An Interview with Shelley Szender

Shelley Szender is a fantastic and funny poet whose work was transcends both comedy and poetry. She has been a regular on the Torbay poetry scene for the last few years and has begun to become known further afield. As well as comedy, she also writes and performs serious pieces of heart and subtlety, pure emotion and beauty. She is also a wonderful person whose company I very much enjoy.

Lately she has been hosting Stanza Extravaganza, using her trademark wit and charm to create a very jovial and happy atmosphere at the Artizan Gallery in Torquay.

The chance to interview her for my website is one that I could not pass up!

How did you first get in to spoken word?

I have always loved Poetry and I use to write as a teenager but would only show my Mum. She suggested I show to my English Teacher but is was the 1980’s and I didn’t want to admit to liking Poetry. Throughout my life I read and wrote poems but it wasn’t until Xmas 2015. I was at my Friends House and I saw you perform with Ian B, Ken B, Ellie D and Lucy Lepchani and I thought they write poetry how I write Poetry. I then went to Poetry Island and was a regular audience member. Then, my friend Sue Cose wrote to you and you wrote me a Poem to go and perform and I did in July 2016 and never looked back. It has been the making of me.

Who are your influences?

I have a number of influences my favourite poems are Rudyard Kipling ‘If’ and Maya Angelou ‘Still I Rise’ I also love Wilfred Owen and Siegfreid Dawson but also John Cooper Clark and Roger Mcgough.

What is your process for writing a new piece?

To write a new piece of Poetry. I can be out running or walking, driving in my car or at work. As soon as I can I write the words down sometimes it becomes a finished piece other times the words sit in a book and then morph into another poem.

Do you have a specific time and place for writing?

I usually write in the evening it helps me relax after work or Sunday morning when the house is lovely and quiet. I am either in my bed or on the sofa.

You’ve done a few poems now based on different parts of Paignton. Where next?

I have another poem about Paignton that needs more work. I have a Poem’s about Cullompton, Bideford, Newton Abbot and a couple on Devon however I do have one brewing about Exeter although it’s at a very embryonic stage.

What does the future have in store for you?

I would love to write as a full time job but I would love to have a try at Presenting. However I am open to offers. I am just waiting for Lady Luck to knock on my door.

An Interview with Jamie Harry Scrutton

Jamie Harry Scrutton is one of my favourite spoken word artists. I first saw him in Manchester at the wonderful Evidently show, where I was co-headlining. Jamie got on stage and performed a poem about Mr Muscle, and it was so utterly unlike anything I’d ever seen. We soon became good friends and I have invited him down to Devon to perform on numerous occasions, where he always wins new friends with audiences with him whimsical musings. Jamie also combines animation with his spoken word, creating a wonderful and very unique mix which has to be experienced.

How did you first get in to spoken word?
I have always had a passion for creative writing but I have never adapted my work in to performance material. I catered my work for publication opposed to physically showcasing them through performance. I have been sending my writing off to various publication outlets since I was twelve years of age. My first submission and first rejection was from The Parragon Publishing House based in London. They responded by letter, reverting me to the book “The Writer and Artists Yearbook” at my local library, where I discovered various other outlets to try and place my work. At the time, I was submitting a Short Story Collection titled “The Complete Short Diary Tales,” which was based on various fictional characters, portraying their life experiences, contained in a diary form. At the age of 15, I fell into Poetry. By the age of 16, I found myself writing rather whimsical verses, which I subsequently began performing at the of 18 and still continue to perform to this day, at the tender age of 29!

When you think of ideas, do you see them initially as poems or animations?
Sometimes, I do write for the purpose of adapting the anecdotes in to Stop Motion Animations but more often, the process is about creating a concept to marry with the character, which would materially be based on observational life.

How long does it take to make an animation?
It depends. I would say between 2-4 weeks. My first Animation which I created titled “MANBUN” took me just over a week to make. The process was consistant 12 hour shifts, delved in to the art of making.

How did you learn the processes to make an animation?
The process came naturally, really. I wanted to create a Short Film which would be different to what I originally would create. I wanted to represent my Fine Art craftmnaship and produce a Film which would visually tell the narrative through a literal fictious character. This is where “MANBUN” rooted from. I filmed a side profile of me narrating the Anecdote and then Sketch by Sketch, I traced over the video to make the Short Film. In the end I must have produced apporximately 900 sketches. I am still learning, adapting and progressing the Art of Animation through to this day. I always birth new processes, in order to be different from my previous Animation.

Who are your influences?
Pam Ayres is definately an influence. I am always inspired by life, pretty much all of the time. Obviously Robert Garnham is a huge inspiration and a very good friend of mine too!

Do you think of the character first, or the story which they tell?
Usually, the story would be the seed and the character would be the plant. I would take a situation from everyday life and then create a character which would then morph the whole narrative of the Anecdote. More often, it could be the other way around.

What does the future have in store for you?
I will be releasing a DVD titled “The Animations of Jamie H Scrutton – Volume One” sometime in January 2019, which contains all 12 Animations of mine. I will be releasing an Animated Music Video I have produced for a brilliant Spoken Word Artist and very good friend of mine named Lence. The Animated Music Video is titled “Heard” and we will be releasing it on the 8th January 2019 at Kino 101, based in London. Another Animation of mine titled “My Husband Has Booked Our Funeral” has been selected to be screened at The Horror On Sea Film Festival on the 13th January 2019, based in Southend On Sea. I am in talks of creating a comedic Music Video for another good friend of mine in the new year. Also, I am planning to take a bit of time out from spring 2019, in order to create new future projects. I am planning to visit Leicester again and refilm three of my student Short Films at the end of 2019 in commemoration of 10 years working in Film. One of the Films will be “Havisham,” where I will be reprising the role of the deluded Miss Havisham. They will be a twist of Animation in all three pieces and the processes I have learned within film over the past decade!

Three Christmas Poems

Poem

There’s nothing under the tree
Nothing for you and nothing for me
At least not a thing that I can see
Since Santa fell down sizewell b

Rudolf has got the night off
And donner and blitzen have a nasty cough
The sleigh is now wrapped around a tree
And Santa fell down sizewell b

A large concrete chimney silhouetted against the sky
Santas dodgy tummy from a bad mince pie
He’s run out of tea and he needs a wee
And now he’s fallen down sizewell b

To the boy in the window who waved
To the elves in the factory who are all enslaved.
A Christmas elf dreams of liberty
And santas fallen down sizewell b.

The sleigh is all covered in tinsel.
The cars and the houses are covered in tinsel
I can’t think of anything to rhyme with tinsel
And now santas fallen down sizewell b.

Marjorie wants world peace
Dave wants an end to starvation
Gemma wants less underrepresentation in the media
Francis wants a more transparent banking system
Lisa wants a respite from the crushing oblivion which awaits us all
Jim wants a cheap pair of socks
But none of them will get what they need
Cos santas fallen down sizewell b

He’s down there!
He’s down there!
You can just make out his face a glower
From the bottom of the cooling tower

Poem

Amid the tinsel of a November Weatherspoons
A cold air nip as the log fire cracks
Alone at table 67, traditional breakfast
No one to share the superfluous hash brown with.
You can’t put tinsel on loneliness.

Twenty years of solo meals and microwave Christmas puds
And naps in party hats and texts from exes
And pondering on paperwork to pass the time
Or at least the polishing or painting of skirting boards
You can’t put tinsel on loneliness.

You can’t put fake snow on despair
You can’t hang angst on a tree
You can’t parcel up and shrink wrap disappointment
You can’t fill a stocking with ennui
You can’t put tinsel on loneliness.

A mardy face sneering under a felt red Santa hat
Randy nights of crackers pulled, curtains drawn and candles snuffed
Christmas Eve spending the day at your mothers, as a ‘friend’
Unwrapping just the one present and finding its a tea towel
It’s the thought that counts
You can’t put tinsel on loneliness.

Here he comes now, Josh, duty manager,
Yes everything’s all right with my meal, tell me how you’d feel
These cold mornings just expose the emptiness of the galaxy
And the dichotomy between companionship and the briefness of our existence,
Yes, everything’s all right with my meal, but
You can’t put tinsel on loneliness.

Table for one, sir?
Leave a coat on the chair so that
Some other loner doesn’t nab your seat
While you’re ordering at the bar
The all day breakfast is only served till eleven
You can’t put tinsel on loneliness.

Back amid the tinsel of a November Weatherspoons
Flimsy cardboard card advertising overpriced turkey
And the promise of not having to do the washing up
We timed our orgasm for the stroke of midnight
Rhythmic with sleigh bells like a radio jingle xmassified
You can’t put tinsel on loneliness.

Poem

The bus driver is wearing a Santa hat
So that’s alright, then.
He’s as surly as ever, bless him,
Drums his fingers on the steering wheel,
A sea of red tail lights matching
The red of his Poundland felt hat.
He’s made the effort.

The teenager in the supermarket
Didn’t know if they had any more Utterly Butterly.
He looks nervously, left to right,
Light a rabbit in the headlights, like it’s all a test,
And I want to reassure him, but it’s ok,
Because he’s wearing a Santa hat.

The genial geography teacher
Drones about longshore drift,
And the formation of spits.
There’s something vaguely creepy
About the way he always picks on Kyle
And makes Kyle the butt of every joke,
But it’s ok today because, gosh,
He’s wearing a Santa hat, and so is Kyle.

There’s a doo wop choir in the high street
Singing up tempo versions of Christmas classics
As shoppers stress over single use bags,
A gust of wind and their felt Santa hats
Flip up into the air like a red and white wave,
At the exact moment they belt out the final note
Of Santa Claus is Coming To Town.
Be good, for goodness sake.

I’ve never owned a felt Santa hat.
They make my forehead itch and I’m really
Not as jolly as the sort of person who could
Pull it off,
But there are those who aspire to joviality
And others who wear them because it’s what you do,
Isn’t it?
Every night I go home to an empty flat.

The lady behind the counter in the coffee shop
Has just cocked up an order and her boss
Is explaining company procedure right there,
In front of everyone, while Christmas songs play
On the speakers, and wouldn’t you know it,
But both of them are wearing felt Santa hats,
So that’s ok, then.

I Know what People Are Thinking When They See Me

I know what people are thinking when they see me. I know what theyre thinking, they’re thinking, now then a man with a smug demeanour. There’s a man who’s not in it for the money.

There’s a man who forsakes the capitalist system and does not perform poetry for personal monetary gain.

Well let me tell you, I got books for sale.

I tried to write a poem about an old photocopier last night. It just wouldn’t scan.

I don’t need contraception. Poetry is my contraception. My poetry has helped me not sleep with more people than you can imagine.

People tend to know instinctively that I am a poet. How so they know this? Is it the jacket? Is it the book of poetry? Or is it that I arrive at gigs alone?

Yet I don’t feel like a poet. My rhyming couplets have all split up. My found poems were hidden for a reason. Nobody has hung around long enough to tell me what my rhyme scheme is.

So, what is poetry? Percy Bysshe Shelley said that poets are the ‘unacknowledged legislators of the world’. I suppose the ‘acknowledged legislators ‘ would be governments and town councils.

To be honest, I don’t think it would work. Have you ever seen a group of poets trying to solve a planning dispute?

I suppose it depends if they work in rhyme or blank verse.

Well, I think we’ll put the school next to the pool. And perhaps also the church hall.

The shopping centre. Hmmm, can’t think of where to put the shopping centre. I know! Let’s call it a mall, and then it can go with the school and the pool and the church hall!

The library. Hmm, has this town got an aviary?

The food waste refuse anaerobic digestion chamber . . . What the hell?

Mind you, judging by the high street in Swindon, it looks like the surrealists have already been at work.

So I’m a poet, and I get all kinds of weird commissions. Sometimes I think that my career is going nowhere. Sometimes I don’t.

I’ve recently been working as a Poet in Residence at a paper clip factory. It really is stationery.

I was supposed to do a workshop for a fear of commitment support group, but nobody put their name down.

The other night I was double booked, I was also meant to be at a gig for a group of amnesiacs. So what I’ll do is I’ll go along next week and remind them how good I was.

I’m actually looking for ways out into other lines of work and I think I’ve come up with a winner. I’ve decided to start up assertiveness training courses.

Because if it doesn’t work, nobody’s going to ask for a refund. They won’t be brave enough.

And if anyone does ask for a refund . . .
I can just say, well. There you go.

But poetry for me is a lot like sex. When it’s good, it’s very, very good and you wish it would never stop.

And when it’s bad, it’s just plain embarrassing. Although I do get roughly the same number of laughs.

The thing I like best about poetry is that it’s not all about profit and personal gain, it’s not a hugely capitalist enterprise, people aren’t in it to make a quick buck. And by the way, I’ve got books for sale.

Alfred Harley, Regimental number 37601

The whistles blew on 16th August, 1916.
They ran across no man’s land,
These ordinary men,
Thrown headfirst into the darkness
Because of fools in high places,
The stroke of treaty pens and
The senseless oblivion of normality.
There seemed to be no reason.

Alfred Harley, regimental number 37601,
32 years old,
Taken down by machine gun fire and left
For thirty five hours,
His chest wounded, leaking blood,
His hip and thigh torn apart by
Ceaseless bullets, clutching at
Churned earth as the pain takes hold
Amid the thud of bombs and gun fire,
This ordinary man,
A father, a husband.

Rescued by the hands of his enemies,
Patched up and nursed back to life,
Then held as a prisoner in strange territories,
How life itself must have swirled around him
Confusing and cruel.
How many other lovers, mothers,
Sisters and brothers
Should endure a grief so stifling as to smother
For no reason other
Than the decisions of another?

Alfred Harley, regimental number 37601,
Survived,
And returned home fifteen months later,
No longer an ordinary man,
But still a father, a husband,
And more fortunate than so, so many others.
Yet even now, one hundred years on,
He is remembered and honoured,
Alfred Harley, regimental number 37601,
My great grandfather.

What I’ve been up to.

A famous saying on tea towels and greetings cards is that grief is the price we pay for love. As you might be aware my father passed away a few days ago, but mixed in with the inevitable grief was a feeling that a great worry had been lifted, even if in the saddest possible circumstances. Dad was not an old man, he was younger, for example, than the Mael brothers from Sparks. Towards the end, though, he was very poorly.

Naturally my thoughts and preoccupations over the last couple of months have been family oriented, and in spoken word I was operated on remote control, unable to commit to anything and unwilling to start any new projects. My solo show, In the Glare of the Neon Yak, offered a strange solace, as a project that I am very happy and proud of. I had to cancel a few high profile gigs, too, and I was very glad that I did.

Yet this last week I have launched into a seam of creativity the likes of which I cannot remember for a long time. My head is suddenly full of ideas, snippets, phrases, stanzas and ideas for projects. I rediscovered the joy of playing around, just filling my creative spaces with objects, paper, laptops, props and letting my imagination run wild. Nothing seems off limits any more. I find joy in the smallest things, such as a word, or an idea.

One of the things I’ve been doing is to make audio recordings of myself just talking, improvising poems and pieces into the mic, adding music. The quality varies, but the material on the whole is interesting and may form the basis of something new. I’ve been playing around with movement, and not restricting myself to just standing behind a mic. And yes, this even includes dance. I’ve been playing my melodica and, oh dear, even singing.

Now a psychologist might suggest that I’m doing all of this to ignore the inevitable grief, but as I’m going about my daily chores and doing whatever needs to be done, I’m thinking, wow, I’m an artist. And I really want to be the best kind of artist that I can be. Indeed one of the most inspirational things I watched last week was an interview with one of my heroes, Laurie Anderson, and she talked about her creative process of just being loose, not caring about the outcome, just playing around with whatever is at hand, and that’s what I’ve been doing. It’s incredibly rewarding and I’d recommend it to anyone.

So I have one or two new projects to keep me going, which I’m really excited about. And hopefully pretty soon, you will see the fruits of these.

On one of my greatest comedy influences.

My father, David Garnham, passed away twenty four hours ago. It’s probably too early to process this just yet, but there is a strange urge within me to explain what he meant to me and now he influenced my work as a comedic spoken word artist.

Dad was a man overwhelmingly of immense humour. He could always see the funny side of any situation and had a great knack of summing up a situation or a person in a very short sentence. His humour was gentle and never cruel. He would always comment on the people we saw whenever driving. Indeed, he could have made a career as a driving seat comedian, if such an art form ever existed. If we were passing a bus stop and someone put out their arm for the bus behind us, he would say, ‘Put your glasses on, does this look like a bus?’ Whenever the traffic lights were changing he would put down his foot and shout, ‘I’m going!’, which were Donald Campbell’s last words before he lost control of the Bluebird speedboat.

The thing with Dad was that he was a great raconteur. He would find the humour in all kinds of situations and craft stories about things that had happened to him or that he had seen with all the skill of a storyteller or a comedian. He would tell us stories about the time he used to work in the Australian outback, where everyone lived in cabins which had their names stencilled on the outside, but whoever had done it had misread the piece of paper and stencilled his name as Doctor Gamban, mistaking his initials for Dr and completely misreading his surname. He would talk about working in the frozen wilds of Canada, driving an army truck and accidentally driving it straight into the back of a tank. And as an older man, he would describe the various clack trips he went on with Mum with the National Trust, or as he called them, the Twin Set And Pearls Brigrade. In fact, any time he went anywhere, even if it was just a trip to the supermarket, he would come back and describe something funny that he had seen.

My friend Anne says that this is a trait I’ve inherited. She says that weird things always happen around me, but I think it’s just that I see them with a comedian’s eyes, something that my Dad taught me from an early age. Without my Dad realising it, he was using the methods and skills of observational comedy, (which, ironically, he was never a fan of), and this is one of the reasons which I’ve always loved Seinfeld and Curb Your Enthusiasm. Dad was often a bizarre mix of Larry David and Victor Meldrew. And the world he lived in was like an endless episode of Last of the Summer Wine, a programme he loved.

So my dad’s method of dealing with people was simple. Distill a person down to their immediate characteristics, turn them into a character and then deal with them as such. Then everything that they do just adds to the narrative of who they are. In such a way, for example, all of his neighbours had nicknames that he gave them. Some of these were quite rude, some of them were downright funny. Musical Cars, for example, because they kept moving their cars around in their drive way. Ay Op, who lived across the road, was from up north and said Ay Op a lot. Dogs Head Stuck In Gate Woman, because she stopped to chat once and her dog got its head stuck in the gate. Backpack Man, because he wore a backpack. The fun just never ended.

I can’t imagine my Dad ever hating someone. By turning people into affectionate caricatures, it was impossible to take them seriously enough to hate them. He would describe a person he knew who ran a hotel with an iron fist, who he nicknamed Wiggy, for obvious reasons. And then describe Wiggy’s attempts to put on a community coffee morning, in which people were only allowed a coffee once they had a biscuit, and if you ate your biscuit before the coffee arrived, then you didn’t get a coffee. Only he would tell this story in such a funny way that I’d be laughing about it days afterwards and telling everyone I met. In fact there are so many of these stories, I’ll have to write them down.

Naturally, my humour is different, and the things I find funny are every so slightly different, but there’s always a sense whenever I write something humorous that this might be the sort of thing that Dad would like. He also loved music, aircraft and motor racing, two things which I also love, and he was a very, very clever man with a mind that could solve all kinds of logical, spatial or engineering problems. One of the biggest things I learned from him was that there’s always a solution to every problem.

I shall miss him greatly, of course, but I’m immensely thankful for the humour. He was not a fan of mawkish sentimentality and for this reason I probably won’t be writing a slew of dead dad poems. He always wanted people to be happy, or at the very least, contented, and for obvious reasons right now I’m not exactly happy, but I am very grateful.

On haiku.

You know, I was thinking the other day. Why does the word monosyllabic have so many syllables?

And naturally, this got me thinking about haiku. You know, the short from Japanese poems.

Do you know what makes me really annoyed? It’s when you go to a poetry recital, and a poet announces that They’re going to perform a haiku, but first they remind us What the rules of a haiku are. And the explanation of what a haiku is Takes longer than the haiku they read out, All that build up, and it’s over.

It’s just like sex. Except it’s something I can do, too.

I wrote one the other day which I was Really proud of.

The man with no arms,

Fighting in the local pub.

He was kicking off.

So shall we bask in its glory?

Note the syllables. Five, seven. Five, It’s a work of art.

I was so pleased with the haiku that I put it on Facebook as a status update. And I got the following comments.

Edna – Nice haiku

Steven – Great haiku.

Gary – Your limerick is missing two lines.

Mike – Like it, mate. Smiley face.

Paul – Love it, lol.

Greg – Great stuff, lol.

Paul – Hey Greg, how’s it going? Lol.

Greg- Not bad, Paul, lol.

Paul – You out tonight? Lol.

Greg – Staying in tonight, lol.

Paul- Saving up for your holidays? Lol.

Greg – Yeah, lol.

Paul – Minehead again this year? Lol.

Greg- Yeah, lol.

Paul – Camping of hotel? Lol.

Greg- To be honest we thought about taking a tent but after last time with Dawn’s bad back I thought we’d better not risk it what with that and it being allergy season, you know she does suffer, the poor thing, so we’ve booked in to a nice hotel for the week, lol.

Paul – Lol.

Greg- Hey Robert Garnham, did you write this on an aircraft? Lol.

Me- Yes, as a matter of fact.

Greg – Then you’re a member of the mile haiku club.

Lol.

Robert Garnham Live at Brixham Theatre

Here’s a video of a gig I did at Brixham Theatre in September 2018. I hope that you enjoy it.

On discovering my audience demographic

I’ve often written that my ideal demographic seems to be people above the age of seventy. This is an unusual position for a spoken word artist to be in. Most of my contemporaries are edgy and youthful and perform poems about social issues with anger and verve and bravery. And as a result they are feted by audiences and social media, and their videos go viral, and they are surrounded by youthful acolytes and admirers. This is fantastic, of course, and I would do anything to have a similar audience. However, the gigs where I have gone down the best have generally been to those of . . Well . . Octogenarians.

The good thing about this is that these are usually people who have disposable income and want to buy books as a result. They have the money to buy the books and the time to read them. The bad thing about this is, most of them aren’t on social media. So this means that they are not exactly likely to go searching for me on the web after a gig. As a result I rely on word of mouth.

I also tackle social issues, of course, using the medium of comedy poetry. I was chatting to a comedian on Monday night and he laughed when I told him that I saw myself as a safe LGBT poet for a straight audience. But I wasn’t joking. I’ve done LGBT gigs and while they’ve gone ok, the biggest reaction always comes from straight audiences. It’s rather satisfying to be quietly subversive, slyly introducing concepts such as gay rights and representation of minorities through the medium of comedy poetry to an audience who one would assume to be more conservative in outlook. But not necessarily. I believe that most of the audiences I’ve performed to are open minded and not the stereotypical Daily Mail readers that one might imagine. Except in Tiverton.

So last week I did a variety show at a theatre in Brixham. It was great to have a big stage to play around with, greater still to have a huge audience who laughed in all the right places. They loved what I did, and I loved performing to them on a rainy night at a Devon fishing port. The demographic, again, was somewhat mature, which I didn’t realise until I left, as the stage lights were so bright. But it went down a dream and I enjoyed every minute.

This doesn’t mean that I’ve given up performing to young people. I love young audiences, as they do weird things like whooping and clicking their fingers, which when I first heard I thought was an attempt to summon a waiter. And then afterwards they come up and say things like, wow, that was totes amazeballs. But lately I’ve grown to accept and then love the fact that people over a certain age are still up for a laugh and a bit of naughtiness.

Here’s a video of what I got up to

https://youtu.be/CyVrd7Z-X_8