hope
It had been a good few months since I found time to write a poem – lots of reasons for that, too long-winded to go into on a Sunday morning – but as I tried to make sense of the disappointment of this week’s election result I reached for the pen and paper and scribbled one down. It made me feel better. Less defeated. Less alone.
I decided to share it on Facebook, in among the slew of posts from friends who were also grieving about what had happened. I hoped it might resonate with them, too.
To date, Enough has had over 600 likes and been shared over 380 times. It’s also been published on the Culture Matters website. Thank you to everyone who’s got in touch to say it summed up their own feelings of loss and defiance. I’ve been genuinely touched by the scale of the response.
You reminded me we’ve got each other, and so we’ve always got hope. That’s not a bad place to start. So on we go.
138
Sometimes – when you’re juggling the work/life balance, chasing commissions, hunting for gigs, and trying to stay on top of admin on the one hand and mushrooming slatternliness on the other – sometimes actual writing, the very thing you’re passionate about, gets pushed to the sidelines. One day you realise you haven’t put pen to paper in anger for months, and you wonder if you still know how to do it.
So I’m very grateful to James Josiah and his 138 project for nudging me into writing once more. He’s collecting and publishing 138 pieces, each 138 words long and about anything at all, for no good reason other than that it pleases him. My piece, published today, is number 60 in that collection (which means there’s still time for you to submit a piece to him yourself).
I wrote this piece after the initial findings of the Grenfell inquiry pointed the finger of blame at the London Fire Brigade. I’m sharing it today hours after the execrable Jacob Rees-Mogg chose to suggest those who died at Grenfell ‘lacked common sense’ because they stayed in their flats as advised. People like him are why I haven’t got less angry as I got old.
You can read the piece here, if you so desire, and you’ll also find details of how to submit your own offering to James’ project. Go on. Have your say. You might find you enjoy it.
delighted
One rainy midweek morning earlier this summer, I made my way to the Jewellery Quarter train station in Birmingham, and met up with a cameraman. We made a recording of me reading my poem Pride of Place, and I got back on a train and headed back to Wolverhampton.
Last week I got to see what he’d done with the poem. It’s breathtaking. Thanks to him for creating such a beautiful film, and to West Midlands Railway for commissioning the poem in the first place. If you’ve a couple of minutes to spare, you can watch it here.
postcards of hope
It’s been over six weeks since I last posted a blog here. Yikes. Partly that’s because I’ve been slaving away with my fellow pandemonialists on the script of a show about Black Country humour – Finding Our Funny Roots is on Saturday October 26th at Wolverhampton’s Arena Theatre, if you were wondering, with tickets on sale here – but it’s also because I’ve been determined not to spend my precious free time staring at a computer screen. (Yes, I typed that sentence on my laptop and posted it online. I’m aware of the irony). I’d like to say that plan has worked, but it hasn’t. Instead, I’ve found myself compulsively watching the antics of our current Prime Minister – who seems hell-bent on fomenting anger and division in order to cling onto the power he’s craved for so long, whatever the consequences – and getting thoroughly depressed.
Then this postcard turned up. It’s one of a series of eight produced by Poetry on Loan, and I’m chuffed to bits that they chose my poem Olives only once, mind to be one of them. It’ll be available in public libraries throughout the West Midlands later this year and into 2020.
I’d been asking myself what the point is of being a poet when the world is busying itself with the whole hand-basket hell combo, and these postcards reminded me just how important art and imagination are. They set me thinking.
Poetry on Loan gave me copies of my postcard to use as I wish. I’m proposing selling 25 of them to raise money for Black Country Women’s Aid, with a minimum donation of £2.00 (if you want to give more, that’s fine too). I’ll cover the costs of postage, and write an individual message on each postcard sold.
In the interests of transparency, I should remind you that you’ll soon be able to pick up these postcards for free from libraries across the Midlands, but I’m hoping you’ll join me in this. You get some poetry to prop up on the mantelpiece or blu-tac to the wall, a vital charity gets some much-needed cash, and we all remind ourselves that art can do something useful in these difficult times. Drop me a line at steve@stevepottinger.co.uk if you want to be part of this, and I’ll get back to you with all the details.
By the way, the other poems in the series are by Midlands poets Sarah James, Jeff Phelps, Emma Purshouse, Brenda Read-Brown, Mandy Ross, Jane Seabourne, and Catherine Whittaker, and they’re well worth checking out. Click on any of the names in green and it’ll take you to their sites so you can check out their work.
Let’s do something good with poetry. Cheers!
fringe benefits
It seems an age ago already, but last week I was up in Edinburgh, visiting the Fringe with my fellow pandemonialists Dave Pitt and Emma Purshouse. We were there for two reasons: to do a gig for the Loud Poets, and to scout out some shows we hoped might be worth bringing to the Wolves Lit Fest fringe next February.
Anyone who’s been to the Fringe will know that it’s chaotic and incredible, and Dave got caught up in that chaos within hours, catching a bus out into the depths of the Lothian countryside (he’s gone where??!!) instead of into Edinburgh city centre. Scottish public transport is trickier than average, apparently, although he still managed to get to the Loud Poets gig first, which shows just how formidable a force he’d be if he got on the right bus more often.
For three days we traipsed heroically from one Edinburgh city centre venue to another, checking out shows we’d heard good things about, shows by friends, shows with intriguing titles, shows with intriguing subjects, and shows we simply decided to take a punt on for no good reason at all. Each and every one of them was a sixty-minute adventure, and we barely scratched the surface of what was there. From start to finish, the whole weekend was wonderful. And now I’m back in the Midlands staring out the window at the rain and missing Edinburgh more than is healthy.
If you haven’t been to the Fringe yet, go. Embrace the chaos. Meet people. Follow your curiosity and see shows for the hell of it. Support the arts. Take flyers from slightly desperate stand-up comics and wish them luck. Do whatever takes your fancy. Just don’t take transport advice from Dave. Trust me, it’s for your own good.
edinburgh again
It’s a strange old time to be a poet. On the one hand, it’s the annual shindig which is the Edinburgh Fringe (hooray!). On the other hand, even the most cursory glance at the news headlines suggests we’re heading to hell in an increasingly speedy handcart and all bets are off as to whether climate change or unhinged nationalist leaders (yes, I’m looking at you, Trump, first and foremost) will steer us over the cliff.
I’ll be honest, I’m finding it tricky to balance those two. My natural optimism is creaking at the seams, and how on earth do you write a poem which addresses the febrile state of things and still engages the reader? I wrote you do not listen, got it published in International Times, and ended up in a Twitter spat with a BBC radio host who took umbrage at the idea anyone could complain about the way his organisation delivers the news. Hey ho. If only he’d bothered to read the poem properly first, eh?
Anyway, I’ll be casting aside my current sense of gloom to spend a few days in Edinburgh with fellow pandemonialists Dave Pitt and Emma Purshouse, and we’ll be special guests at the Loud Poets event this Thursday. It should be a lot of fun. If you fancy joining us for an evening of fast-paced, entertaining, and occasionally gritty poetry, tickets are on sale here.
If Boris has his way we’ll be fighting over the few remaining turnips by mid-November. Come and have a giggle while we can.
updated and international
You can generally bet your bottom dollar that the more I recognise the urgency of something that needs doing, the more I discover an overwhelming need to do something – anything – which is totally unrelated and pushes the needs-doing-this-very-minute thing into some incredibly long grass where I can pretend it doesn’t matter. Over many years, this has established itself as a fundamental law of the universe which brooks no argument.
So I can offer no reasonable explanation for the fact that just a few days after announcing that I needed to update and de-clutter my website, I’ve… er… updated and de-cluttered my website. As you’ll see if you take a wander round.
While I was on some sort of cosmic roll, I also screwed up my courage and submitted a poem to the International Times. After all, I told myself, the worst they could do was ignore it. They didn’t, and I’m happy to say that you do not listen was published on their website yesterday. It’s been described as bone-deep outrage, brilliantly expressed and I wish I’d thought of saying that myself. Take a look at it if you’ve a couple of minutes, and see if you agree. Me? I’ll be taking it easy. I think I’ve earned the right.
feet up
It’s been a great couple of months, it’s been a while since I wrote a blog, and yes, those two things are related. Time flies when you’re having fun, you see. And I have been having fun. The last month has seen me doing gigs up through the north-west of England and as far north as Dundee, finishing at Ledbury Poetry Festival last Sunday (which was immense fun, and an opportunity to catch up with a lot of other Midland poets).
I’ve loved trying out new poems in front of new audiences, but now it’s time for a little break. A break from gigs, anyway – I’ve plenty of other things to do. The website needs a wee bit of fettling, for starters, so expect to see changes here once I’ve had a couple of lessons from Dave not-on-facebook Pitt, who knows much more about these things than I do. There’s a load of Pandemonialists plans and projects to push forward, too, and – last but not least – the new book will need knocking into shape.
If all goes to plan, the book will be printed, published, and on sale by late November. By then, I’ll be itching to get out on the road again, and looking for gigs and readings to promote it. So, if you’re a poetry promoter – or simply someone who’d like to see some top-quality, accessible poetry where you live – drop me a line.
And now, it’s time to enjoy the sunshine while I can.
north by more north
We all have little rituals and habits which are woven into our lives. As midsummer approaches, it’s always a fair bet I’ll be packing the camper van and pointing it northwards to Scotland for a couple of weeks of parking up in as remote a location as I can find, waking to the sound of waves on the shore, watching seals, otters, basking sharks, and gannets while I have my morning coffee.
For the past few years, I’ve added a few poetry gigs to my meandering itinerary, because well, why not? That means I’ve read my poems to a packed room in Orkney (my northernmost gig to date) then driven under the light of the Simmer Dim to park by a beach under a star-filled sky.
Soon, a much-loved VW camper van will be trundling north once again, and I’ll be cutting myself free of a world of emails, social media, and poetry websites I don’t update half as often as I should. I’ve half-a-dozen gigs set up along the route, and it’d be lovely to see some of you if any of them are in your neck of the woods (details on the ‘news’ page, btw). No Orkney gig this time – I’m not sure we’ll make it that far – but that’s just a reason to plan another trip north next year, isn’t it?
hitting the road
There’s always something wonderful, as far as I’m concerned, about sitting in an audience and listening to poetry. Every voice is different. Some you may love, some may leave you cold, some will inspire you to go home and write a piece of your own. Perhaps you’ll see a familiar situation in a new light, look at the world in a way you’d never quite seen it before. Maybe you’ll simply be comforted by knowing that someone else is passionate about the things you’re passionate about, that there are other people out there like you. All of this is possible, and all of it is good.
Standing up in front of an audience to share poems can be every bit as enjoyable. I love going to new places (or re-visiting ones I’ve been to before), getting up behind the mic, and hoping my work will strike a chord with the people I’m talking to. It’s a real privilege, and an absolute buzz. And that’s just the gig – there’s also the joy of exploring a new town, or wandering round old haunts. Would I happily spend as much time out on the road as possible? Absolutely. Without a moment’s hesitation. It can be the back room of a pub or an arts centre, a night with a huge reputation or one put on by a few friends somewhere off the beaten track, but it’s the sharing of words that’s important. That connection.
Right now, I’m busy sorting out gigs for the second half of this year. There’s a road trip to Scotland, for starters, which I’m really looking forward to, and I’m always keen to add more. So if you fancy hearing me read where you live, if you’d like a little more poetry in your town, drop me a line. Get in touch, and let’s see what we can sort out. Because nothing beats live poetry. It’s an absolute buzz.
luck of the irish
Some weeks are ones you want to live long in your memory. For me, this week has been one. First, I learned that the video of my poem Impulse was one of the winners in the Culture Matters spoken word competition. That put a much-needed spring in my step. Then I found out another of my poems was runner-up in this year’s Prole competition (you can read the winning poems here). I’m chuffed to bits, and am now putting more spring in bigger steps.
It’s easy to make a song and dance about it, to tell the world when you’ve had some success and things are going well, but I’m no stranger to that sense of frustration and despair that most (all?) poets know. Those days when you wonder if your work has any value at all, whether you’re kidding yourself, whether you’d be better off knocking the whole thing on the head and walking away. So, if you’re a poet or a writer who’s going through that right now, hang in there. Keep watching, keep learning, keep honing your craft.
Above all, keep writing. Because it’s what you need to do.
keeping it global
In late February, after my set at Orators & Opinions, Worcestershire poet Neil Laurenson interviewed me about why I write poetry, and much else besides. Thanks to him for taking the time to pose some very interesting questions. If you’d like to read what I had to say in response, you can do that by clicking here.
This week Proletarian Poetry published my poem ‘desaparecida’ on their website. As you may know if you follow me on Twitter, my friend John Sevigny – and a female colleague – were kidnapped by members of a drug cartel in Mexico early this year. The poem reflects upon that, and the additional dangers faced by women there, as I explain in the blog which accompanies the poem. You can read it here. It is, perhaps, right to highlight it on International Women’s Day, but I’ll leave you to be the judge of that.
Thank you for your continued support for my writing. It means the world.
more gone
Less than two weeks ago I posted the news that more bees bigger bonnets had sold out. Now I’m popping up again to tell you that a fine fine place has done so too. My heartfelt thanks to all those good folk who’ve bought a copy and given it a home – it’s gratifying and humbling to know my work has reached so many people.
A second print run of a fine fine place has been ordered from the printers. If you haven’t got a copy yet and you’d like to buy one, just click on this link.
Looks like I should crack on with getting the next volume of poems together then, eh? No rest for the wicked….
gone gone gone
If you’ve been meaning to buy a copy of my fourth book of poems more bees bigger bonnets, I’m sorry to tell you you’ve missed the boat. The last few copies of the second print run were snapped up at Thursday’s gig in Walsall (thanks, good folk of Orators & Opinions!)
I’m really proud of the work in more bees, and incredibly chuffed that so many people have backed up my faith in it by shelling out their hard-earned on a copy. Like most poets, I know poetry’s unlikely to make me rich – you’d be bonkers to choose this route as the best way to untrammelled wealth – but it’s reassuring to find that the words I write strike a chord with others. That’s what it’s all about, in the end: communication. The sharing of ideas and experiences and voices. And that’s what poetry’s so good at, which is why I love it.
That’s enough trumpet-blowing for now. Time for a walk in the glorious spring sunshine. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for unlikely bonnets. And welcome bees.
note: the marketing department wishes to point out that you can pick up my fifth book of poems a fine fine place on the ignitebooks.co.uk website. Just follow this link.
put in perspective
It’s only natural – what with this being a website about my poetry – that most of my posts centre on that. Sometimes, though, the focus is rightly wrenched onto other subjects. This is one of those times.
My friend John Sevigny is a US photographer who spends a lot of time working in Central America. Nice work if you can get it, you might think. Except in early Jan, while working in Mexico, he and a colleague were kidnapped by members of a cartel. Over a dozen armed men burst into their apartment, beat the living daylights out of them with boots and guns, dragged them outside, and drove away with them. This is not – sadly – an uncommon event in Mexico, where over 20,000 people have been ‘disappeared’.
What John and his colleague experienced in the following 38 hours is the stuff of nightmares. I won’t list it here. If you want to, you can read John’s article by following the link at the end of this piece. But you don’t have to. You really don’t.
I have no idea why it was that – at the end of those 38 hours – someone took a decision to let them go, but they did. Other people in the same place ended up dead. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, so far as I can see.
One month on, John is recovering in the US, and has chosen to go public with the story of what happened to him. He knows that he has the luck and the good fortune (odd words to use of a man who’s been through what he’s been through, but there you go) to speak out. Firstly, because he’s still alive. Thousands of Mexicans have simply disappeared at the hands of cartels, remember. Secondly, unlike Mexicans who live with the threat of the cartels every day, he’s relatively safe, and can afford to speak.
He knows this gives him an opportunity to use his story to draw attention to what’s going on in Mexico, and what is happening to people there. And – as always – it’s women who bear the brunt of the whirlwind of brutality and violence in the society around them. We live in a world where nameless Mexicans dying does not make headline news, but a US photographer talking about what happened to him in those hours when he was kidnapped… well, that does. Or it can, anyway. And that’s a world of difference.
In an attempt to try and make some good come out of this brutality, we’ve been trying to work out what it’s possible to do. And our suggestion is that making a donation to your local Rape Crisis centre, or an organisation which works with survivors of torture, would be the most appropriate option. They never have enough money for the vitally important work they’re called upon to do.
That might – hopefully – be the positive thing that comes out of what happened. I know John and I would like to think so. And if you want to read John’s account, be warned. It is not, in any way, easy reading.
You can read Part One here.
And Part Two here.
gasping for a pint
I’m tempted to use that as the title for my next book of poems, even though it isn’t entirely true. I made it through Dry January, and while I’m looking forward to sitting in a pub and having a drink again, I could equally happily stay off the booze. But the universe, in its wisdom, has ordained that the 6 Nations starts this evening, and who am I to argue with the universe? Considerably Wet February it is.
So, before I slide under the table in the corner of the local, telling the world and its dog they’re my best mate, here’s a photo of the poem I was commissioned to write for West Midlands Railways as part of a Poets, Prattlers, and Pandemonialists project in conjunction with them. It’s currently on display at Birmingham New St station. Check it out if you’re passing through.
More news once I’m back from the pub in March.
onward and upward
2019. You look away for a moment, and it’s already over a week old, and is busy exploring the world, sticking its pudgy little fingers in the plug sockets, and scribbling all over the furniture with a felt-tip pen. Bless it.
Last year was a lot of fun. Shows the length and breadth of the country with Poets, Prattlers, and Pandemonialists, gigs of my own, and some superb headliners and open mics at our poetry nights in Walsall and Wolverhampton. On top of that, there were astoundingly good reviews for a book I co-wrote: ‘But after the gig…’ the autobiography of Tezz Roberts of Discharge (and a host of other bands). You can read one of them here – and see just why the first print run sold out in a couple of months – if the fancy takes you.
I’m busy making all sorts of plans for 2019 if it keeps away from the plug sockets for long enough to listen. I’ve already got a good number of gigs set up, with more in the pipeline, and I don’t doubt that PPP will be coming up with some outrageous new project or three, too. It’s going to be an exciting twelve months. Bring it on!
that’ll do nicely!
