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.