TS Eliot Prize Readings at the Southbank Centre 15 January 2012

TS Eliot Prize Readings at the Southbank Centre, Sunday 15 Jan 2012, 7pm

Booking open now

"The T S Eliot Prize Readings herald a brilliant year of poetry at Southbank Centre. Join us to experience the best poetry of the last 12 months, with the shortlisted poets reading their work live, introduced by Ian McMillan, poet and presenter of BBC Radio 3's The Verb. In association with the Poetry Book Society."

10% off before December.

With the 10% off rear stalls are £10.40 a ticket plus booking fee, front stalls are a few quid more.
50% off for concessions.

Nottingham Poetry Competition - poetry merit award

I had a letter this morning telling me that one of my poems had been awarded a merit prize in the Nottingham Open Poetry Competition.

I know from Helena Nelson's post on her Happenstance blog that there were 664 entries in all, three winners and only ten merit prizes.

So, in the words of James Brown 'I feel good'.

Magic Realism

The task: One 'magic realism' short story to write during the next fortnight.

Oh shit.

I've tried.
I am trying (so my friends often tell me).
But I just don't get it.

I was thinking of writing a story about a woman who spent so much time doing housework that she turned into her household implements. Then I realised that this is rather too similar to life writing and we covered that last year.

I am off to boil a litre of water and pour myself out.

Make it Strange - Jen Hadfield

I have a crick in my neck and a stiff back right now, probably because I've been hunched over a laptop all week putting together a poem for this week's exercise of my online poetry course. The course is run by The Poetry School and this course, tutored by one of my favourite poets, Jen Hadfield, is called  'Make it Strange'.

And what is surfacing certainly is strange. But at the same time quite quite magical.

There is a wonderliciously liberating feeling as you grub around on your elbows under the barbed wire of self-censorship and smuggle out a word or two that would never have otherwise got to the page.

Great quote on Fiona Moore's blog

"The progress of any writer is marked by those moments when he manages to outwit his own inner police system"

(Ted Hughes, in What rhymes with ‘secret’?, 1982)


Oh, how true, that is. Have spent the day trying to sneak past my police with a large poetic swag bag slung over my shoulder.

I did it.

I did it. I read poetry. To REAL people.

And, hey, it wasn't so bad after all.

Lovely venue (Hendon Library Cafe) and a very friendly audience.

Hendon Library are hoping to put on more poetry/literary events in the future, so if you're local do check it out.

To go, or not to go.

Last week I received a phone call. It was a member of staff calling from East Barnet Library. My first response was well I'm pretty sure I owe my local library a huge fine for overdue library books but East Barnet Library..? A bit out of my way.

The gentleman said 'Did you enter a poetry competition at East Barnet Library?'

'Probably,' I replied, which was true, but sounded dumb. I have, after all, entered quite a few competitions over the Summer. And there was something familiar about the name East Barnet.

'Can you remember the name of the poem you entered?'

'Er no.' Again, an honest, but stupid-sounding, response. He must think I am a moron. I am a moron.

'Would it have been called "Lifting the lid"?'

'Oh yes!' I say (duh!). 'That one.'

'Well it came runner up in our competion.'

'Really? Oh great.'
(Well, what else can you say when you're mouthing "shut up" at the kids who are beating each other to a pulp (very loudly) on the stairs, while the dog is barking dementedly up and down the hall.)

'We'd like you to come and collect your prize from the poet, Sarah Wardle on xxxxx and read out your poem at our performance poetry evening.'

Er. Did someone say read out my poem? Oh no. no. no. no. no. Did I say no? That was a NO.

'Are you free that evening?'

'Weeell...let me just check the calendar...turning the page...No. Sorry. Can't possibly....I have my course that night...we've only just started the term...would be very difficult...we're a long way away...'

'Oh.'

I have just broken the man's heart.

'Oh.' He says again. He will hate me forever. I will be ostracised from the poetic community for life. And probably throughout the afterlife.

'But if I manage to fix it so that I'm able to come, I'll call you back.' Bugger. Why did I say that?

I AM NOT GOING TO READ MY POEM IN FRONT OF AN AUDIENCE. I DON'T EVEN LIKE MY POEM. IT IS CRAP. I CAN'T DO IT. PEOPLE ARE SCARY. I DON'T DO THINGS LIKE THAT. THEY DO NOT EVEN SELL ALCOHOL IN A LIBRARY. (I can dance after three pints of Stella, so I assume I could probably read poetry too, even if very badly.)

'Right. Well it would be really good if you could come.'

Resist. Resist. Resist. But be polite. 'Ok, well if I change my plans I'll call.' Damn.

I get off the phone. Damn. Damn. Damn.

As Morrisey would say:
"Shyness is nice
Shyness can stop you
from doing all the things in life you want to...'"

Bugger.

I'm going to have to phone him back again.