetry does not belong to everybody, it is not poetry. As authors read from “Celebrate Wha’” it was apparent how neat a fit material and publisher were.

My only frustration from the evening was that we heard only one poem from Andy himself, the brilliant “Crash, Bang ,Wallop” , a parody of Jean-Marie Le Pen’s bizarre bid to outlaw onomatopoeia . if ever you want evidence that the pen is mightier than the sword, listen to this.

A packed bill meant that poets were limited to a single contribution resulting in a night of rich diversity too dense for me to try to chronicle in any sort of detail. Sam Hunt told of how poetry had personally set her free, Gary Quinn of how it had set him free from alcohol, and many explored political freedom. Of those, one stood out head and shoulders above the rest, “Mr President” from Chester Morrison, an attack on the record of Nelson Mandela. It encapsulated the zeitgeist of the theme of the evening, and Chester described the hostile reaction his poem had provoked from many quarters for his effrontery in questioning The Great Man. The poem was a profound, simple, powerful and lyrical tour-de –force.

Tellingly ,afterwards, several audience members were moved to debate the successes, and failures of Mandela’s regime, and what any political revolution can reasonably hope to achieve. All of which bore testament to the capacity of a poem to have a life far beyond the page.

Those authors present reading excerpts from “CelebrateWha” did a fine job. Kokumo’s heavy patois elevated “Democracy is Dead”, Marcia Callum’s roots poem “Memory Loss” was inspiring. Kokumo had amused us earlier on, Michelle Hubbard had us in fits of laughter with her “Jack and the Beanstalk” poem about how an inadvertently discarded marijuana seed had taken root in unexpected circumstances. And, as she had done at the Valentines Bring & Share evening, it was Sue Brown, making an all too rare appearance who shone once more. She delivers her words, motionless, using just her voice to emote, confident that it is all that is required, and she is right. “Birmingham” was an affectionate homage to our city, the ambiguity of “Pain” was wry, “I Am” was a defiant manifesto of self affirmation.

Roy expressed his hope to continue such events beyond when he relinquishes the Poet Laureate crown. I hope he does, for it brings together communities and offers a platform to share ideas. Rohit Ballal was able to give a rap influenced performance, Sarah Tamar was spotted by Roy last Thursday and performed this Monday, and it is that sort of alchemy and spontaneity which has made this series such a success.

“ Celebrate Wha” is available from: http://www.smokestack-books.co.uk/index.php
1/8/11

Metro Cafe, Bilston

Held on (the somewhat hastily declared) National Cake Eating Day, it was fortuitous that Bilston Voices is held in a rather fine cafe, ensuring that the appropriate celebrations could be maximised. And it wasn’t just the cake which was good.

Organiser Emma Purshouse once again drummed up a fine collection of poets to perform to the customary full house. Either the people of Bilston work their holidays around Bilston Voices, or they just don’t have holidays. . . . . .

As a Bilston Voices regular, I have often reflected that the fine job that Emma does linking the evening denies her the opportunity to do what she does best, and that is perform her work in front of an audience.

This time the very late indisposition of a billed poet left her scrabbling around for a replacement. Who might be available who was credible, good looking, rehearsed, and able to perform at very short notice ? She wisely decided that no-one fitted that description more closely – than herself!

The result was a real treat as she waltzed through a selection of her favourite work to a delighted, and appreciative, crowd. Alice Cooper was name checked, a surreal imagined Shakespearean tirade of abuse was directed at Will himself, when his stash of Love Sonnets was discovered by Ann Hathaway in the style of the Jeremy Kyle show. A Great Classic Painters convention was lampooned, as was a country fair, the dangers of monkeys as gifts, and the perils of trying to fit Welsh place names in insurance company claims forms was also explored to uproarious effect.

KEY STAGES

Liza Minnelli had a signature song called “Liza with a Z not Lisa with an S”. Ann (with an E) Hastings cheekily stole that idea to introduce herself as she opened the evening with an assured and measured performance. On the cusp of retiring, she was well rehearsed, elegiac, valedictory and reflective as she read poems from various key stages in her life.

A University education as a mature student, flower shows, acting as a carer, and the suppression of dreams under the burden of the daily grind were all covered. The only flaw in her presentation is easily remedied, and that was that the breaks between poem and linking material were sometimes unclear, denying her the opportunity of more frequent well deserved applause.

One of the pleasures in seeing so many poetry events is watching as performers find their feet, and their voice. This is particularly true of Sarah Tamar, the self styled “ melting poet”. Her performance was as warm as the temperature, but her real trick is an easy endearing manner and tales about the world around her.

She can be touching when writing about her grandchildren, funny when talking about failed diets, and profound when talking about justice. My favourite of hers? “Eyeballing” about her confrontation with a robin!

Roy Macfarlane is coming to the end of his year now as Birmingham Poet Laureate, and has excelled in doing his office justice. A local lad from Parkfield Road, he made sure his “home credentials” had been accepted by the audience before taking us on a wonderful journey to Amsterdam and beyond.

SMOLDERING RAGE

Roy’s work comes alive when he performs, and I suspect that he is never quite sure when “lift off” will happen. This time it was in a powerful piece about the biological father that he has never known, laced with anger, smoldering rage, anguish and tragedy. It was an uncomfortable, but compelling section which drew a silence of respect, and admiration.

“Dreams of Rivers” beautifully contrasted the bleak monotony of working in a foundry with daydreams of something better, the sentimental “I Wanna Walk with You” is simply one of the best contemporary love poems I have heard.

Inviting Heather Wastie to close an evening in the Black Country is as safe a bet as Wolves inviting Steve Bull as a guest at Molineux, you can’t go wrong. And so it proved. Heather is as prolific a writer as ever, and whilst drawing upon her latest book “The Page Turners Dilemma” she also performed much fresh material.

She was afraid of the fish delivery man with, “I’m Afraid of the Fish Delivery Man” and the butcher’s with “At Knifepoint in the Butchers”, if this continues, husband Geoff will have very few food options left!

Sparsely filled shop units and dodgy PA systems at festivals all bore testament to the travails of the wandering minstrel poet, but it was her established “Ping pong Neo-natal ICU”which stood out once again as her best work. Wry, but serious, with clever use of sound, it delights with its clever word play whilst conveying the life and death nature of the surroundings.

Bilston Voices plays again on Thursday 25th August, 7. 30pm, with Martin Jones, Stuart Haycox, Marion Cockin, Roger Noons and Greg Stokes. 29-07-11.

Kitchen Garden Cafe. Kings Heath

Some poetry events eschew meetings in the summer holidays on the basis that people will be away. Other more confident promoters reason that just as many people may become free to attend who otherwise may not have been available.

Organiser Jacqui Rowe is one of the latter, and her confidence in her audience was well rewarded on a balmy summer evening with another full house. Both headline poets write page based poetry and it is gratifying to see an audience as ready to be stimulated, as entertained.

The convivial ambience of the Kitchen Garden Cafe is well suited to poetry with the audience arriving up to an hour early to enjoy soft and alcoholic drinks, snacks and good company. Indeed the poetic camaraderie is a particular feature of this event which is as much a meeting of friends as it is of poetry aficionados. Yet it is by no means cliquey, an interest shared means that people can, and do, come alone, but leave having made new friends.

Anthony R Owen topped the first half bill promoting his latest collection, “The Dreaded Boy”. Anthony’s work is stark and dark. The dreaded boy in the title refers to the boys who would deliver telegrams from the War Office during the First World War informing next of kin of the deaths of loved ones in battle.

War poetry has a noble tradition, and this is a worthy contribution to it, including work on Iraq and Afghanistan. It is seen from the perspective of civilians and women, as well as combatants. His work is not a polemic, nor is it verbose. The majority of pieces are concise and bare. The subject matter does the talking. He name checks Coventry military casualties as well as the work of Dr Karen Woo, killed whilst administering humanitarian aid in Afghanistan, to whom he dedicated “Diamonds”.

MEMORABLE IMAGERY

His art is in memorable imagery. The bloodied body of a freshly born baby is juxtaposed with the bloodied corpse of the fallen. “Clean” details the tender cleansing of a dead body in the Tigris by a grief stricken widow, of whom there are estimated to be 780, 000 in Iraq, a number roughly equal to the population of Birmingham.

Neither is an easy listen. The issue of the morality of blood spattered war games for computers is a difficult one to tackle without crass moralising, yet Anthony succeeds here too with “Realism” in which he rightly questions the lack of corporate responsibility in their promotion. Subjects like these, and those tackled in “Rwanda” are tough, but his ability to produce a memorable phrase such as in “Scent of the Sun”, about planes dog-fighting, in which he describes the skies as pallbearers, delights as well.

“The Dreaded Boy” is available from Pighog Press. ISBN 978-1-906309-17-6, £5 plus P&P.

David Calcutt topped the second half, and was introduced as a polymath poet, novelist, playwright and literary mentor. Tonight, David concentrated on the poetry, with rewarding results. In a mini personal poetic odyssey he started with “Stone”, written over 30 years ago and of uncertain origins from his first collection, “Outlaws”, before ending with a poignant selection from a current project he is working on with those living with dementia, together with John Killick, and host Jacqui Rowe. “And I Can Tell Them My Name” was particularly moving. One of ten new poems that this work has inspired.

He explained his poetic manifesto as wishing to explore the boundaries between the conscious and sub-conscious, and his exploration of Purgatory in “He is a Rider” was powerful indeed. Yet he is at his best in describing simple things with simplicity and insight. A recent workshop he had led had witnessed a herd of cattle on the move, and hitherto I had not seen the magic in cows that David had spotted. Equally his exploration of the mouth-bow as both musical instrument, and weapon of war, was innovative, and rewarding.

The open mic section boasts a formidably high standard with a palpable frisson of excitement surrounding the random draw for the order of performing amongst audience and performers alike. It is a veritable poetic smorgasbord of samples from poets, many of whom might merit a headline spot in their own right. Two contrasting, yet successful, performances caught my ear.

One of my favourite scenes from Quentin Tarrantino’s film, “Pulp Fiction”, is when Uma Thurman is revived by an adrenaline shot to the heart. Fergus McGonigal has a similar effect on an audience with his high energy / high octane performance. Punk band The Ramones used to enjoy starting their tours with a set that started out at 45 minutes long, but which they aimed to consistently reduce simply by performing the same material faster and faster.

FASHION CHOICE

And so it is with Fergus and his fantastic performance piece “Conversation”, which he has timed at 4.3 words a second, but which tonight may have broken that barrier. Exuding an ebullient demeanour, no doubt spurred by a fashion choice in shorts normally only favoured by Prep schoolboys and Gordon of Khartoum, Fergus rattled through his new crowd pleaser to the delight of all.

Broadcaster and Poet Charlie Jordan also chose words for her spot, with her evergreen “Words”. A beguiling, cerebral piece, Charlie combines the passion of a pastor, the wisdom of an university Don, and the incisive linguistic technique of a surgeon as she teases, plays and teaches, but never preaches. Fergus blinded with his dazzling verbal assault, Charlie hypnotises with the strobe like rhythm of her language and delivery. The contrasting merits of two thematically similar, but radically different presentations, is what makes an evening like this so interesting.

Michelle Crosbie was not new to me, (Behind the Arras regulars will know that I have eulogised about her fantastic performance of “O Dark Pilot Whales” at Parole Parlate), but she was new to Poetry Bites. Once again she excelled. “Apple Love Magic” was endearing, “The Fireworks of Love” a triumph of simplicity, one of those poems which makes you wish that you had written it, until you realise that you could not have done it so well.

Numerous regulars also did themselves proud. Maggie Doyle knows how to write a good performance piece, and “The Chelsea Flower Show”, was very good indeed, ”The Merry Widow” as funny as ever. Jan Watts was elegiac with “Bathroom at 38 Berkeley Rd” and naughty with “Meat and two veg Kim”, whilst Sam Hunt treated us to a very powerful “ Daddy Says”, an excerpt from her forthcoming Artsfest appearance.

Two single performances also shone. Laura Yates recited a beautiful poem about caring for elderly relations, and newcomer Liz Berry, from London, performed a fantastic piece, “The Fishwife”, from which two lines stood out, “Bare arms swayed like a forest of kelp. . . . cut from her bridal dress like from a fisherman’s net”.

Poetry Bites plays again on Tuesday 27th September, details available on the Kitchen Garden Cafe website: http://www. kitchengardencafe. co. uk/events. php?pid=main 26-07-11