A Rhyme, a Rhyme, and Just in Time.

I don't remember when I wrote my first poem, but it was a long time ago. Relatively confident of future success, I started a collection of juvenilia. I fully expect Poems of Yesterdays (sic) Heart to feature on all respectable English Literature degree courses by 2025.

Nice handwriting, shame about the missing apostrophe.

As you may be able to predict, this collection contains some utterly atrocious poetry. Have a look at this particularly tasty example:

The less said about that the better.

I changed my career ambitions several times during my childhood. Initially, I intended to be a world famous ballerina. Then I decided that being a Hollywood A-lister was more my speed. I later had a moment of sanity when a career as a barrister seemed appealing, before finally settling on 'bestselling novellist' as my ideal job title. Watch this space. I am so on it. My Gothic fairy tale about killer crows is totally going to be the next big thing. I just need to add a couple of chapters of mummy porn. And a wizard.

Throughout all these twists and turns, poetry has been a constant. When I'm down, when I'm happy, when I'm amused, when I'm alone; poetry always finds a place. I learn poems by heart. They help me sleep. They get me though long nostalgic bike rides. I buy big chunky poetry anthologies and obscure little poetry pamphlets. And of course, despite an early lack of promise, I still write the stuff. I mostly write a lot of terrible tosh, but I do write the odd thing that is really not too bad, such as this piece that I wrote for my gorgeous godson.

I once had the immense privilege of studying with Gerard Benson, an original member of the Barrow Poets and co-founder of the magnificent Poems on the Underground scheme. The week I spent on his course in Buckinghamshire was probably one of the happiest of my life. He taught me so much about form and subtlety. One lunchtime, Gerard fell in to step with me on the way to the sandwich shop. "You know you have a gift?" He asked. I have no idea what completely inadequate reply I gave, but I can tell you for certain that his words will stay with me until the day I die. He made me believe that I might have a voice worth hearing.

Speaking of inspiration. It was seeing Scroobius Pip at an Amanda Palmer gig that turned me on to the idea of spoken word. Previously, I had imagined live poetry to be awash with cigarette smoke, beards and berets. Scroobius Pip made live poetry feel vibrant and truly accessible. I saw the glint of a possibility. My early career ambitions signpost a love of performing, and that's something that I have really been missing over the last few years. I have accepted that I'm probably too late to start training as a world famous ballerina, but my soul hasn't quite caught up with the idea that I will spend the rest of my days out of the limelight. It still yearns to show off.

So I popped 'poetry slam' on my Thirty@30 list and figured it would take care of itself.

Three weeks before my final deadline, with four challenges still to go, I discovered that it hadn't taken care of itself. Pesky poetry. So, in something of a panic, I printed out four random poems that I thought were quite good and took them along to my Monday night writers' group for a trial run. Turns out they weren't quite good at all. I could feel them bombing as I read them aloud.

My friend and fellow writer Alex sensibly and tactfully suggested that instead of signing up to Poetry Unplugged at the Poetry Café the following day, as planned, I just go along and scope the territory. He also said that if I could wait another week, he'd be able to come along for moral support. Actually, I think his words were "If you do it next week, I can come and throw stuff." At this juncture, two other members of the group: the extraordinarily wise and wonderful Caroline Swain, and Published Author Robin Bayley, piped up with their willingness and availability to come and throw things at me, too. Suddenly, things were taking care of themselves. I had a week, a plan, and an audience.

Off I went to scope out Poetry Unplugged. In many ways, it wasn't too far from the beards and berets I had imagined. There were some very earnest poets, and some very terrible poems. But there was also joy, exuberance, support, laughter. Clever, startling, original creativity. And at least three people who had recently escaped from a local institute for the irretrievably insane. I thought it was great, and I knew I could do it too.

The problem was the material. The poems I had chosen were written to be read from the page. I could feel instinctively that they didn't work as performance pieces. I needed something with rhythm and rhyme, even if the rhyme was pretty basic. At home I racked my brain, and thumbed through the notebook I'd used during Gerard Benson's course. There was some decent material in there, and definitely a few candidates for my next award-winning collection, but nothing that seemed right for unplugged. I flopped down, defeated, in front of the TV. I flipped the channels, feeling my brain start to drip out of my ears, as it often does when I allow the telly to work its catatonic magic. I'm stuck, I thought.

And, as if by magic, the poem came.

Me and Alex, waiting for the night to begin. Note the manic fear in my eyes.

On Tuesday, April 30th 2013, there were probably 60+ people packed into the Poetry Café's tiny basement. My dad and his girlfriend couldn't get a seat and had to watch from the stairs. Alex, Robin and Caroline were all there. I waited and waited for my spot, my heart skipping a beat every time the compere, poet Niall O'Sullivan, announced "the next poetry unplugged virgin." 

The standard and the energy were significantly higher than they had been the week before. Having felt relatively confident that I'd be amongst the better offerings of the evening, I was suddenly full of doubt. When at last it was my turn for ceremonial deflowering, I was trembling almost uncontrollably. But there was a swell of support from the room. Even if everyone secretly hopes that they're going to be the best, no one wants anyone else to fail. This is a gathering of people who love poetry. Even the irretrievably insane get a wild round of applause, beginning and end. Kind of like this...

Looking back on the video, there are loads of things I would do differently. I'd give myself some sort of vocal surgery, for starters. How anyone can put up with the sound of me talking I may never know. I'd also work on my rhythm and actions, and learn the whole thing by heart, which I would have done if I hadn't written it the day before. Oh, and I might also try to remember to breathe next time. But all things considered, it wasn't bad for a virgin. And what a tremendous buzz. What a feeling, not only to be back on stage, but to offer people a little bit of myself, and to hear them laugh where I wanted them to laugh. Fall silent when I needed them to be silent. I loved it. Here's a text message my dad sent me afterwards:

Darling that was great. 

Your eyes were alive for the first time in months. 

More of that and you will be right up there.

I think he hit the nail on the head there. To feel alive I need to write poetry and I need to perform. If I keep putting the two together, I might one day get half good at it. At the very lest, I'll probably have a lot of fun trying. Now then, someone pass me my beret.

Twenty-eight down, two to go...

Fifteen minutes of not much fame: My first YouTube video.

A few days before Christmas I went wandering around my old stomping ground of Muswell Hill. I bumped into my former Head of Year in the bookshop. He didn't remember me until I cited my parents.  "Oh yes! The leggy Venezuelan and the comedian who plays two recorders up his nose." Turns out my parents are significantly more memorable than I am. This has nothing much to do with the story, by the way, it just entertained me.

Having failed quite spectacularly to buy any Christmas presents, I met my dad for a coffee, where we discussed the woes of the season. I explained how the more shops I went in to, the less inclined I was to get sucked in to the commercial frenzy. Everything seemed cunningly designed to make us all spend money we didn't really have on items people wouldn't really want. Bah Humbug. Dad had a related story that really made me laugh. He'd bought a slightly bulky gift for his girlfriend and had "hidden" it in a plastic bag behind the sofa, giving her clear instructions not to peek. A day or so later she texted him the following:

U kno that present? I havnt looked but if it is a slow cooker i don't want it.

Why she suspected him of buying her a slow cooker I am not sure, but my father is renowned for slightly unusual presents. The year I went to university - where I would be living in a dorm with no kitchen facilities - he bought me a pastry cook book... Go figure. He hadn't bought his girlfriend a slow cooker on this occasion, (it was actually a lamp), but her message really tickled me.

An unwanted slow cooker is returned to the shop.

That evening, around 10pm, I thought there might be a poem in there somewhere. About slow cookers, unwanted Christmas presents, and all the things we get that we really don't want or need. I started scribbling, and an hour or so later I had something I was fairly pleased with.

I was just about to type it up and send it to dad when I had another idea. Mum suggested some time ago that a good blog challenge would be to post my first video on YouTube. I thought this was a great idea, but had been unable to think of something I could do that was worth posting. Unfortunately, I never did learn advanced pastry making.  What if I recorded myself performing the poem?

I have always loved poetry, but it was only very recently, at an amazing Amanda Palmer gig, that I had my first taste of the art of spoken word, in the form of Scroobius Pip. I loved it. The rhythm and music of it. The passion and power of the rising voice. I went home inspired.

I am a completely tuneless singer. I find this very frustrating, as I'm utterly convinced that the world has thus been deprived of a once-in-a-lifetime pop idol. Or something. The point is that I am a frustrated performer and that, for a frustrated performer like me, spoken word seemed a potential alternative to the off-key caterwauling that regularly takes place in my shower. No one wants to hear that.

By 1am the next morning, I had polished the poem, more-or-less learned it, and had filmed myself approximately sixteen times. Most of these takes stop somewhere in the middle with an elegantly poetic: "S**T BUG**R BO***CKS" as I forget what line comes next. I wanted desperately to go fast, because I could hear the rhythm of the poem pounding in my head, but my mouth worked faster than my brain and I kept getting lost. I finally managed an almost perfect take, but the light was bad, my hair was all over the place and I basically looked a bit like a tired poet zombie.

My dreams that night were filled with visions of mountains of unwanted presents and I woke up with the poem scrolling infuriatingly around my brain. That morning, I did something quite pathetic: I pulled a Christmas cracker with myself. And no, that is not a euphemism. I wanted the hat, you see? For a prop. I was getting seriously professional.

I started filming again, this time avec hat, clean hair, and a more carefully chosen background. It was difficult to keep each take feeling fresh and spontaneous. The writing of the poem was easy in comparison with capturing the performance the way I wanted it. As so often happens with my creative endeavours, the more I worked on it, the worse it seemed to become. Eventually I stopped and decided that what I had would do. The performance was a little slower than I was hearing it in my head, but I hoped it was engaging enough to keep people watching.

Another hour or so of faffing and occasional expletives and I'd managed to add a title and end sequence to the poem, and upload it to my very own YouTube channel. I posted the link online, sat back and waited to go viral.

A little over a month later, this is what I have learned: I am in no way as entertaining as any of the following:

Gangnam Style OK, fair enough.

A slow loris that loves being tickled This is a truly awesome video, so I can't complain.

A cat that fails to jump over a baby gate I've watched this at least fifteen times myself.

7.5 minutes of paint drying/watching a slug crawl on a box  Seriously!? How can I be less entertaining than a slug on a box? This video had 77,112 views at time of writing this post. Come on, people. Go back to work! Or at least be more discerning in your choice of entertainment...

I, alas, have attracted a paltry 306 views, far less than I had hoped for.

Looking slightly concerned at my view count.

It's taken me more than a month to sit down and write up this experience because I've been secretly hoping that my view count would suddenly rocket up.  It hasn't, because it's not Christmas anymore and also because, well, my poem is just not as funny as a slow loris that likes to be tickled. It's just not. In fact, I realise that  the tone in which I performed it is a bit too hyper-realistic. I suspect it might make people feel slightly uncomfortable, because I seem so bitter. This is actually testament to my acting skills, since I have to say that I am generally spoiled rotten as far as presents are concerned. This poem is nothing to do with personal disappointment. It's meant to be a joke, but I am too earnest. It's a lesson learned, for next time.

I've also learned that I love reciting my poems aloud. I want to do more, and get better. I want to learn to build a rhythm, rise to a crescendo, tell a story in verse. I think it's the closest I'll ever come to singing, to experiencing that transfer of emotion from voice to ear to heart. I may not quite have mastered making people laugh, but I have a feeling I can get there, with more practice, more patience, and by going to see other performance poets in action.

Worthwhile success takes time. It takes patience, It takes knock-backs. You have to film yourself over and over, and then wake up and do it again in the morning. You have to post one film, and then another, and another, and another, and still, no one might notice you. BUT if you're good at what you do, and take pains to get better, things might just happen.Take this blog. It's had over 9,000 views. 9,000!!! That might be small fry in comparison to many other blogs out there, but to me it seems a huge and magical number. One day, maybe 9000 people will have watched a video I made, or read a story I wrote. But if not, well, it doesn't really matter. Because the point is that I created something. I found the ingredients, mixed them, tasted them, made them the best I could. And, since it turns out they're not going to ignite all by themselves, I've shoved them in the slow cooker.

Eighteen down, twelve to go...

p.s. Please watch my video

p.p.s. Buy less stuff!

Hearts on a String: An evening with Amanda Palmer and The Grand Theft Orchestra.

© Joanna Thomas

Picture the scene. It is a damp Tuesday evening in late October. I cycle home from a cruddy day at the office, already running late. As I pedal against the wind I think seriously about getting back to the flat and pretending that Justin and I DON’T have tickets to a gig tonight. But we’re meeting another friend at the venue and it doesn't seem right to bail. I get in and try on four different black tops before deciding on the one that I feel most comfortable with. Question: Do I maybe wear too much black?

 


Student-style, we inhale salami sandwiches standing up in the kitchen before venturing back into the night. In the queue at KOKO in Camden, I am forced to laugh at my black-top indecision. As if it makes any difference among all the fabulous costumes on display. Sparkly sequined dresses, tutus, top hats, studs in ears, noses, cheeks and tongues. Chokers and corsets and slick black lipstick. It is a strange and beautiful display.

Inside is scarlet and faded gold. Small boxes jammed with photographers climb the walls. The room is noisy but poised for each twitch on the stage, each lull in the music. Everyone is waiting for the magic. We are all waiting for Amanda Fucking Palmer.

©Hannah Daisy

We drink expensive cokes in plastic pint glasses and settle near a pillar, just below the balcony. Tuesday still hovers. Work in the morning. Dark autumn skies. My feet are tired, my back aches. The people in front are too tall and I cannot see the stage. Someone else’s ponytail flicks in my face.  I am jostled and tired.

She comes on stage in her hat and dressing gown. Everyone screams. She proffers her supporting acts like gifts; a four minute bass solo, a young woman with wild hair and an extraordinary, haunting, wailing voice. Things are being laid before us, strange sounds and breaking hearts.

Supporting act Mali Sastri. © Alex Moore

When Amanda Palmer at last takes the stage it is to a deafening roar. Like or love her lyrics, the girl can sing. She can fill shouts or whispers with pure emotion. She is lively and funny and bonkers and talented. She strips to her bra a song or two in and no one bats an eyelid. Mid-song, she and the band dash about swapping instruments. The stage is in beautiful, glorious chaos. She sings perhaps my favourite of her songs, which I love for this simple, perfectly expressed sentiment:

It doesn't matter if you want it back. You've given it away. You've given it away.

We all sing along to the chorus, belting it out, jumping up and down, celebrating our past mistakes.

Falling © Alex Moore

A few songs later, Amanda Palmer spreads her arms wide, closes her eyes and falls into the crowd. As she rides a sea of hands an enormous, diaphanous wave spreads out behind her in the form of an expanse of sheer blue fabric. Fingers strain and stretch beneath it. She never misses a beat.

Flying © Alex Moore

Then she sings a sad one I do not know. I cannot see her at the piano, so I bow my head and let the room swim in and out of view.

Don’t know how long we've been lying here in fear
Too afraid to even feel
I find my glasses and you turn the light out
Roll off on your side like you've rolled away for years
Holding back those king-sized tears

Amanda Palmer – The Bed Song

© Alex Moore

At some point during the song I look up to a box on the right of the stage. Neil Gaiman is leaning against the wall and watching his wife perform. He is unobtrusive, enraptured along with the rest of us.  I nudge Justin and we smile. There are one or two people in this room who have come only in the hopes of getting a glimpse of this man, of being near him. But this is a private moment, and lasts less than a minute.

© Alex Moore

We are in the middle of a whirlwind. Amanda introduces Scroobius Pip, who performs his Letter from God to Man with the improvised backing of The Grand Theft Orchestra. He wins hundreds of new fans. His lyrics are clever and cutting and funny and thoughtful. The dystopian tune rises behind him as the song reaches its climax. With his enormous beard and immense charisma, Scroobius Pip becomes the evening’s prophet.

© Hannah Daisy

You see, I wasn't really the creator, I was just the curator of nature

I want to get something straight with homosexuals right now: I don't hate ya

Scroobius Pip - Letter from God to Man

I should not love Neil Gaiman. Every idea I have ever wanted to write has already been written by him, better than I could hope to write it. But I do love him, because no envy can conquer the pleasure of sinking into the dark, delicious worlds he creates. And what joy, what pleasure, could surpass that of seeing Neil Gaiman take the stage with a clown-attired sawchestra?

© Hannah Daisy

“Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.”
― Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 6: Fables and Reflections
© Alex Moore

Gaiman and the clown saw musicians perform ‘Psycho’ by Leon Payne. Obviously, it’s brilliant. Surely there's nothing that could top it? Amanda Palmer herself tell us there's probably only one thing in the world that could be better...

There are some things that should not happen. We are years too late, surely, to see the legendary Richard O'Brien perform the Time Warp live on stage? Such a thing cannot happen to us. Such a thing is the stuff of strange and unattainable dreams. And yet…

I didn't know how much I needed to see this until I saw it. ©Alex Moore

© Hannah Daisy

I do not think there are words to describe the joy and delirium of those three minutes. We jump to our left, we step to our right. But, without a shadow of a doubt, it is the pelvic thrusts that will really drive you insane. Our delight is enhanced by our utter surprise. A thousand people dance the Time Warp again. We are in the midst of true magic. The spell cast on us could not be more complete or more perfect.

And, finally, after endless thundering applause, Amanda Palmer and The Grand Theft Orchestra re-appear in one of the tiny boxes. They have two guitars and a megaphone. They reprise Want it Back, all of us stamping and clapping and singing at the top of our lungs. This finale makes us once again part of the performance.  We are all part of the magic, and it couldn't have been created without us.

© Hannah Daisy

I've been to gigs before. I've even been out on a school night before. I’m struggling to justify making this an official part of my 30@Thirty. But when I look back over this memorable year I know that my night in the crowd with Amanda Palmer and The Grand Theft Orchestra will be as special to me as all the other extraordinary experiences.  So, in the spirit of creative anarchy…

© Alex Moore

Eleven down, nineteen to go…

*Any actually good pictures are courtesy of Alex Moore and Hannah Daisy, who kindly responded to my Twitter appeal for snaps. Check out Alex’s awesome drawings here, and Hannah's fabulous photographs here.