Book Launched! Woo hoo!

My 'pin drop' cover wasn't high res
enough so I had to change it.

Such fun!  I had my first proper book launch in the library on Tuesday night and it was such a nice event (if I say so myself!).

I hadn't expected big numbers, but it sort of grew so I ended up in the exhibition room upstairs with a lovely audience of 50 people!!

I was really nervous because of the people I knew were coming - old school friends, ex colleagues,  poets, the parents, library folk, friends and acquaintances, many of whom hadn't seen me perform before. There was a decent number of borrowers too, who'll look at me in a different light now!... and the Boss of All Libraries (not her real title) who was hugely supportive.

I'm often asked if I have a book and, with 99 poems published and 24 placed in competitions, it was time bring some of these together as a collection. I know I should have touted it around 'proper' poetry publishers but I grew impatient to get something out, so published it myself. The themes emerged as 'silences' - our unspoken feelings, yearnings and secrets... with some humorous pieces for light relief.

The 75-page collection is available HERE for £7.99 + post and will eventually be on Amazon (but if you email me at clare [at] clarekirwan [dot] co [dot] uk I'll send you one for £6 + post).

Funny Submission Guidleines #2

My first post of Funny Submissions Guidelines went down well, so here are a few more entertaining ones. These are all markets for short fiction, by the way.

The Canary Press:
Payment: We strongly believe that writers should be paid for their work, especially considering what the Kardashians are paid and the price of alcohol these days.

Not really a submission guideline, but I love this on the same site:

"...join our email list we will never give away your email address or send you spam, except at Christmas time when, if things are going well, we may send you some actual spam...which will last for years in your kitchen cupboard."

Penny Dreadful (Haunted Press)  Yes, even you, as wretched and forlorn as you may well be. We want you to submit to us... (their acceptances are on the snidey side, too!... See my post Finding Acceptances.)

Some zines offer services above and beyond to their authors: Space Squid promises: "...not to give your name to the FBI after we find out what goes on in that freakish head of yours."

Flash Fiction zine, Whiskeypaper is much more charming: "We cannot pay you for your story but we love you the same. And we will respond to your submission as soon as possible. We know how it feels to wait and wait and wait. We will do the best we can. We appreciate your patience and sweetness."  and:  "We dig kindness and light."

But sometimes the years of trauma just leach out into the guidelines of more seasoned publications. You can sense the frustration in this fromDaily Science Fiction: "We do not accept reprints. We do not accept reprints. Also, if you were wondering about reprints--nope, we don't take 'em"

and...

"Don't send us another until we send you a response. You can send us another as soon as we send you a response (either "Yea" or "Nay). After, not before. (If that's confusing, ask Grover at Sesame Street. He's really good at prepositions." 

And finally...Apex Magazine throws down this gauntlet: "If you are rejected, don’t get angry—instead, become more awesome. Write something better, and better, until we have to accept you."

How to win Poetry Competitions - top 10 tips

As a regular entrant to (and occasional winner of) writing competitions it was eye-opening to be administrator of a poetry competition recently and see the process from 'the other side' with 356 entries, both online and by post.

First, what doesn't work: an A4 'do not bend' envelope, first class post, two months prior to deadline and posh paper make no difference at all if the poem's poor. A better poem triple folded, second class, last minute is still far more likely to win. (Someone even attached a full CV - entirely superfluous as decent competitions are judged anonymously based solely on the poem.)

Taking entry fees off some poets felt like taking sweets from babies and I worry about unscrupulous competitions whose aim is solely to make money - especially beware of ones where the entry fee is big and the prizes small. (Winning Writers lists contests to avoid).

I was only the admin, but I looked at the entries with interest and, as I've been placed a few times in competitions myself, began to get an idea of what judges are looking for. So here are my top ten tips on getting placed in competitions:

1. Read the instructions!  I received entries with no cheque, no contact details, in file formats I couldn't open etc. Many poets put their names on the poem itself - despite instructions not to! - or double spaced their poems so they spread onto two sheets when the rules clearly said one sheet only!

2. Don't write everything in capital letters. The rules may not state this, but just don't. See Capital Idea

3. Check for mistakes in spelling and puncutation 

4. Pay attention to detail - edit carefully, make sure every word is the right word and has earned its place in the poem. Get someone to look it over for you if you can.

5. A strong opening grabs the attention - pay special attention to the first few lines... and the last few.

6. A strong voice or character engages the reader more than abstract content

7. It has to stand out from the competition - so send poems with surprising and interesting subject matter

8. The same is true of titles. Spend time thinking of a title that adds to the poem

9. Read it aloud - judges will often do this and there may be the odd awkward rhythm, or phrase that jars

10. I'm a chronic deadline-hugger. I've still been placed in competitions despite only entering a day or two before the deadline. However half the entries I received were in the last week, and I couldn't help thinking it might be better to arrive before the rush - if only to ensure the postal service and computer systems don't thwart you at the last minute! Just a thought.

Ready to win? these are my favourite sites with up to date details of poetry competitions in the UK and beyond:

• The Poetry Library - lists reputable competitions
• Prize Magic - the name sounds dodgy but the guy who runs it is keen and thorough
• Morgen Bailey's Writing Blog very detailed competitions calendar... and there's so much more on the site, it's well worth a visit

Good luck!  And remember - it's all subjective. What one judge puts aside another may love.

p.s. If you're new to the blog and wondering what my credentials are, check out this list on my (rather out of date) website. 

Balls in the air

Like a new pet or a small child, you know that when I'm quiet I'm 'up to something'.

Fear not! I haven't been chewing your slippers or peeing on the kitchen floor, No, I yearn for slippers, dream of peeing on... ahem. It's just that I've been busy with many things. I've had, like Wimbledon, many balls in the air.

In the last week I wrapped up the poetry competition I've been administrator of, celebrated various birthdays with meals out - including  a full-day mystery tour for mum (I didn't know where I was going either!), entertained my Missionary Uncle, did loads of promotional stuff including a festival newsletter, got my first poetry collection* out in the nick of time, had a Big Scary gig, took part in the local Poetry Proms and was media liaison person at the Festival launch. Also the usual 20 hours work in the library.

The Big Scary thing was a paid guest poet gig at a leading literacy organisation's annual conference. I was already nervous before discovering the delegates had been invited to bring and read out their favourite poets: Neruda, Keats, Henri etc... . Also it coincided with the Andy Murray semi-final and there was a very large screen at the venue - which they did turn off - and a smaller one at the side - which they didn't! At key moments all eyes were on the match, even as I spouted - which was ever so slightly off-putting!

I could try to compete with Keats, but not the Tennis On.


* more to come about this... only had 30 copies printed and it needs some tweeking

McGough... and a cough

Me & McGough with matching poetry pants

You know that scene in 'Outbreak' when the carrier sneezes in the cinema? There was a moment on the stage on Friday night when I could have brought down the Great and the Good of Alsager with one unguarded 'Atchoo'.

Starting with the Mayor, the vicar and the manager of the Co-op, I could have spread contamination out across the poetry cartels of South Cheshire, the art-loving innocent of North Staffordshire and elderly fans of sixties bands just days before The Rolling Stones rolled on the Ralgex one more time.

Let me explain: I have a streaming cold at the moment. But that wasn't going to stop me meeting one of my poetry heroes: Roger McGough. I'd been invited as 'one of the top three prizewinners' to read my poem at his gig for the Alsager Summer Festival, and I'm delighted to report that I won! Hurrah! Huzzah! And I read my poem (in what I like to think of as a sexy, husky voice - dues to nasal congestion and a raw throat), and I managed not to have a coughing fit during any of the more poignant moments of Roger's performance  - although it was touch and go with the boy and the red ball on the beach.

But despite my mentioning I was full of cold, Roger, amused by my mentioning someone had once described me, rather disturbingly, as 'Roger McGough in a bra' had gone in for kissing in the French style... erm... I mean both cheeks, not tongues. I live in fear I may have done for him. The same thing probably happened to Nelson Mandela. Well, not exactly the same.

Who killed Roger McGough?
I said the poet, with my hacking cough.
I killed McGough

I could launch an attack on the poets of England this way:

Who killed Carol Anne Duffy?
I said the poet, with my nose so stuffy
I snuffed out Duffy

Who killed Ian Macmillan?
I said the poet, with a lack of penicillin
I killed Macmillan...

etc

More Ups and Downs

I've been busy with many things so, here's a whistle-stop catch-up of the peaks and troughs, the ups and downs, the rounds and abouts, the pluses and minuses, checks and balances, swings and sparrows... etc

Poetry 24 is now in the hands of 3... possibly 4, who can tell?... new editors. This will free up some time in the new year. If you've a poetic bone in your body, support this unique eZine by sending your news-related poems.

Conversely, I've taken on the running of the Festival of Firsts International Poetry Competition next year, and will be doing publicity for the festival, which will take up a fair bit of time between now and July.

Shrewsbury's high tech flood defences

I went to Shrewsbury, getting into the Christmas spirit (gin mostly) but worried that it might be a bit flooded, walked around Stiperstones and had a 13 course Roman banquet.

Conversely, I have lost a stone in weight - largely thanks to the MyFitnessPal which is online too, but I use the app on the iPad.

I have had another 30 or so rejections.

Conversely, hot on the heals of winning Sefton (what a raffle, that was!) I came second in the Voices Israel competition (scroll down  to the second poem... just after the one about having sex with the washing machine repair man*).

Click text (left) not image!

I STILL haven't quite finished my novel The Undead Residents Association...

Conversely part of it is already out in hard back and on Kindle as part of Pulp Idol - Firsts 2012 where the top ten finalists of the novel-writing competition have their first chapter published as a promotional tool.

Oh, and I've been on a week-long training course, of which more  anon.  Conversely that 'at risk' letter and budget talks put a question  mark over the whole library service.

I must apologise for not visiting other blogs recently - as you see,  there's been an overlap between  finishing and starting (see above) plus work on the house involving moving and sorting a LOT of stuff. Hope to be back in circulation soon.


Didn't do one this year, but here's last year's: 10 Great Gifts for Writers 

* Note to self: my washing machine needs some attention too

Just what I needed!

Me with the lovely Levi Tafari

I mentioned my fine plans of submitting vast numbers of poems and stories for publication in Out There). inevitably this has lead to an unprecedented number of rejections. I know it's all about the law of averages / diminishing returns / Sod but it still requires broad shoulders.

My prize was presented by David Lonsdale from 'Heartbeat'

So I am delighted that, after more than 90 rejections and failures this year, I can report a few successes: and chief amongst them is that I just scooped first prize in the Sefton Celebrates Writing Festival's Adult* Poetry Competition.

The poem's about the death of a (fictional) librarian. I was horrified to learn that Sefton Council (a near neighbour north of Liverpool)  is threatening to close most of its libraries and I think some of the fears for libraries generally leaks into the poem - which will be on Sefton Arts website but isn't yet.  I'm not sure how I'll get round the subject matter at work, but I won more than a week's wages so I don't care if I get some flack for seeming to kill off a colleague.

What was groovy about the award ceremony was that I got to meet the inspirational Levi Tafari. An 'urban Griot' of Jamaican and Liverpool heritage, he performs a lot in schools and has powerful, accessible messages about the beauty of diversity and the importance of being yourself: knowing who you are and what you stand for. I'll have to think more about this, but it was a timely encounter for me. It reminded me that I used to believe what you need comes to you if you are open to it.




* By adult I don't mean filth... It's just called that to distinguish it from the Children's Poetry Competition. But I will be coming back to filthy poetry in a future post.

The Pong of Poetry

I'm off poetry. I am. I've been in a few poetry-related situations recently which have made me think of hanging up my haikus and shoving my anapests up my assonance.

A couple of events where it was only poets performing to other poets, a shouty guest night and an under-publicised and rather forced 'workshop' involving table tennis, balls with things written on them have conspired to make me question what exactly I am trying to do, and why...



Poets empty rooms

In five minutes flat

Poets watch poets... because they're 'up' next

we clear whole tables in cafes and pubs,
causing a disorderly egress
from all kinds of event.

We open our mouths and it’s as if
someone in the back row
has shouted: ‘Fire!’ or ‘Free ice cream!’
the way they scamper for the exits
as though our very words are painful
pointed at them, poisoning their minds.
It’s true – I know poets who do.

Ah, the power of the poets’ words

'Darling, we're leaving. That's Broken Biro!'

to knee jerk you from your comfortable position,
have you running for cover,
covering your ears, refusing to hear.

Poets are faster and calmer
than riot police, less brutal... usually.
Stand us in front of the National Front
at crucial junctions of Tottenham orToxteth,
let us open our frightening mouths
and speak. See those hooded, would-be 
thugs put down their weapons,
look at their watches, mumble something

Batty about poetry... is just plain batty

about having to be somewhere else.

If you need a seat on a bus – ask one of us.
Stuck at the back of a crowd?  See how we
part the sea of people like the Moses of poesy.
How our audiences shrink not swell
at every clerihew and villanelle.

Bring us in at closing time to get the punters
draining glasses, or café’s were pensioners
linger on and buy no drinks,
or parks where youths loiter at sundown
causing alarm by laughing and being young.

a load of balls

Summon us wherever people outstay
their welcome: traffic jams, complaints desks,
refugee camps. Let our self-indulgent sestinas
evacuate tall buildings, entire towns.

Poets clear fields and promenades,
empty the deckchairs around bandstands
faster than a sudden downpour.
Use us in wars: front line rhymesters
who send our enemies back to the bunkers;
or during dubious interrogations
extracting prompt confessions with
the drip drip drip
of our water torture words.

One Today!

Roses are red


Violets much less


Poetry24 is one today


Happy Birthday to us!

Just over a year ago, fellow blogger Martin Hodges from Square Sunshine made me a proposition: how did I fancy co-editing a new news-related poetry blog?

If I'd stopped to consider the hours involved in setting the project up, promoting it and updating it with submissions from poets around the world on a daily basis, I may have hesitated. But it seemed like a really good idea - and a year ago today we posted our first few poems.

We've kept it going through thick and thin, and you know what? It still seems like a really good idea. I know from all the poetry open mic nights I've been to that poets are often inspired by current events. But so many poetry mags take forever to respond - six months or more, some of them. We reckon Poetry24 is unique in that it only publishes poems on subjects linked to recent news - and does so really quickly - a quarter of the poems we use are published in less than 24hours.


111 poets, 312 poems

subjects covered: Arab Spring to Zanesville Zoo

A curate's egg

This is not about eggs, or, indeed curates.*  It's about my first 'proper' review, which was, sadly, 'mixed'.

My feelings about it are mixed too.  A proper paid gig at a reputable poetry night at Liverpool's The Bluecoat arts centre is not to be sniffed at, and a review of any sort is a novelty in the easy-come, easy-go world of open mic nights.

I have my share of rejections and am generally not hurt or angered by them despite their implied criticism of or distaste for my work. But a review is much more personal.

The reviewer started by saying he's seen me at open floors:  "I have to say that her work is, generally, not to my taste and I normally wrote her off as being the “Beryl Cook of poetry”, rather in the same mould as Pam Ayres."

He liked some of my poems ("It was a pleasure, then, to hear her reading some of her more serious works") and believes me able, when pushed to "knuckle down and compose really good poetry" but I'm afraid 'tedious' 'tiresome' and 'not very original' are all in there too.

Oh, alright, read it for yourselves - I'm in the middle.

I don't mind being compared to Pam, but I'm not keen on tedious and tiresome, and I think I'm quite original. It's tricky putting together a 20min set of poetry when your style veers wildly from serious lyrical poems to romping rhymes and dreadful puns.  I like to mix it up, with something for everyone. Maybe I've got it wrong and for a proper poetry reading I should stick to serious poems?

The same reviewer raved (quite rightly) about Pauline Rowe who headlined the evening. Her poems are stunning, her delivery calm. But poetry nights where everyone does beautiful, serious poetry can be too much - too beautiful, too serious. Am I a philistine?

I like to make people think, yes, but I see myself as primarily an entertainer, an ambassador for poetry in all its guises. Also, I'd been billed by the organiser thus: "Clare Kirwan will challenge and amuse with her lively, socially engaged poetry" so I planned around that.

So although the review is a wee bit hurtful in places, I will treat it like any rejection - as a matter of personal taste. What pleases me more is that various strangers came up to me later to say how much they enjoyed my poems - each naming a different favourite. Even the girl on the door said she thought I was brilliant "...an' I wouldn't say tha' if it wasn't true, 'cos I'm a right cow."

* Ah, you don't know the saying?  The curate's egg is 'good in parts'

The Shout

Simon Armitage* was the first contemporary poet I took a shine to when I stopped regarding poetry as a secret compulsion and started submitting, performing and reading poems.

His poem 'The Shout' had a powerful impact on me. You could read it HERE now but I worry you'll get distracted and go off surfing and end up looking at a series of knitted body parts on a Czech website! So I've embedded a video of Simon reading it below. (Followed, if you have the patience, by a delightfully quirky poem about whales.)

It's the last line that does it. I like the poem and the story which inspired it, but the thing I LOVE is that I will always remember it: like the man can still hear the boy I can still hear Simon Armitage reading out those lines.

That is the impact of a good poem. It is what I want to achieve when I write. The best thing is when someone quotes one of your own lines back at you years later, and yes, it has happened to me.

* Related post - Out of the Blue, Simon's piece on 9/11

Buy it from here: The Shout: Selected Poems

Fran-tastic!

I'm delighted to announce that the normally shy and retiring Fran - author of the very funny and popular 'Being Me' blog - has emerged into the limelight of YouTube.

So in case you don't follow her (and if not why not?) I'm posting one of her comedy/poetry performances below for your weekend edification.

It will appeal particularly to parents of teenagers/young adults. If, like me, your nest has always been empty (except for that cuckoo incident in 1993), I can also highly recommend her other poems about poetry versus sex and getting to 'gwips' with twitter.

Games you can play in a library

Now I don't want to risk monopolizing National Poetry Day (today folks!) but I just thought I'd mention that this year's theme is 'games'.

I assume it refers not just to games in the traditional sense, but to mind games, war games etc and also to sports... which I don't 'do.'

You don't need to be a mastermind to realise lots of games are relevant to library work. Just yesterday I was playing Jenga with the crime books... which is a bit of a taboo. Then someone called my name out, which distracted me: 'Clare Kir...?'

Plunk! I'd dropped them all - it was quite an operation sorting them again - I needed a couple of people to help me scrabble around and then check them. The checkers had been looking for a copy of Othello, or some other trivial pursuit.

One of them - Marj Ong - kept complaining about the draughts in the crime section until I had to poke her and twist her name tag till she shut up and went off to look for a book about pontoon bridges requested by a Mr Cribbage. Then a borrower came up to me and said: "Have you got 'The Hungry Hippo' by Sue Doku?" I said: ' I'll have to check, mate.'

I'd go on, but I haven't the patience...

But before I go, of course I've written a poem for National Poetry Day... but it's quite long so I'll just leave you with the final stanza (I have to say 'stanza' on NPD):

At least in a game at the end of the round
as the bricks fall or the buzzers sound
you slide down the snake without visible bruises,
it's back in the box for the winners and losers:
the tiles and the tiddlywinks, aces and kings
the pawns and Park Lane hotels and such things
and your hurt pride or your pile of winnings,
back in the box till the next beginnings -
operation successful, hippo fed,
game over and time for bed.

Well, looks like there'll be no outdoor games today - there's a cold snap coming. When you've found the 22 games hidden in this post, you can have a look at this game you could play in your local library:

Here lies...

My series of posts last year on short forms of writing was incomplete - it covered the shortest of short stories, tiny rhymes, haiku and filthy limerick but didn't finish off with a good epitaph.

The Penguin Book of Comic and Curious Verse had some excellent examples:

Billy, in one of his nice blue sashes
Fell in the fire and was burned to ashes.;
Now, although the room grows chilly,
I haven't the heart to poke poor Billy.
Harry Graham

Mary Ann has gone to rest,
Safe at last on Abraham's breast,
Which may be nuts for Mary Ann,
But is certainly rough on Abraham.
Anon

The perfect place for an epitaph is the gravestone: the last empty page that any of us can hope to write upon ... with no room for superfluous detail. Short of having yourself or your loved one stuffed, how can we immortalise someone who's passed? And can you sum up a life on a piece of granite?

This chap could:

Here lies my wife:
Here let her lie!
Now she's at rest
And so am I.

Ideally, it would be better if you, or someone who actually liked you were left this task. W.B Yeats took no chances by writing his own:

Cast a cold Eye
On Life, on Death.
Horseman, pass by!

But one wonders if the deceased would have approved sometimes:

"Here lies Lester Moore,
Four slugs from a forty-four.
No Les,
No Moore."
(Boothill Cemetery, Tombstone)*

"Here lies John Yeast,
Pardon me for not rising."
(Cemetary in Ruidoso, New Mexico)*

Perhaps the most famous tombstone inscription (although it has been used several times before his death - perhaps by fans who pre-deceased him) is Spike Milligan's:

'I told you I was ill.'

Interestingly, the inscription had to be written in Gaelic to be approved by the Chichester Diocese)

So what would you like to see on your gravestone? Or, indeed, mine?

* Both sourced from Funny and Famous Tombstone Epitaphs

Book: Gravestones, Tombs and Memorials: Symbols, Styles & Epitaphs (England's Living History)

'Found' Poetry

Have you heard of 'found' poetry?

It's when you see something written down that's not supposed to be poetry but has some kind of resonance for you. I often look at some little piece of writing...

"Everything must go"

"Keep out of the reach of children"

...and think it has hidden messages.

It's alright, I'm not schizophrenic, I'm a poet.

There are a couple of nice examples on Wikipedia, including this taken from pieces of text in "An Elementary Treatise on Mechanics":

Hence no force, however great,
can stretch a cord, however fine,
into a horizontal line
which is accurately straight.

I mention all this only because I have a deeply autobiographical poem called 'Certificates' in a brand new online publication out this week: Found Poetry.

My poem uses phrases taken from my certificates of birth, marriage and....

...divorce (hands up who thought I was going to get all spooky and say 'death'?)

I'm in two minds about some of the other poems in this publication which make new poems from phrases in other people's existing ones... which seems a bit cheaty to me.

So, just out of interest, why don't you look around you for phrases in instructions, manuals, signs, magazines, begging letters, sermons and statute books... and put your mini 'found' poem in the comments?

Other places where I was...

Even if I haven't been on my own blog much lately, I'm all over the web like a rash:

My poem Division of the Spoils won 2nd place in the rhyming category of Northampton Literature Competition (and fellow blogger Peter Goulding of The Stammering Poet came 2nd in the Humour category - his poem is up there too!).

My poem The day our prayers turned into dogs has been published in the 'God(s)' issue of The Shit Creek Review.

Another short poem, Excavation is in the Shot Glass Journal.

A couple of 100 word micro fiction stories are up on Flashshot too... though this link only shows the last ten, so they'll have gone in a few days if you're reading this later!

Also, you can read (or listen to me reading) my story: Brother - killed by radiator at Lancaster Litfest's Flashmob - Flax026

I've mentioned that one before, but I forgot to say that they also did a whole biography and a photoshoot - which was kind of embarrassing... especially when I saw the results!

So, what do you think - should I go with the moody b&w (and I mean the one on the right, not my 'grumpy cow' picture) or should I stick with the cheery, cuddly flower motif ?

Where was I?

Last week was a rollercoaster ride - with both the queasy 'wanna get off' descents where you leave your heart somewhere and the 'Wahey! Look at that view! What a feeling!' high points.

(Also, the 'far too much excitement'/'that was fab, let's do it again!'/'gotta go lie down'/'next time I'll just hold the coats' mixed feelings as you stagger away.)

I've thrown up some images here - mainly high points. Here's the kiddies craft workshop I 'helped' run. I don't know what to do with children, having none of my own (or anyone else's). Martin (Square Sunshine) said not to talk to them like they're children, so I treated them like they were 35. It sort of worked but some of my jokes fell flat.

These are labels I hand-made for the Poet Tree... and the little bits that fell out of the hole punch or were snipped off the corners which I keep finding in every orifice and aperture ... of the house!

People were encouraged to write a poem or quote a favourite poem and hang it on the birch in front of a local Church on the main road.

Youngsters wrote their name, artists drew a little picture. Poet 'A' didn't (to the best of my knowledge) write anything about masturbation - he saved that for the family friendly venue. *sigh*

And here's a rabble of people absolutely not 'swinging on the tree', Vicar!

Here are poets massing for attack - and less confused that expected given that someone (not me) had decided to veer so decisively from the printed programme (the one with MCs for each venue, where the quiet people didn't have to shout in the busy pubs, and visitors knew what was going on - the one that was agreed.)

We had 60 poets performing in half a dozen venues and 'on the streets'. More than 300 musicians and 120 artists took part in the festival weekend.

Here's me being a zombie with guest poet Kate Fox. She was marvelous - and would have had a better audience if someone (again, I'm not responsible) had actually booked the venue and we hadn't had to change it at 3 days notice. Also, it would have helped with publicity to get the final lineup more than 5mins before the start. You're reading between the lines aren't you? Yes, there have been traumas. Caught up in the moment, I forgot to take more pics. Below are some other people took.

But you know what? It was crackingly good! There was a real sense of community and feel-good factor about it - and no-one had seen that many people in Hoylake since the Open Championship in 2006... which I'll tell you about that one of these days.

I haven't slept for worry, wasted time on things that were changed later, have overloaded the internet so it keeps conking out now, probably shouldn't have tried to squeeze 3 parties into the mix, had a few fights, house is a mess, rest of my life had to be put on hold... but at least it was fun in the end, I met some lovely people and almost everyone's happy!

Now, where was I?

Bad Gigs

I was going to post this last week, but I didn't want to put anyone (you know who you are!) off their first big performance...

Just when things are going well and you've had a short run of well-received performances and are starting to feel jolly pleased with yourself... comes the Bad Gig. And, confidence being more of a stalactite than a permanent structure - growing slowly from the drip of many layers - it all comes crashing down around you again.

I was invited to a Poetry Night I hadn't been to before. The other guests turned out to be especially 'poetic' - lyrical, composed, and in possession of slim volumes of their work published by reputable presses.

Now I do do that sort of poem, as you know. But last time I was at this venue (different night run by the same people) the comedy stuff went down great and the organisers seemed to want that.

But as I listened to the 'proper' poets I began to feel uncomfortable about my own work. I mentally rearranged my set to include some more 'clever' poems. But during the break, an acquaintance claimed to be desperate for humour, so I started rearranging it back to funny, thus ending up with an awkward mix of the two - which can work well, but just... didn't.

I don't like spotlights - I like venues where you can see your audience, make eye contact with them. When I can't see them, I'm like a bunny in the headlights.

So here are a few tips for gigs... to stop them being BAD:

• Suss out your fellow guests. Do you really want to be the one who lowers the tone?
• Beware of being 'the grand finale' when the audience is numbed already into a strokey-beard seriousness
• Sometimes a small audience that has been required to be serious may be embarrassed to laugh
  
• Avoid 'funny' at poetry events where no-one claps 'til the end of your set - the absence of applause will create a black hole which will sap your 'special' energy
  
• Don't attempt your bestiality poem* in a royal wedding context unless you are sure the audience is with you (I thought it'd be perfect, combining as it does a disrespect for royalty and skepticism about romantic relationships generally)
• Go home, go to bed, stay there. What are you even thinking of?

* Which I did post a while ago but removed because I submitted it for publication... and it's been accepted so it can't be that bad. Remember? The frog-kissing that got out of hand?

We should have told her then (perhaps in verse )
that beasts don’t change to men – quite the reverse.

Breaking News!

I promised you there'd be an announcement here today - and here it is:

BREAKING NEWS: Poetry24 is a brand-new blog for news-related and topical poetry being launched today by myself and Martin Hodges of Square Sunshine.

The aim is simple: to publish news-related or topical poetry that reflects what's happening in the world, or current affairs.

The idea was partly inspired by a response to this poem written by Martin. Blogger, Alan Burnett commented, "I am reading your words and at the same time watching the News24 reports from Cairo and thinking you might have invented Poetry24."

So - do YOU have something to say about current events in the world? Can you say it evocatively, with passion, rage, compassion and/or humour? Can you see things from a wider perspective or go right into the heart of the matter? Check out the submissions guidelines for details.

We've posted four example poems today - one each of our own (mine's here) and a couple today and more in the next few days from blogger poets we had approached earlier. After that, it's all up to poets out there to make it what we envisage - topical, thought-provoking, funny, moving, alarming... sometimes all at the same time!

We're both rather excited (and nervous) about this new project, and we do hope you'll follow the blog - or at least dip in from time to time. And it would be great if you could 'spread the word' about Poetry24 - on your blogs, Twitter, Facebook and even in the real world too!

...staring capitals, inch high

(I have my 'serious face' on today.) When I was in Prague in December, I saw a small memorial on St Wenceslas Square to a 20-year old student called Jan Palach, who, in 1969, burned himself to death in protest at the Soviet occupation of Czechoslovakia.

I was too young to be aware at the time and we didn't cover that era in history, so there's no way I should even know the name and what he did. But I do.

The reason is a poem: Jan Palach, by Jane Mapstone. We must have only read it in passing at school but I've never forgotten parts of it:

Now
I am only a thought in your mind
A headline on the paper of your thoughts
By tomorrow I will be relegated to a side column
And then I will disappear.

....

But in spite of the fact
That today you are moved by the staring capitals, inch high,
You don't understand the enormity,
The reality
That made me
Twenty one
Burn
Myself
To
Death

...

(These are excerpts - a full transcript is below)

It isn't what most people might consider a 'great' poem - but maybe it is: in trying to find out more about it, I realised that it had a similar effect on other people too. It was written in 1969, by a 15-yr old school girl - an immediate and moving response to news she must have read about or perhaps seen on television. (Her mother comments on it here.)

The poem is right in some ways about newspapers - what is urgent and horrifying today is soon shoved in great yawning filing cabinets along with everything else under 'urgent' and 'horrifying'. But a poem can be more difficult to shake off - no-one ever asked me to learn it, it wasn't on the curriculum, but the exact words have stayed with me 30 years.

I feel I should write a rousing final line here before I leave you to the poem/ comments/ more cheery next blog. Something about the power of 'the right words in the right order' and how a poem is like a picture - reaching the parts something more prosaic can't reach (no dear - prosaic, not Prozac). I'm struggling to find the right words - but then, that's the point isn't it?

And all of this relates to an announcement being made on this blog tomorrow... watch this space!

Jan Palach

by Jane Mapstone

Now
I am only a thought in your mind
A headline on the paper of your thoughts
By tomorrow I will be relegated to a side column
And then I will disappear.
And maybe, in a year from today
Some line in the 'In Memoriam' will commemorate my death
But that's all
And in five years you will hear my name and think
'Now who the hell was he?"
And your kids will learn my name for one of their history tests.

But in spite of the fact
That today you are moved by the staring capitals, inch high,
You don't understand the enormity,
The reality
That made me
Twenty one
Burn
Myself
To
Death
You can't understand
You don't think about
The feelings that went through my body
As I poured the petrol over me
As I felt its stickiness running like blood down my arms
Down my legs
And you can't know
That with all my body
All my mind
Crying 'NO! NO!'
I found somewhere the necessity
To strike that match
To see it licking away at my clothes
To feel it biting away at my flesh
Consuming me
A person
Me
Watching it as though I was sat at
the back of a cinema, watching a film,
Completely detached
Watching me dying
And you'll never know
That before the clouds of laughing smoke, and whirling pain
Merged into darkness
I thought that
Maybe I was wrong.
Now
I am only a thought in your mind
A line in some volume of memory
I don't exist
I have no substance, flesh or feeling
Only decaying bones and decaying dreams
I died
You don't understand that
But think of this
I could have thrown stones and cracked your windows
I could have fought your policemen, burnt your cars
And made a public nuisance of myself
To gain attention

But what I did I can't do more than once
If you ignore it now then it is finished
If you just relegate me to your history books
Then there can be no point in what I did
No point. No reason
In burning myself to death
And I was wrong.