Author Archives: Robert Garnham

Well I’ve been undertaking the April Poem a Day challenge this month. The September one was very productive for me and led to my book ‘Perpendicular’. But this year I set myself the additional challenge of
1- Not featuring any introspective or serious poems
2 – No poems with a ‘gay’ theme
3- Every poem being humorous in content.

Anyway, this is what I’ve come up with some far from the first week.

Poem

I don’t want this poem to be about
The thing that it’s about.
I don’t want it to be about that thing.
I don’t want to have to
Mention
That thing which I’m thinking of right now
Because it’s what this poem is about.
People go out of their way not to
Talk about this thing,
This thing I’m writing this poem about.
People feel disgusted
Being made to think about this thing,
This thing that this poem
Is about, ostensibly.

So I won’t mention it
Because I’m nice like that.
And I’d like to shield you
From the reality of life of
This thing existing
By pretending that this poem
Is about something it’s not
By the method of not mentioning
The thing that it’s actually about.
I’m so clever.

Poem

A pogo stick
In a steep scree-lined Welsh valley.
Boing boing boing
And the boinging echoing back
On the echo boing
As gaboinging
Intermittently interspersed
Between my own pogo boings
In a sort of boing gaboing boing
Or sometimes boing boing gaboing boing
With the next gaboing obliterated
By the latest boing
If I get a chance to pick up speed.

Boing boing gaboing boing (gaboing)
Boing boing gaboing boing (gaboing)
Et cetera.

Up and down
Up and down in my Welsh valley
With the pogo and the echo
Loud enough to have some serious fun
(A cheery hello to a passing backpacker)
But not loud enough to cause an
Avalanche.

Until the park ranger turns up
And says I’m driving all the woodpeckers crazy
With my syncopated boing gaboing
And that an amorous sparrow
Is under the impression that it’s a mating call.

Poem

1. Abstract

Apart from John Hegley, Matt Harvey, John Cooper Clarke, Pam Ayres, Johnny Fluffypunk, TS Eliot and hundreds of other notable poets, not many have tackled the subject of garden sheds.

2. Introduction

I am about to tackle the subject of garden sheds.

3. Contents

The contents of the poem, you mean?
Or the contents of the shed?
You see already I am confused by the
Format of this piece but I could
Willingly oblige you, one way or the other.

4. Here we go then

If I had a shed
It would be the best shed in the world
But I wouldn’t let it go to my head.
At nights I lay in my bed
And dream of having a shed.
Oh, the loneliness.
I think of all the tears I’ve shed
Over not having a shed.

5. The next verse

I’d like a shed.
I’d paint it red.
I’d call it ‘Fred’
I’d like to be buried in it
When I’m dead.

6. Immovable sheds

Due to their semi-permanence
Sheds are virtually static
Due to their construction and purpose
They don’t usually have an attic.

7. Big sheds

I’d like a shed so big
That people say
‘Hey, nice chalet!’
And I’d say, ‘No,
It’s a shed’.

I’d like a shed so big
A barn owl tries to live in it
And I’d say, ‘Hey, barn owl,
It’s not a barn,
It’s a shed’.
And the barn owl would say,
‘In that case I’m not a barn owl,
I’m a shed owl’.
And I’d say
‘It’s all a question of semantics’.
And the barn owl would move in
And poo on all my stuff.

8. I really like this next verse

I’d like a shed so big
It’s got it’s own shed.

9. Here’s a website link to a real kick-ass shed video

10. Get some rhythm!

Lock me in your shed, baby
Throw away the key.
Lock me in your shed, baby,
Throw away the key.
Down with the paint cans.
Down with the lawn rakes.
Down with the compost.
Down with the creosote.
Lock me in your shed, baby,
Throw away the key.

11. On preferring a shed with a felt roof

I’d like a shed with a felt roof
Angled at eleven and a half degrees,
Not enough to repel rain,
But enough to make a marble roll
Of its own volition
Should one be placed on it.

12. Alternative shed names

I know I said
That if I had a shed
I’d call it ‘Fred’
But I’ve considered other names, too.
Like Ethelred.
Ted.
Jed.
Kenneth. Brian. Lola. Steven. Anne. Carol. David. Connor. Nathan. Lord Pinkerton. Johann. Philip. Susie. Christopher. Ironing board. Ryan. Desmond. Lionel. Jessie J. Bob.

13. Moving on

If I had a shed
Oh, and
Michael. Sandra. Granny Finch. Katherine. Jean-Francois. Ian.

14. Almost at the end, now

If I had a shed
I’d keep my hopes and dreams and
Aspirations inside of it
And possibly
A lawn mower.

15. Acknowledgements

Thanks to Jeff for the use of his shed.

Poem

Thou hast upon thy charms a tariff
Mitigating against, among other things, insomnia
That one should prioritise the transaction
Rather than the honesty of truth.
Halt! Pale creature, and ponder on this.

Why should’st thou be so concerned?
Thou manners have tempers not of this world.
Thine eyes shaded against the sun
Thine elevation increased by heightened heels
Yet mirth and whimsy pass ye by.

Cast thine eyes leftwards.
Cast thine eyes rightwards.
Can’st thou savour the ephemera
That we should, with our desires, augment various japes.

Be this not concerning the tariff tarriff tarriff
Thou hast no need of thy tarriff tarriff tarriff
If chance prevails one must faithfully gyrate.
Cast all thoughts of thy funds from thy mind.
Be this not concerning the cobblous sound of pennies accumulated, accumulated,
Be this not concerning the grotesque fripperies that one might purchase, purchase,
If chance prevails one must faithfully gyrate
Cast all thoughts of thy funds from thy mind.

Upon what manner is this public obsession?
Currency hath not the charms of potential merriment
That we should by turns de-accelerate and ponder on lightness
In pale guarantee of a more harmonious mind frame.

Poem

I always seem to associate
Several Surrey towns
With shades of beige as marketed
By the Ford Motor Company in the 1970s.

Egham is Nevada beige.
Woking is Sahara beige.
Weybridge is classic cream beige.
Guildford is light beige.
Staines is antique beige.

I know Staines has a Middlesex postal address
But it’s definitely in Surrey.

My friend Steven opines
That I always get excitable
And blunder on through life
And he might have a point.

I like the display of busts
In one of the galleries at the British Museum.
I can’t remember which gallery it is
But they’ve all got big sideburns
And the sun slants oblong like solid dust.
I put my hand in the dust slant solid beam.

Haslemere is Bahama beige.
Horsell is Toucan beige.
Bracknell is in Berkshire but it’s milk caramel beige.

In 1995 I had a bad cycle accident
And my nose has been this shape ever since.
I fell off my bike in Englefield Green
(Sonic beige)
Went riiiiiiiiiight over the handlebars.

I take time now and then
To slow down and savour life
And to commune with the exact platzgeist
Of a place / moment.

So up yours, Steven.
See, I can do it sometimes.

At nights the trains used to spark electric and
Light up the skies,
Silhouetting
Holloway College like Dracula’s Castle.
And I’d get ever so scared
Until,
Lulled to sleep by the friendly roar
Of transcontinental jets,
I’d dream of labyrinthine holiday cottages.

Poem

1. Oh my goodness
That’s 20p he owes me now.

2. Dreaming of being an aircraft
I zoom over mental landscapes
With the thrust lift pitch yaw
Except I do so safe in the knowledge
That I’m 20p poorer.

3. It was one of those sunny Devon mornings, the kind of morning in which one feels that the world is not so terribly bad, and I’d begun by answering some emails, then going for a walk along the promenade, then to the coffee shop where is usually sit and scribble poems and things before going to work, and he was in there, and he wondered if I might lend him 20p so that he could upgrade from a primo to a massimo. And like a fool I said yes. He then sat next to me and bored me rigid with tales about his uncle.

4. Tentative ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffriendship
I
Believe
In
The
Power
Of
Being
Ever
So
Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice

5. I went to the 99p Store
But I only had 79p.
(Gosh, I’m so postmodern
Mentioning the 99p Store
In a poem!)
I couldn’t make a
Single purchase.

6. 20p
Is meant to be
Plenty for me
So lending thee
20p
Hath left me
Empty.

7. Coffee shop rules and regulations:
– Don’t grab a table first and then order a drink.
– Watch the steam rising from the machine, see the way it rises, Jake?
– Toilets for customer use only
– The ephemera of logos and corporate design, temporary at best.
– Comfy sofas, but no good if you’re a sofa-phobic.
– Sorry, no tiaras.
– Ladies, please don’t fight over the only copy of the Daily Mail.

8. In early morning light
The road surface, smooth,
Shining ever so worn flat
By a decade’s car tyres,
The dips and hollows caused by
Fortune’s roadworks

Causing ever such slight shadows.

9. Josh, I know you don’t like poetry and you never read anything of mine, so it’s probably quite safe to hide this right now, halfway down the page, and declare it to the world, that I absolutely adore you.

10. See below for a half-assed selfie I took while writing this poem in the coffee shop.

11. I love everyone who’s ever lived
Which is quite an undertaking
When you consider history’s assholes.
People in the most part are fantastic,
Even that bloke over there.
I wonder if he’s ever leant someone 20p?

12. Scene five, the stables.
ILLYANA- Upon my whim, that I should
Partake of that which I can never afford.

ALLACUTIA – (While shoeing a horse)
Upon my soul, what might that be?

ILLYANA – (Looks out window, soulfully)
I seem to leap from one misadventure to the next.
I see the daily grind of absolute nullity
Where others see chance.

ALLACUTIA – Pray, tell me.

ILLYANA – Life in all it’s pleasantness,
Hath but, like a church to a couple
Contemplating wedded bliss,
An ominous gothic twinge.

ALLACUTIA – ( Blinks she, heavily).
Upon my Heath, do tell.
(Be still, thou tiresome horse, be still!)

ILLYANA – Upon my desires, ‘this as I say
A whim that I should
Plumb the depths of our friendship, and drive a
Tractor through that which has sustained us as
Friends, but, alack, for I am in need of
Twenty once in order that I might be furnished
With a packet of Polos.

ALLACUTIA – That my wealth should bar all further trespass
And other sympathies upon the tenements of our camaraderie, I hereby
Present to thee pence of twenty.

ILLYANA – Ta.

(The horse bucks, knocks over a small automobile)

ILLYANA – For goodness sake.

It’s been a very unusual but enjoyable week performing in two completely different towns to two completely different audiences. In Bath I performed to the students of Bath Spa University and I was the oldest person in the room, though I did get mistaken for being a 22 year old, and I did cause consternation at the bar by asking for a cup of tea. They made one for me in the manager’s office, and then they didn’t know how much to charge for it. Bless.

And then the next night in Okehampton I was the youngest person in the room by some considerable margin. It was in an inn on the edge of Dartmoor, miles from the town itself, surrounded by bric a brac and paraphernalia, the gig itself take place in a room decked out to look like a galleon. The audience wasn’t very big, but when some younger tourists from Sweden turned up, the manager of the inn informed them that watching my set was compulsory!

I did similar material on both nights and it went very well. Yet my overriding memory of the two days was the travelling. If I have to get on another rail replacement coach again then someone’s going to get nutted,

I was very impressed with the students at Bath Spa. Samantha Boarer has long been a favourite poet of mine, and she is now seen as an elder statesman among the younger students. Those who performed were individuals, humans, with genuine concerns, humour and rhythm, surrealism and genuine literary talent. There was a really supportive atmosphere which I was incredibly glad to be a part of.

And it was great the next night to spend some time with Jackie Juno, one of the people who inspired my poetry career. Endlessly funny, inventive and real.

There’s so much talent in this area and it makes me proud to visit other parts of the country and see just how individual and buzzing the Devon / South West scene is.

It was only the other day, while poking round through some old photos on my phone, that I came across this picture.

It was taken in the jungles of Queensland, more specifically, in the Mossman Gorge River.

I was there with a bunch of backpackers who were all about fifteen years younger than me. Oh well, go on then. Twenty years younger. We'd spent the day travelling through the jungle in an organised tour in search of the famous Jungle Haiku, the remnants of which can still be found amid the lair of the cassowary and the fresh water crocodile.

If anyone is unfamiliar with the Jungle Haiku, then let me remind you. In the 1960s a band of Japanese students of literature, enraged by the increasing westernisation of their university campuses, wrote a series of beautiful haiku which they were sure that nobody would ever read. Emboldened by the exuberance of youth, they set them on the air on lanterns which carried them not towards the mid Pacific, as they hoped, but towards Australia and parts of Papua New Guinea.

It is probable that all memory of this would have been lost had not the literary explorer, Professor Zazzo Thiim, discovered two of them in the jungles of the Mossman Gorge in 2010.

The haiku were said to be of such exquisite beauty that his heart rate increased immediately and he felt within him the ferocious pull of the centuries. Thiim, thereafter, said little about the haiku.

In 2011 I travelled to the same area with a band of enthusiastic students of French symbolism. Youthful, exuberant, they started the day eager to find more of these fabled haiku, but as the day wore on they became more interested not only in engaging with their environment, but also with each other. By the time we got to the Mossman River itself, all thoughts of the haiku had vanished to be replaced by the necessity of going for a swim. As one of them was heard to quip, ‘Who needs bleeding haiku when it’s almost forty degrees and ninety percent humidity?’

I gave in, and joined them in swimming in the river. The boulders, worn smooth by the constant flow, were slippery, but the water was cool, fresh and pure. Swimming against the tide, I was able to drink and rehydrate myself.

As the afternoon slipped into evening, the gathering darkness held within it a queer magic and we swapped stories around the camp fire of literary shenanigans and high whimsy. I recited a few poems and a few of them ell asleep. But in that magical day we had all become as one, a unit of brave explorers who, in the morning, would never see each other again. It was timeless, beautiful, resplendent.

As I made my way to my tent I looked up and saw the remains of one of the Jungle Haiku hung in the branches of the tree. To find it now. I told myself, would spoil the moment forever. Let us rest with our memories, and carry on with our lives.

I didn’t mention it in the morning. Indeed, I kept it in for all those years, eventually convincing myself that I’d seen nothing, until this morning when, looking at the memory card of my old phone, I found the above photograph.

Bugger it.
;

27 March: RHYME AND REASON, Bath
Headline set

28 March : MAD AS A MARCH HARE CABARET, Okehampton
Headline set

21 April : ACOUSTIC NIGHT, Bristol
Extended set

24 April : POETRY ISLAND, Torquay
Host

One of the things I never realised before embarking on a semi-career as a poet / spoken word performer was how much paperwork there is. Emails, forms, administration, poking people into action, begging for answers, all of it on top of the actual sitting down and writing. But it all comes good in the end and the results are definitely worth it.

For the last few years I’ve been running Poetry Island performance poetry nights in Torquay, and while the nights themselves may seem to run like clockwork, seamlessly and without any hitches, (ha), the organisation behind the scenes is enough to justify getting a secretary. Or at least throwing the occasional wobble. Getting poets together is like herding cats. Nice, well-meaning, talented, awe-inspiring cats, but cats all the same.

That’s why it’s such a joy to go to other people’s nights and relax, enjoy the evening, and then do a set of poems without having to worry about such things as timing and the set order. On Thursday night I made my debut at a comedy night, the Jocular Spectacular Roving Comedy Show at the Blue Walnut hosted by Chris Brooks. It was an amazing night of laughter and hijinx topped off by a brilliant set by the elderly poet and innovator of sound poetry, Mr Lionel Spume. He was fantastic, funny, a brilliant character-piece. I laughed so much that I had to use my inhaler.

And then on Friday, I made my second debut of the week, this time as a workshop facilitator at a sixth form school in Exeter. I was incredibly nervous beforehand, that the students would be monosyllabic, or perhaps downright rude. But they were wonderfully attentive during my performance, and then during the exercises, in which I handed out postcards to provoke some kind of written response, they showed such imagination and poetic flair that I felt very much humbled by the whole experience. Just five minutes, with paper, pen and postcards, and they managed to create works which had a distinctive voice and a beautiful outlook on life.  The hour ended with a question and answer session. I expected something along the lines of ‘Where did you get your tie?’, or ‘What the hell have you done with your hair?’, but the first student asked about ’embracing the abstract’.

It was a hugely enjoyable day, run by Kathryn Aalto, who has also written about it in her blog. http://www.kathrynaalto.com/sleuthing-and-shedding/

So it has been a good week, and next week proves to be busier still, with a radio appearance on Tuesday, (the Brenda Hutchings show on Riviera FM, 11AM, Tuesday), Taking the Mic in Exeter on Wednesday, and then Poetry Island in Torquay on Thursday night. I can’t wait!

Thanks to an amazing amount of hard work, organisation and administration on the part of Daniel Haynes, it gives me great pleasure to announce that we shall be going to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe this year with our show, ‘Poetry Ping Pong’.

To be honest I never thought we’d get in. It’s as part of the Free Fringe organisation, which means that all though we don’t get paid, we don’t have to pay ( much) to be a part of it. And having been to the Fringe twice before as a viewer, it’s something I’d always wanted to do.

So what’s Poetry Ping Pong all about?

It’s 5000AD and humanity has changed beyond recognition. Only two remnants of 21st century culture remain, albeit twisted, mutated into a new blood sport they call Poetry Ping Pong. The legends of poetry through the ages are resurrected, then pitched together in horrible, gladiatorial combat. Only two remain. Robert Garnham showed his worth by knocking out the bookies favourite, a cyborg TS Eliot reconstruction in the semis. And Daniel Haynes, slipped into the final by vanquishing a genetically extracted bio-slurdge Pam Ayres thing.

That’s the premise, anyway.

So we are putting on this show, and so far Dan has got us on the bill at the Bath Festival too, as well as the Barnstaple Fringe with our other show, ‘Bard Science’.

And I’m really looking forward to it, because it makes everything kind of official. I’ve always wanted to be a part of something like this. So for the next couple of months we shall be writing and practising and rehearsing and coming out with promotional material and all the other things that Real Poets Do.

On Tuesday we went to Barnstaple to look for a venue to perform in and we ended up in the science labs of the community college. The science teachers showed us round and interrupted the sixth form lessons to show us the different types of rooms that they had. The students seemed well behaved and only a few of them sniggered at the strange people who were standing in the doorway!

So that’s what’s coming up, then. Look out 2014, here we come!

This is the speech I shall be giving in a couple of weeks time at a sixth form college.

Robert Garnham – On Writing and on Being a Poet

For some reason I have always wanted to be a writer. When I was a kid I would write whenever the opportunity arose. Blank paper and notebooks used to fill me with a strange excitement as if I could just reach out and touch the stories that hadn’t come into existence yet. They seemed imbued with the promise of a thousand possible plot developments, characteristics, humour and high jinx, whimsy and rhyme. I would walk to school hoping that it would rain at lunchtime so that I could stay in the classroom and write on scrap paper instead of running around the playground and playing ‘It’ or whatever the hell it was we used to do. To this day I still love it when it rains because it reminds me of those days. The rain brings people down to my level.

As I grew up I found myself with less time for writing. But I did a lot of reading. Where friends watched football and sports and would know everything about what I believe they call the ‘FA Cup’, I followed the Booker Prize, the Nobel Prize for Literature, the Best Seller lists, the Culture Show, the weekend book reviews. Instead of Keegan, Wayne Rooney and David Beckmann, I had Franz Kafka, Albert Camus, Marcel Proust. These were my heroes. I’d write emulating their style and I’d hope that someone might read it and say that I was just as good as them. My writing was rubbish. And my school friends would laugh because I didn’t know who was leading the ‘FA Cup’.

And then modern life intervened, like a rhinoceros poking through the bins out the back of Lidls. GCSEs, A-levels, exams, my first job in Sainsbury’s, falling in love, all the usual things. Powerboat racing. Haberdashery. Eventually I had a full time job and I was an adult, and then I decided to do Open University in the evenings while working during the day time. My writing suffered, as you can tell from this paragraph. And instead of writing to write novels and epics and modernist classics, I found myself writing short stories, plays and poems. Looking back now it’s a wonder I found the time even to do these. I had a bit of moderate success when a couple of short stories were published in a magazine. I was so happy that I wrote to the editor to thank him for taking a chance on an unknown twenty-three year old. He wrote back to say that he was seventeen. A few years later, a play I wrote called ‘Fuselage’ won a competition and excerpts from it were put on over two nights at the Northcott Theatre in Exeter by a professional cast, one of whom had been in Doctor Who. Things were looking up. And then the Northcott went bankrupt and fired everyone I’d been working with. I’m still not sure if the two events were connected!

‘Fuselage’ is in a drawer at home, at the moment.

In late 2010 I decided I needed to get out more and see some culture in my local area. By this time I was doing an MA in Museum Management and my brain was becoming frazzled. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to manage a museum as a job, but I concluded that I’d better finish what I’d started. To distract myself, I went to a night of performance poetry hosted by a comedian poet by the name of Chris Brooks, and I thoroughly enjoyed what I saw. It seemed to speak to me, and the audience was engaged, supportive, appreciative.

I’d never heard of performance poetry before, but I could see that it was a cross between comedy and poetry, and I thought, ‘I want to have a go at this’. Chris Brooks took a chance on and offered me a slot at the next evening. Feeling incredibly nervous, I went along a performed a couple of silly poems I’d written, and to my surprise the audience liked it, and so did Chris. They laughed in all the right places and clapped at the end. Nobody booed and nobody threw anything, and the one person who did walk out had only gone to the toilet. Chris invited me along to the next night, and then every night thereafter.

From this point, things built up steadily. I studied the craft of performance poetry – or ‘spoken word’, as some like to call it – and quickly deduced who the best ones were. There were the obvious choices, like John Hegley, Matt Harvey, John Cooper Clarke, and yes, Pam Ayres. These were the big names, with radio and TV exposure, legions of fans and each with well-crafted and rehearsed poems, polished rhymes, a certain rapport with their audiences. And then there were others, just as good if not better, like Byron Vincent, Rob Auton, Ash Dickinson, Liv Torc, Thommie Gillow, Nathan Filer. These were the people I was completely in awe of.

Big names from the spoken word circuit would come down to Torquay and I’d start to find myself invited to other places to perform. When Liv Torc, the Bard of Exeter at the time, invited me to her evening in Exeter, I felt like Wayne Rooney when he scored that thing he did for that team he plays for in the FA Cup Championship. Rachel Pantechnicon so liked my oeuvre that they invited me to London, offering me my first paid gig as a performance poet. And since then I have slowly built up a little bit of a reputation as poet of interest, performing regularly in London and various other places. The fact I get paid for it is still, for me, deeply surprising.

The other thing I’ve done of late is to start entering slams. Poetry slams are competitions in which the poet and their performance are judged by the audience. I was fortunate enough to win the Exeter Poetry Slam in 2012, and I came second at the Bristol Poetry Slam in 2013. I also came 22nd in the Cheltenham Slam, but I don’t talk about that one. My favourite slam was in Berlin, where I came fourth, even though I was the only one in English, and I couldn’t understand a word that anyone was saying.

So. How do I write?

To write, I have to be in a certain frame of mind. Sometimes this frame of mind comes easily, and I can just sit down and go for it. Sometimes it doesn’t. I might be distracted by small things, like whether or not the freezer needs defrosting, or whether or not to do a selfie and put it on Instagram, or why on earth it is that people like Eammon Holmes. So I have to get myself in the mood for writing. The best method is to get a piece of paper and just write anything. It can be a poem, or a paragraph, or some lines about nothing in particular, anything just to get the ink flowing and the mind conditioned. It’s kind of like swimming in the sea. You just have to plunge in and get used to it. Once you’ve got over the psychological barrier, then you’re free to go.

It’s good to have a specific place to write. I have an old-fashioned desk in my flat which is great for note taking and rough outlines, but there are too many distractions, like books, the TV, the freezer as it defrosts, and how many people have liked the selfie I put on Instagram. If you’re good at ignoring such distractions, then that’s half the battle won. The best place I have for writing is at my parent’s house. They have a room at the back of their garage which is totally shut off from the rest of the world and far enough from their house so as not to hear them arguing about dinner. There’s no TV or Facebook or Family Guy or whatever it is that young people watch these days. The only distraction is the tumble dryer, the rhythm of which, I find, actually helps with poetry.

I always write in pen first. I’ve used the same pen since 1995 for everything I’ve written. I write everything in hand first, then type it up. I’m writing this right now in long hand using the 1995 pen. This very sentence. This very word. And the full stop at the end of this sentence. Some people can just type straight away, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I was chatting to a poet the other day who uses a voice recognition computer program and just speaks his poems right on to the screen. Maybe this is something I’d like to try one day, but I’d probably get a sneezing fit halfway through. Which would be very interesting.

The other thing I do is to read. I read all the modern poets, particularly those in the performance poetry community. I watch poets on YouTube and I go to poetry nights, usually with a notebook to make notes on what I see. I read as much as I possibly can for inspiration, and I take the poems I really like apart just to see how the poet gets a certain effect. I also get inspiration from other places, like music. I love pop music. The use of words in pop music is both economical and pure. Take for example The Wanted’s ‘Walks Like Rhianna’, or a song by One Direction. No matter what you think of the bands, the lyrics do a really good job of creating an impression quickly, efficiently.

Finally, I take my notebook everywhere. It’s amazing where inspiration comes from. Just listening to people, or seeing things happen and the way people act, may result I a certain line or idea coming into your head. I’ve filled in so many notebooks with lines and snippets of conversation that it’s fun to read back every now and then. Of course, sometimes ideas come at the worst of places. I do a lot of swimming, and that’s when ideas seem to come.

So to top it all off, if I had one piece of advice for any writer, it is to read a lot, see a lot, write a lot. Read books, read the classics, look at the world, look at both high and low culture, literature and pop, listen to people, but most of all, write!

Well I’ve had a great week as a poet, doing all kinds of poety things in front of other poets and audiences and travelling the breadth of the country from Devon to Guildford to London. And last night at the Roebuck was definitely a highlight!

Bang Said the Gun is, quite simply, the finest poetry evening in the country, not including the wonderful Poetry Island in Torquay, ( which has the best host). And last night was no exception. The raucous noise and energy was infectious and seemed to build to a mighty crescendo before a verse had even been uttered. But tonight was special. There were more people crammed into that room than I had ever seen there before, and everyone was in amazingly high spirits.

The host, Jack Rooke, was amazing and as full of energy as any I’d seen. A highlight for me was seeing the sublimely wonderful Rob Auton in action. In my belief he is one of the funniest poets in the country, and the fact that he looks almost exactly the same as a friend of mine, even down to the facial expressions, makes it all the more sublime. Anthony Anaxagorou was word perfect, poignant and personable. But for many the highlight of the evening was Emma Jones. Not only was she funny, energetic and entertaining, but she ended her last poem by proposing to her partner. The place just went wild! There was cheering, yelling, stamping, champagne, the most heartfelt applause I’d ever seen. It was all I could do not to start blubbing. A really special moment which I was so glad to have witnessed.

And then came the open mic section, of which I was on first. How can I possibly follow on from a marriage proposal? Well, I did ‘Fozzie’ and it seemed to go down really well, even though I had to edit it down to two minutes in order to fit in with the slam requirements. The competition element was won by a singer / guitarist, who was very good indeed.

Caught the tube back to my hotel in Central London. And I found myself in a lift down to the platform level at Borough tube station with some poetry fans who all liked what I’d done and were saying such nice things that I wished I could have taped their remarks.

It’s back to work on Monday. Back to the day job. But it’s been a good week doing all this poeting.

Last night I went to Pop Up Poetry in Guildford. It’s the closest spoken word event to where my sister lives in Woking and it’s the closest to where I grew up in Surrey. For these reasons it always feels like coming home . Not that South Devon doesn’t feel like home. Most if my friends live in Devon but in my heart I am a Surreyer. Or whatever you call someone from Surrey. Reaching out towards London, fingertips quivering.

So it’s always with strange emotions that I revisit my old home area particularly that I had no interest in spoken word or poetry when I moved to Devon. And now, every time I come back, well, there’s actually something I’m good at! So on a psychological level, performing in Surrey is very important to me.

And what a wonderful night Pop Up Poetry is! Donall is a magnificent host full of energy and humour, he bounds around like a teenager and interacts with the poets, while Janice provides support and administrative duties. Between them they have cultivated an atmosphere of acceptance and creativity.

One of the joys of performing somewhere far from my normal area is that I get to see new poets and styles and there were plenty of fantastic poets. I was particularly taken by a young man in a trendy hat who did a fantastic slam poem taking Alice Through the looking glass as his inspiration. There were also a couple of poets who had only just started performing and they were both of a very high standard, and very funny, too. It was also great to catch up with Rodney Wood, we met before the show started and spent an hour or so chatting about poetry and poets we’d seen and inspiration and stuff.

So if you’re ever in the Guildford area and you fancy some poetry, get down to the Bar des Arts next to the River Wey.

Well I had another one of those poetry adventures at the weekend.

For weeks I’d been excited about the prospect of entering the Wolverhampton Love Slam, but when the day arrived there was, of course, consternation over the state of the railway and the sudden realisation that it would take a while to get there. Which it did. Bus, coach, coach, coach, train and train. It took about eight hours to get from Paignton to Wolverhampton. Not that I’m complaining, others have had it much worse of late.

Many people were surprised when I announced on Facebook that I liked Wolverhampton. The people all seemed nice and the town while somewhat smaller than I thought, had a great vibe to it. I had a poke around the museum.

The slam itself was typically well organised by Sarah Jane and Marcus. I was the first poet of the second batch and my classic ‘Fozzie’ was very well received, and while I didn’t win my group, my score of 254 was higher than any of those who performed before me, and stayed the highest runner up right to the end, when someone else got a 255. Damn! But as luck would have it, I was allowed into the next round.

I did The Straight poem next. And it was also very well received. Mindful that some of the score goes to performance, I really went for it, and managed to score a 259. Alas it was not good enough for the final, but I was very happy with my performance.

Met some lovely new people, such as Richard Tyrone Jones and Dominic Berry, and to catch up with Johnny Fluffypunk, Nick Lovell and Dave Viney. We all went for a quick drink afterwards, and all the time I could only think, ‘Wow, here I am out for a drink with Johnny Fluffypunk, Dave Viney, Richard Tyrone Jones and Dominic Berry’. And then on the way out I was accosted by first one and then another table of people who had been in the slam audience and wanted to chat about my poems. Oh yes, it was a good night!

The day after was even stranger. A set of trains and buses brought me to Exeter where I appeared on Martin and Karen’s Listen out show on Phonic FM. I had a great time, did a few poems and chose some music by A-ha and Pet Shop Boys. But then, catching the rail replacement coach to Paignton, I found myself on oove Sky News, sitting on a seat and gently crouching down as not to be seen. And as if that wasn’t weird enough, one of my Tweets was put on the BBC News website!

So it was a busy weekend, with lots of fun and some marvellous people. Can’t wait for my next poetry adventure now. Indeed, I’m off to London next week!