Ok, so I’ve been having a little think about it and I think I’ve come up with the ultimate strategy for composing a performance poem. Or at the very least, a Robert Garnham performance poem.

Step one. Title.
The title can be anything, as long as it’s snappy. A good title is often ‘Poem’. It’s only four letters long. Some people have titles that are as long as their poems, such as a haiku I once read called ‘Haiku to be read on a train or a bus (but preferably a train because the clickerty clack rhythms of the rails kind of match it’s inner rhythms),

Step two. Snappy first line.
The first line needs to dunk the reader straight into the poem. Similar to swimming in a cold sea. It might not look appealing or comfortable but you just got to do it so that later on you can say, ‘Hey, you know, I’m so cool I swam in the sea / read a poem today’. Pam Ayres does this a lot. (Snappy first lines. Not swimming in the sea. Jeez.)

Step two. Interesting first stanza.
The first few lines should back up the first line and kind of hint at the attitude of the poem. The audience is just getting warmed up, you see. No room for error or digression, you’ve really got to stick to what the poem is about. And then keep on piling it on until the end oft he first stanza. Then you can insert a little joke. Just don’t mention knobs just yet. Save your best material for later on.

Huh Huh. Knobs.

Step three. Create a stanza pattern.
The next two stanzas should be similar to the first with some subtle changes in which you build up a rhythm both of language and imagery. At this point you should start to playa round with the template that you have created for yourself. You should relish language and really get your mouth around certain words, especially those that end with a hard sound. Like plop.

Step four. The turn.
This is where it all goes spatial. The poem suddenly embraces other themes or subjects or starts going all universal. This is where the audience realises what the poem is ACTUALLY about. Or you decide what it’s about and then you take it a step further. This is where you get all poet-like and arty farty. Conjur up the ages, emotion, existence, the human condition, not just shopping trollies with wonky wheels. Or knobs.

Step five. The Robert Garnham Patented Fifth Verse Freak Out.
Do it, man. Go on, do it. Pile in the words and rank up the pace. Maximum attack! Take the poem wherever the hell it wants to go. Scream. Bang them in like a woodpecker with a caffeine fix.

Step six. The last stanza.
Take it back to the template you set for yourself but now the audience has a clearer idea of who you are and what the poem is about. Slow it down, be ironic, sardonic, tender and loving.

Step seven. The last line.
And now to have some fun. Say what you’ve wanted to say all along. Knock them out with a killer last line. This is the difficult part, so good luck. But my hero Frank O’Hara is a good place to look for inspiration. You might already know the last line when you start the poem. Or it might come to you days later, usually when it’s least convenient. Like at the dentists, or a funeral.

So there you go. Sit back and relax and follow these steps, and you too can write your own Robert Garnham performance poem!

Oh dear.

And now here comes a new poem which does none of the things I mentioned above. Enjoy!

Poem

If I was a marine biologist
I’d always know where the unguents were kept
If anyone got bitten by a puffer fish.

If I was a marine biologist
I’d wear a denim cap
Faded by the sunshine
And stained with salt.

If I was a marine biologist
I’d have a lot of sympathy
For the gurnards

If I was a marine biologist
I’d have a big long fuzzy beard
Which I’d swing from side to side
Like a donkey’s tail
When no one was looking.

If I was a marine biologist
I’d be ever so interested
In barnacles.

If I was a marine biologist
I’d have a first mate.

If I was a marine biologist
I’d be able to answer the question
‘Excuse me,
Are you a marine biologist?’
With the response
‘Yes, I’m a marine biologist,
And I like fish.
Make of that what you will, Mr Sullivan
Make of that what you will’.

If I was a marine biologist
I’d look at the landlubbers
The gravel bashers,
The whippersnappers,
The haberdashers,
Looking for beauty in art
Or a bottle
And not a bottle nosed dolphin
Or a hammer head shark
Mind you
Nobody likes a smart arse.

Plunge into the ocean, Steve,
And grab me that Dover sole,
There’s a good lad.
Now pass me my magnifying glass.
Look at those gills!
Look at those gills!
Look at those gills!
That’s one creepy flip flap mother fish.

If I was a marine biologist
I’d wear skimpy shorts
Skimpy ever so subtly Hubba bubba too short far too short skinny jean cut-off shorty shorty short shorts, feel my legs, feel my legs, see the way they glisten in the sun, slinky, slinky!

If I was a marine biologist
There I would be
Sifting through fish guts
Rancid squid
Probing tentacles and proboscis
Occasionally looking up
Over the oozing fish slime
And the mounds of blubber
And thinking
This is disgusting, fish are disgusting,
Everything down here is vile,
Oh my god
Oh my god
Ferocious fins
Dorsal fins perplexed
Snapper snapper teethy things
Fish cakes!
Fish cakes!
How can fish make cakes?
They haven’t got any hands!
But if fish haven’t got hands, then where do fish fingers come from?

Morrissons do ten for about a quid.

There can be no doubt that the subject of baguettes is, at the moment, a contentious one, certainly in Paignton the other day when the police helicopter was called and an emergency declared. Reports of a man with two machine guns and a grenade turned out to be, on inspection, a man with two baguettes and a brioche.

 

With this in mind, yesterday in Exeter, I chanced upon an unprepossessing delicatessen, the most interesting item on the menu being a chicken mayonnaise baguette. Ever the gourmand, I ordered an example.

 

On granary bread.

 

The first bite of this lunch-time treat put me in mind of all kinds of myths, both secular and religious, modern and timeless. The expert blend of its creamy goodness mixed with bread with bits in it filled me with an instant sense of good fortune. I could not envisage how this baguette, this very example, upon which I was noshing with much relish – (a little delicatessen joke there for you) – could not fail to have its own entry on Wikipedia.

 

Yes, I mean the very baguette itself. The very one I was eating. So monumental was it in my psyche, so well proportioned, excellently appointed, that it must surely represent the heights, the nadir of baguette development and construction. Swooning, I felt the ages roll in, history in all its variety, time itself bent beyond recognition by this one chicken mayonnaise baguette on granary bread.

 

How could it not be on Wikipedia? How could it not exist on university websites, doctoral thesis, dissertations, whole departments worshipping and in awe of this one baguette?

 

I had a second bite, and it was all right. Nothing special.

 

I wandered into the street. The police helicopter hovered overhead.

Cheltenham All Star Poetry Slam

I went along to Cheltenham and took part in the qualifying event for the main All Star Slam. It was a useful exercise, if nothing else. I certainly learned a lot and came away with lots of inspiration for next year.

There was a rumour, whenever I mentioned the slam, that it is always won by someone from Cheltenham. So the idea persisted before the start that perhaps I should freely publicise the fact that the former mayor of Cheltenham, and current leader of the local Conservatives group, is also called Robert Garnham. (This is true. Check it online). I decided that this might be a tactical error.

I’d already changed the poem that I was going to do in the qualifier. I’d hoped to start with The First Time, with its raunchy content and sexual comedy, but I’d heard from various people that the audience, who judge at this slam, were very conservative, (with a small c). For this reason I decided to start with The Straight Poem, which I thought they may find wryly amusing.

Whimsical, even.

You know what will happen, I kept telling myself. I will get called to go on first. And then people won’t know what to make of me. And I shall fall by the wayside.

I attended the event with Tim King and Morwenna Griffiths. We were all good enough to qualify, I reckoned. We arrived at the venue and the audience were asked if they’d ever been to a slam before. Most of them said no. Well, I thought to myself. Whoever goes on first will lose out, because the audience won’t know what to expect. If they’ve never been to a slam or seen performance poetry, then they won’t know if the first person is good or bad. And their scoring will therefore be indifferent. Unless, of course, there’s a warm up a couple of poems beforehand for the audience to understand just what they are watching.

In quick succession, two things occurred. The first was that there was no warm up. The second was that I was picked to go first! Ignoring my reservations, I belted out The Straight Poem to the best of my abilities.

It was well received, seemingly. Tim King’s Big Pig poem was similarly enjoyed. And Morwenna brought the house down with her Black County Dialect poem. It’s going to be close, I told myself. Tim and Morwenna are probably definitely through. And I might be, too. However, I might lose marks just by being on first.

Indeed, Morwenna did go through. Like a poetry gazelle, she leapt into the All Star Slam. Tim and I were beaten by some people from Cheltenham.

We reconvened a couple of hours later to support Morwenna. We even came up with a chant: MorWinner! MorWinner!

She was beaten in the first round by some people from Cheltenham.

Then we had to drive back to Exeter in the pouring rain . . .

Had an amazing time at the Bristol Poetry Slam last night. I didn’t really know what to expect as my only slam experience is the Exeter Poetry Slam and that strange one I did in Berlin where I was the only English speaker. I’d heard the Bristol event was huge. How right I was!

The quality of the poets was very high indeed. I’d been into Foyles book shop earlier in the day and picked up the festival brochure. Not only was I blown away by the fact that there was a picture of me on the second page, but that the entry list included Vanessa Kisuule, Steven Duncan, Tim Vosper and my good friend Samantha Boarer. So I knew it would be tough!

I sat with Sam on the front row and we chatted in order to forget just how nervous we were. Neither of us were called out in the first two groups. Then Sam went up and she did very well indeed, winning her group. I went up a couple of slots later and did The Straight Poem, which was amazingly well received. It’s a 2013 remix of the old poem and the new sections seemed to work really well. Not only did I go through to the next round, but I had the highest score of anyone so far!

I jiggled my order around and did The First Time next. It was my strongest poem and sure enough, it went down amazingly well. The audience cheered and clapped and stamped and it got a very good score putting me in to the final. Alas, Tim and Samantha fell at this stage, and I was up against Steven Duncan, who was just sublime all evening. He managed to get through to the final even with having points deducted for running over his time!

He won the toss and went first. His poem was remarkable and it received full marks from every judge. I knew then that I could not possibly emulate this. I thought of doing Fozzie, but this had subject matter close to my other two poems and I didn’t want to be typecast. I thought of The Old Lady and The Fly, but this didn’t seem right. So I went with Beard Envy. It got me the strongest haul of points of the night, but just missed out.

Steven was a deserving and popular winner and I was more than happy with second place. We went for a drink afterwards and chatted and I felt really good at having made some new friends and seen some inspiring poets. And it was a damn good practice season for Cheltenham next weekend!

And tomorrow is the Exeter Poetry Slam, which I’m judging. So I was left with this one thought: Just four points separated me from being Exeter and Bristol slam champions at the same time, if only for a day!

As you may already know, I was fortunate enough to to-win the Exeter Poetry Slam on Sunday night, with a very talented poet by the name of Daniel Hayne. It was a dead heat in the third round so it was decided we should share the accolades. And why not? It feels great to be a co-champion, it feels like much more of a bigger story! Having said that, I am still not sure that poetry can ever be judged the same way as sport. The audience were wonderful, appreciative and intelligent, but it all depended on the dynamics at the time. If the audience were miserable, or had better tastes, or had all left their ovens on or parked on double yellow lines, then th story might have been different!

So I have spent today trying to write some new material. That’s the problem with something like this. Everyone has heard my best stuff now! After a couple of false starts with a poem about being high fived, and another poem about an architect falling for a supermarket janitor, I wrote a new piece about being friends on Facebook with Frankenstein. I am moderately happy with it!

It feels like its been one of those days in which not much has been achieved. I have a typing of typing to do and emails to send but I have been ignoring everything. Perhaps writing this blog also comes under procrastination!

Anyway, there a two people I would like to thank for helping me win. My director, when I was in the only play I have ever been in, who first got me performing or even being brave enough to speak in public, Polly Agg-Manning, and the performance poet Chris Brooks, who likewise encouraged me in performing and helped me to navigate the world of performance poetry in all its subtlety!