Poetry Corner

It seems to be a week for praise and believe me, I'm lappin' it up.

If you've hung around my website at all, you'll know I like to do a bit of writing now and then, and in particular I've written a few poems. Now I've not had any formal training in the art of poetry writing (or any writing come to that). I've read around the subject a little, as I do with most things, but that's about it. It was as much a surprise to me when I started writing poems as to anyone. When something like that comes my way though, I don't question it. I just enjoy it.

And so, apparently, do others. At least, that's what they say to my face :o)

But no matter how much people have praised my poems in the past, no-one has ever called me "a real poet." I don't mean to belittle that past praise in any way because all of it was heartfelt and honestly meant, and all of it was gratefully received. I have often moved myself to tears when writing the poems, especially the ones on particularly painful subjects. Even more often I've moved my readers in the same way, sometimes in my presence. They have cried, they have smiled, they have said "it's lovely, John." They have said "is it for me? You wrote this...for me?" They have said how clever I am. How much they "love my stuff." No-one, least of all anyone in a position to really understand what high praise it is, has ever said they consider me a real poet.

Until today. When I had an email from my friend and coach Colleen, who has been writing a bit of poetry herself. "I'm really not a poet," she wrote, "as I consider you a REAL poet."

Wow. Thanks ceep.

I never had any ambitions to be a "professional" poet - as in someone who might expect to sell one or more, or a collection. I knew it was a hard road to travel. There are loads of amateur poets about and to become sufficiently well known to publish it's expected that you will do the rounds of open mic events, go on poetry courses, join poetry clubs, submit to magazines, etc, etc, none of which interested me at all. I was content to be a good amateur, to enjoy my stuff for what it was.

But then a couple of years back, during Chorlton Arts Festival, we noticed one of the events was a poetry reading evening. I decided: nothing ventured, nothing gained. Couldn't hurt to go along and check out what goes on at these things. I selected three poems to take along - short, medium and long ones, and Nikki and Annie came along for moral support. The venue was a small meeting room adjacent to the local library and as the slow trickle of attendees filtered in the room filled until there were about 30 people there.

It soon became obvious that many of them knew each other, and when the reading started the organiser began calling people out by name. He moved through the audience from front row to back, asking everyone if they would like to read. We were sat in the middle (of both dimensions) so I stood up after about eight others had taken a turn. Having heard the sort of thing they'd read, I chose the longest poem. Not normally nervous on occasions like these (I have presented professionally to audiences of around 1,000) I was surprised how shaky I was - in both hands and voice. The page of text wobbled up and down in front of me and my voice suddenly became devoid of spit or power.

I struggled through it and was rewarded with a decent round of applause, a few smiles and nods. The caller continued his progression towards the back of the room and in total I think there were about 15 readers. Once everyone had had a turn, he decided there was time for a second bite at the cherry before the "main event" (we were graced by the presence of a "real" poet for the evening, and he'd brought along several dozen copies of his latest collection). Moving through the audience for a second time, the organiser this time around steadfastly refused to catch my eye even though I held my hand up several times. His offer of a second reading only applied, it seemed clear, to those within his inner circle.

We left early.

My one, and so far only, experience of an open mic event. Not good. I've been in some pretty clique-y circles before, and this was another example. I don't like that. If the invitation is open to anyone then you should treat everyone even handedly, whether they're in your poetry club or not. The verdict? I'm a real poet, but not according to the Chorlton crowd. :o)