Early light picture from last week, playing around on Instagram
One of my favourite pieces of writing this year has been a writing diary from Scottish author Denise Mina. She read it aloud on a radio programme a few months back and it was honest and funny and I suppose that is one of my favourite kinds of writing. I have a simple relationship with comedy (and with music...) because I just love them, so much of them. I suppose this is partly because I have adored them both from a very young age but also partly because I have never tried to do either of them in any kind of serious way (put something out in the world and say 'I am a musician' or 'I am a comedian'). Poetry, though, is another matter.
And yesterday, here, it was National Poetry Day so I thought I’d have a go at one of those diary-type things (with some poetry-related content). I used to write a lot more like this on the old blog (ah, the golden days of blog... when you’d get up to 50 comments on a post... how did we read them all... etc.) but I haven’t done one for a while. So here’s yesterday... though the times are only approximate (I put them in after...).
9.00am. It’s one of those waiting-for-work days for me (the paid work, not the poetry). When it does come it just arrives by email (some days loads, many days nothing) but today nothing comes (so more time for poetry matters). It’s a good job we don’t rely on my salary to survive.
9.10am. I look at Twitter and see all the National Poetry Day links etc. (along with all the stuff about Hefner... which just reminds me of Watson and Oliver’s great bunny sketch... their series is on Netflix these days... go and find it if you can, daughter and I quote several of their sketches regularly). For a couple of years (see here) I
organised a local event to mark National Poetry Day and it was always in October back then so it feels weird to have it in September this
year (though here in Scotland it makes sense as it’s school holidays in early
October and why should they escape the freedom – this year’s theme – of organised words). I write a
tiny poem about this calendar issue, post it to Twitter, get a very small
response. I am not in a loop, no celebrities retweet me or anything like that, so it’s a fairly unsatisfying and quite possibly pointless endeavour.
It’s a good job we don’t rely on my poetry (or social media success) to survive.
9.30am. I watch a video from one of the links on Twitter. It
features Sarah Crossan, whose book ‘One’ we won as a prize at a books quiz in
the summer (Dundee Waterstones, monthly, it was summer, not much competition...). She writes verse novels (‘One’ is
one). I really enjoyed ‘One’ (though this is starting to feel a bit regal) – it may be marketed at teens but (a) yes, I am at least part teenager and (b) it’s bigger than that (and I’ve never been one for dividing lines). It’s a good job we don’t rely on my strong opinions on marketing to survive (my first
proper job was in an advertising agency… in the late ’80s and I didn’t last long... in fact I just left one lunchtime, never went back... well, I had to return the company car at some point... but apart from that).
10.00am. I listen to the third part of Don Paterson’s radio series ‘Five poems I wish I had written’ – the one about Michael Donaghy (it’s Wednesday’s). This is
the first one (that I've listened to so far...) where I can agree with him about the poem and that might well be
because the poem is, at least in part, about music (the poem is ‘The Hunter’s Purse’).
Tuesday’s (about Elizabeth Bishop's 'Large Bad Picture') is a great listen, whatever you think of the
poem. It packed some punches though and whilst up till then I had not been feeling too bad about my own recent poetic output (I had written
two ‘proper’ poems in the past couple of weeks, not shown them to anyone yet but felt I was back on that track a little after nothing
but unloved Twitter 4-liners over the summer) this programme knocked me
right back down off that artificial high. I am totally crap (and needy) and don’t know the
most basic things about form and rhythm and it’s no wonder I am moaning in obscurity most of the time. It’s
a good job we don’t rely on my positive outlook to survive.
10.15am. I wonder about the idea of ‘poems I wish I had written’. I’m
not sure I think about poetry in that way at all, certainly nothing really comes to
mind (what would you say if Radio 3 came knocking..?). I could think of about 100 people whose singing voice I covet… and maybe some songs I wish I’d written… though no, even
there I can’t say that’s the way it feels (I can love something, but that doesn’t mean I wish I'd made it...). What I can say is that we were looking through
the old youtube channel the other day (for admin reasons) and Mark and I both
really enjoyed hearing the videos we posted in 2008 of Hugh McMillan (live… in
Edinburgh…). I especially loved hearing ‘Three Letters to McMhaolain Mor’ again (‘my heart bleeds in this
Travelodge’). I don’t wish I’d written it (how could I have done… it’s Hugh’s
history background coupled with his experience of life in some particularly modern-day
trenches – schools and pubs and buses – that makes this ring so
true and be charming and painful all at the same time). I have non-poetry
friends (one in particular) who says poetry only works for them when they hear
it (aloud, with or without music) and, although I do read poetry quietly,
sitting still, I do also understand the need for hearing (when it comes to
enjoying/understanding/wanting to repeat the experience certainly). In the poetry world there is less and
less of a divide between 'page' and 'performance' (so I hear, so I read…) and that
is a good thing. There are great poems right across that spectrum (there
always have been) and many of the best poems (for my taste) can be inhaled either
way. After this I watch a video of BBC Scotland’s poet in residence Stuart A Paterson giving a lesson in Scots weather terms (he is a long-term friend of
Hugh McMillan). Twenty years ago I wouldn't have known any of the words but now I know about half of them (and will go through
and pause with Scots dictionary/friend to get the rest later). That’s a poem I certainly
couldn’t have written! It’s a good job we don’t rely on my career in Scots
poetry writing to survive.
12.30pm. I do some Mum things…take girl here, go to the supermarket.
No one in there is talking about National Poetry Day or seems to be worrying about rhythm patterns. It’s a
beautiful sunny day and everyone is trying to get out of there as soon as possible.
I worked in shops quite a lot in previous stages of life and the money is so crap
but it’s bearable as jobs go. I don’t have a great record when it comes to jobs
and making money (but I have a great CV… ). It’s a good job we don’t rely on my hilarious themed repetitive paragraph endings to survive (because I can’t think of one for this).
1.30pm. Essential jobs done I think I should make a National Poetry Day effort so I grab a poetry book (the first that comes to
hand – an anthology) and sit in the sun for a brief stretch (as long as a cup of tea). It’s
too hot for the dog so she whinges at me and the neighbours seem to have the
loudest lawnmower ever made (it’s probably old... as they are). I can’t say anything
really grabs me from the book… but that might be the dog, the (very hot) sun and the fact that I’m going out this evening and possibly to a place where people will be sitting quietly in rows (this always makes me anxious). I am much more a
cabaret-atmosphere kind of person… in every possible way. It’s a good job we
don’t rely on my career as an airline passenger or jury member to survive. And
yes, I know you don’t get paid for either of those…. Well, not usually.
7.00pm. It turns out that I have tickets for a poetry event in
Dundee tonight – a total coincidence as I bought them ages ago before I knew
that the national day of poeting had moved closer to the sun. This event features Rachel McCrum and Caroline
Bird and I don’t know either of the poets’ work but I have seen them bigged up
online by people whose work I do know (and like) so I’m quite keen. It’s a long time since I went
to a poetry reading of any kind I realise (other than my own). I used to go to
quite a few (particularly at the StAnza festival in St Andrews – I used to go
there every year) but in recent times it just hasn’t happened (partly to do with where we live but a lot to do with my weirdness about sitting quietly in an rowed audience). I find the
awkwardness of some types of readings really difficult so was disappointed to
get to the venue tonight and discover it was my least favourite kind of place
(no exit at the back, only one way in and out and that right in front of the whole audience and stage...). It’s hard to explain if you’re not a person who feels this
kind of specific anxiety about places but believe me, it does rather spoil your
concentration… especially if you can’t have a calming alcoholic beverage
because you are going to be driving a car at some point later. I decided to ask for help (always one of the hardest parts...) and luckily the organisers were lovely
and didn’t think me at all mad (well, they didn’t say so anyway) and found me
a bolthole where I could see but not feel awkward (the lighting/sound box). So I did see the show and it started with music from Roseanne Reid (tiny enigmatic songs, liked them a lot) followed by poet Rachel McCrum. She did
a few poems about boats and a lot about women (her new book, her first I think,
is called ‘The First Blast to Awaken Degenerate Women’) but, though I did find
these interesting (facts about Marie Stopes, for example, plenty to go back and
read…and in fact the poem that includes them is online here, though it’s quite far down the page), the mood I was in (odd, career identity crisis, locked in anxiety bolthole… and
not for any lack of feminist tough thinking over the years…) meant I was drawn
more to a poem about unusual stars (‘Runaways’). I didn’t buy a book then but I am thinking I might; there was a lot to take in. After a little break poet Caroline Bird (now on her 5th book apparently, though she started very young)
took us to places I really wasn’t expecting (her experiences of drugs and
mental health, albeit with a surrealist twist... although if you’ve lived through
any of it… which of course I have… you don’t really need the twist). She was
very engaging (a bit bouncey, getting herself gradually more and more into the
audience…) and if I hadn’t been in an anxiety bolthole (with my poor, long
suffering daughter… ‘what weird place are you taking me today, Mummy?’) I would
have stayed for the whole thing. But we had quite a trip back, and there’s
school tomorrow and Mummy can tell you plenty of stories about that kind of thing on the way home (daughter is pretty much an adult now, 17...). I have no line here about careers and surviving. I have run out of steam about that.
9.00pm. And then the train… and the car… and the chips (I have an old poem about having chips on the way back from a poetry reciting competition
when I was a little girl... I guess this is our version of that in some kind of dragged-out mirror image). And on the radio (I love radio!) it was still National Poetry Day and there was a young guy
called Isaiah Hull on the Jo Whiley show on Radio 2. We didn’t catch the
beginning of the poem but the bit I heard sounded warm and young and hopeful. Ah, it’s a good job we don't rely on my career in misguided nostalgia to survive...
Thanks, as ever, for reading.
