Fifteen days of poetry in spring

It's been a wonderful couple of weeks of poetry. First, it was the Lyra Bristol poetry festival, and although work commitments prevented me from going to a few events, I did manage to attend an online workshop led by Malika Booker, and I got to see my poetry hero, Ilya Kaminsky, who was one of the headline poets, and who lived up to my sky-high expectations.

And it was a  joy to have him sign my treasured copy of 'Deaf Republic', all battered and filled with notes from when I wrote an essay on it while I was studying for my Masters degree at Manchester Writing School. 

Talking of which, I also attended a showcase featuring some of the poets I studied with a few evenings ago, albeit online. This was my view for most of the evening, but no matter, the poems sounded great.

Throughout this past winter, the IsamBards, whose swan song it is this year, have been working hard, putting together an anthology of their poems, featuring poems from poetry walks held in the centre of Bristol and its floating harbour, the Bristol Botanic Garden, and Arnos Vale Cemetery, plus further sections entitled 'Brunel' and 'Books'. And now, at last, the anthology, called 'Dancing on the bridge', is in the world.

To accompany it, we've done three recent poetry walks, the first one - as part of Lyra Bristol Poetry Festival - on Bristol's waterfront. 

An interlude - with dog - on Narrow Quay

Reading at Pero's Bridge

Part of our rapt audience, which included John Cabot 

At Mud Dock, our final stop

Eight days later, we found ourselves at Arnos Vale Cemetery for two walks, this time as part of Bristol Walk Fest.

The ram's skull I found in Evilcombe on Dartmoor, many years ago, made an appearance as Yorick's skull during one poem

Our guide for the morning walk, Janine, at George Müller's grave

I'm always touched when flowers brimg themselves to a grave

Our guide for the afternoon walk was Alix, and her and Janine's knowledgeable presence made for fascinating walks.

magpie feather

With thanks also to the butterfly, which fluttered by while Janine was talking about Psyche, the goddess of the soul, who's often depicted with butterfly wings and who's the origin of the butterfly as a symbol for the soul, and to the sparrowhawk, which made an appearance seconds after IsamBard Dominic Fisher read his poem 'Sparrow', which features one.

And of course, my collection 'Love the Albatross' has continued to make its way in the world.  In addition to the reading I did in Totnes, also during this wonderful fortnight of poetry, Nigel Kent has kindly published both a short essay, written by me, on one of its poems - 'The counsel of hares' - which can be read here, and his own highly perceptive and empathetic review on the whole collection, which can be read here. 

Finally, from the same collection, my poem 'A betrayal', which was first published in issue 4 of The Fig Tree's online journal, has made its way into the 2024 anthology of poems, published by Tim Fellows of Broken Spire Press - many thanks to him also.

Filling January with poetry

I don't do that well in winter, being encumbered with Seasonal Affective Disorder, so I try to fill it with poetry to compensate for having to take the Christmas lights down. 

This year was my third year of doing Kim Moore and Clare Shaw's January Writing Hours, which offers the discipline of an hour a day responding to poems and prompts. Sadly, I can only ever attend four per week because of fixed work commitments, but even so, after a two-year break from writing poems following the completion of my most recent collection, 'Love the Albatross', I feel I might be getting ready to start writing again, and so it was good to smell the distant whiff of poetry on the air. And it's always wonderful to encounter poets and poems you might not have come across otherwise. 

I also volunteered to read at a few poetry events, largely to make myself do it despite the dark and the longing to hibernate. The first of these was the launch of Di Slaney's new pamphlet, 'January conversations, with dogs', published by Valley Press. Di was looking for poets with poems about dogs to read at the launch, so I sent her a copy of 'The Good Dogs of Chernobyl', which was published in my 2019 collection, 'The Shadow Factory', and was delighted when it, and I, were chosen to take part. And although they were mostly distant, Northern, god-like poets involved, whom I 'know' from social media but have never met, I instantly felt part of a warm poetry community - it was a beautiful launch of a thoughtful, dog-accompanied collection of poems that never tip into sentimentality, skilfully illustrated by poet and artist, Jane Burn. And yes, I bought two copies, one for us and one for dog-owning, poetry-publishing friends, and if you like dogs and poems, you should too. 

                         

Mid-month and I left Bristol for the first time this year to travel to Bradford-on-Avon for the second Poetry@Roots reading at Bradford Roots Music Festival. I read at the first one last year, on the grounds that not wanting to leave my settee to drive along the frankly scary Sally-in-the-Wood in winter's dark was exactly the reason why I should do it, and it was a such a shiny experience, I jumped at the chance to do it all again. 

Organiser and compere Dawn Gorman

This year there were guest readings by Kate Noakes and Christine McFarlane, who was launching her first collection, 'Irish Elk and other Extinctions'. Dawn, who organises every event she puts on so very competently, but without the least hint of bossiness, interviewed Kate and Christine for The Poetry Place on West Wilts Radio, and also Dominic Fisher and me about the forthcoming anthology from the IsamBards, 'Dancing on the Bridge'. You can hear us here, at about 6 minutes and 25 seconds in. 

Taking to the Golden Gudgeon stage

Then, right at the end of the month, two readings within 18 hours of each other, the first a Manchester Metropolitan University Alumni Showcase, at Manchester Poetry Library, which I joined online. 

Compere Kim Moore with a bottle of beer and fellow-reader, Rachel Carney, listening to a collaborative reading on the theme of dementia by Hilary Robinson and Rachel Davies

I always find Teams and Zoom readings slightly terrifying in case a) someone rings the doorbell and the dog goes ape, or b) I suffer a technical disaster and find I can't join the reading, or the internet goes down - none of which has happened yet, though that doesn't stop me worrying. This time, there was even more jeopardy, as we're between kitchens right now, and out of camera shot, I was surrounded by tottering piles of crockery, rusting pots and pans, jars of condiments bought with the most exciting of intentions in 2018 that somehow got pushed to the back of the cupboard and never used, etc, etc. In the end, I took the precaution of shutting poor Cwtch the Collie upstairs, from where she tried to dig her way back down through the ceiling, though this wasn't audible in Manchester. As for the notification which kept popping up, telling me I had a poor network connection, I just ignored it and it was OK. 

Rachel Carney's view from the audience

Since this might have been my last contact with MMU, I'm pleased it went well. I loved studying for my MA, and having the space to write about the difficult subject of estrangement was important to me as I negotiated my experience of it. It was also exhilarating hearing the poetry some of my peers - Rachel Carney, Betty Doyle, Simon Costello, Hilary Robinson and Rachel Davis - have written.

The final reading of the month wasn't at all scary because it was on my home ground, at Silver Street Poetry and Open Mic, of which I'm one of the co-organisers. Knowing everyone there makes for a safe space in which I can be a little more frank about the circumstances behind the 'Love the Albatross' poems than I might be otherwise. And of course, people know me in return, which means I know I won't be judged. 

Action MC moment from Dominic Fisher

It means a lot to me when people who, it turns out, have experience of estrangement come up to me after a reading and tell me how much these poems have touched them. 

Finally, the last poem from 'Love the Albatross' to come home to roost did so in the pages of Indigo Dreams' The Dawntreader. A fine place for it to land. Thanks to Ronnie and Dawn for everything. 

A MAd dash to Manchester

I wore my bee earrings to my graduation ceremony in Manchester, as Chris Palmer and Jinny Peberday of Skyravenwolf had given them to me and I probably wouldn't have even enrolled for my MA at Manchester Writing School without Jinny's insistence I'd regret it if I didn't. So it was important they - Chris and Jinny - were there with me in some form yesterday (along with The Satchel of Poetry, which they also made and which was carrying a pair of comfier shoes for when the Northerner and I got lost walking back to the car park, which we did, hopelessly, despite the Northerner being Northern and having lived in Manchester for several years in the late 90s and early 00s). (It's changed a lot, apparently.)

Deborah means 'bee', of course, and when I'd put them on, I wasn't thinking of the fact that bees are important for Manchester too. In fact, they're everywhere as a symbols of defiance post the 2017 Manchester Arena bombing, and it's good to see them.

Rochdale Canal

Canal Street

Manchester looking simultaneously like its 21st-century self and 1920s Berlin

First stop, the Midland Hotel to enrol and get togged up. It was great seeing my fellow-students, Tina, Liz and Cherry, in the queue as I'd never met them in person, having followed a distance learning course via Teams. (Although it was all distance learning anyway during the worst of Covid.)

Then we proceeded across the concourse to the Bridgewater Hall, where the ceremony was taking place.

There was a lot of clapping to be done, of course; important to keep clapping as you yourself have been clapped across the stage for that brief don't-fall-over moment in the bright lights. (The Northerner did some whooping too, which proves you can't take him anywhere, not even up North.) As a bonus, the speeches were pretty good, as these things go, especially the one by Letitia Jones, President of the Student Union, whose mum got a clap as she was simultaneously getting her PhD 'somewhere down the road'.)  

Oh and at the end of the row behind, a glimpse of Mohammed, who was also on our course, and the swish of our superlative tutor Kim Moore in passing as she exited the stage, all very pleasing.

(I'm really quite proud of both of us for getting all this studying done in our old age.)

Unfortunately we couldn't hang about and socialise afterwards, as we'd been up since 3am in order to get to Manchester comfortably by 8am, and despite a marathon dog-sitting session in the middle of the day by Son the Elder, Cwtch the Collie was waiting patiently for us in her crate back home. (Although since there was someone getting her doctorate with her dog in her shoulder bag, I could have tried stuffing her in The Satchel of Poetry, I suppose.)

A lovely, if exhausting, day ... and meanwhile the poems I wrote during the course continue to make their way in the world, with one of them being shortlisted for this year's Plough Prize and another being Ink Sweat & Tears' pick of the month in April. Thank you, Manchester and the Manchester Writing School. 

In which I get a cerstificut ...

 ... and an academic transcript, but still have to wait to flounce around in a cloak and hat.

It's five years today since my father died. I suspect he'd have shown off to other people about his daughter's achievement, though to me he'd have said 'Why don't you write something that will make you some money, like that Rowling woman?'

The reason I know this is because it's what he did say, on a different occasion. Of course, Rowling had yet to come out as a transphobe back then. As it is, I'll take poetry and solidarity with my trans friends, thanks. 

Out with the Old, In with More of the Old

Poetry, and getting out a bit with the dog ... that's pretty much it for me, and the end of last year and the beginning of this reflected that.  

On Friday it was Silver Street Poetry, the fourth gathering since we found a new venue post pandemic. Our guest poet this time was Pameli Benham, but the show came close to being stolen by Cwtch the border collie. She was down to read 'The Sheepdog' by U A Fanthorpe, about the collie who stays behind with the sheep while the shepherds visit the new baby born in a stable, but at the last minute she had a bit of a panic about her ability to do a Yorkshire accent (she's from Neath in Wales), so the Northerner (who's from Barnsley) took over. 

The very new New Year has been poetry-filled too, for which I'm grateful, having finished my MA in Creative Writing in the autumn. Along with over 200 of my peers, I've signed up for Kim Moore and Clare Shaw's January writing hours, which I knew would be good, as Kim was my MA dissertation supervisor at the Manchester Writing School. Being between projects, I can write whatever comes, which is exhilarating and a bit scary all at once. I'll be missing some of the sessions, unfortunately, thanks to work and the rail strike, which will see me shuttling along the M4 a fair bit, but I'm not really complaining because the situation is the fault of the government and Network Rail, not the unions. 

Nevertheless, even though I'm making efforts to stave off the January doldrums, I still feel I'll have to seize every bright day that comes my way and make the most of it, to which end we spent an hour on the River Severn at Severn Beach this lunchtime. It was a joy to be out under wide skies in brilliant light. 

A month of poetry - and the Buzzwords Poetry Competition 2022

September's been a busy month, seeing the submission of my dissertation, and with it, the end of my MA in Creative Writing at Manchester Writing School. I decided to apply after my mother went to live with my sister in Nottingham for the last couple of years of her life, and I suddenly found myself with a lot more free time. Now all that's left to do is wait for the result of my dissertation, and then the release of my overall mark. I've really enjoyed rediscovering my inner swot, and will miss her and my studies once I've graduated. (Unless I go on to study for a PhD. We'll have to see.)

September was also very busy with regard to poetry readings; in fact, I ended up doing more in one month than the preceding two and a half years, starting with four readings over the course of one weekend at the University of Bristol's Botanic Garden Bee and Pollination Festival. Reading with me were two of my fellow IsamBards, Pameli Benham and David Johnson. 

I also had the pleasure of being one of the guest poets at the Berkeley Square Poetry Review in Clifton, and at Uncut Poets at Exeter Phoenix, along with Dominic Fisher. 

My seventh reading of the month, again as guest poet with Dominic Fisher, was pre-recorded for West Wilts Radio, courtesy of Dawn Gorman's The Poetry Place. The programme, with many excellent open-mic readings, is available to listen to here.

My final reading of the month was perhaps the most personally satisfying of all, as it was for Silver Street Poetry, the open mic I used to run with my partner, Colin Brown, before the pandemic put a stop to such things. Since then we've had a prolonged search for a more spacious venue than our old haunt, and have found a warm welcome at St Stephen's Church, just off Bristol City Centre, which not only has an excellent Spanish cafe, but also mermaids! 

I'll be running the event from now on with Dominic, Pat Simmons and Rosalie Alston, as Colin is currently working in Cardiff. We'll be booking some excellent guest poets in the months ahead. In the meantime it was great to dip my toes in the warm (as it turned out) waters of viability, a mere two and a half years after I was slated to read in April 2020. 

And my best poetry news for the month came in an email from the organisers of the 2022 Buzzwords Poetry  Competition to say that my sequence of poems, Conversations with Silence, from my most recent project, Love the Albatross, had won second prize, which is all kinds of pleasing. Thanks very much to judge, Nigel McLoughlin.