The film Anonymous

I am not going to be going to the cinema nor renting the DVD of this film Anonymous - starring Vanessa Redgrave. Much as I love Vanessa (who is a one-off) and enjoyed her flustering of Andrew Marr on Sunday morning telly, I can't abide the whole premise of this film i.e. that William Shakespeare did not write the plays. This time, the supposed author shoved into the limelight is the Earl of Oxford (or is it the Duke?). See? I care so little that I'm not even getting that right. Even his title sounds spurious.

So, what is the reason for Vanessa's - and presumably the script-writer's - conviction that Will S. was not the author. Why, because he was "just an actor". Well, excuse me for getting incensed on the behalf of actors - but what on earth has that to do with the price of fish (or cod-pieces!)

These sorts of arguments have been bandied about for years (centuries, even). That a seemingly "lowly" person from the sticks must be incapable of such brilliance. What arrant, if not arrogant nonsense. (Again excuse me while I clamber up on my hobby horse and gallop off across the Warwickshire countryside!)

They hold no water whatsoever. For as long as there has been natural selection there has been a brilliant member of the species who sticks their head above the rest because they have a special talent. In this case it was William Shakespeare. And, so what? The Warwickshire gene pool threw up a genius. Happens all the time, the whole world over. Stop messing with the story - even if it is a myth.

Does it matter?

This sort of rummaging around in a writer's things after they are dead reminds me of the horrible scene in Dickens A Christmas Carol when - after Ebeneezer's demise - a bunch of people crowd around like so many vultures:picking over his clothes and the meagre possessions he left behind.

This kind of "picking over" makes me feel queasy and that it's unnecessary. Why do people feel the need to do this?

I enjoy biography as much as the next person - ok not strictly true as I much prefer fiction which, to me, gets closer to "truths" - but this raking through the past to provide a kind of retro- ah-ha - so it wasn't you! Not so clever as you thought, eh? Serves what?

It's the same way I feel about Jane Austen and how her sister Cassandra did her a service in destroying her letters. Far better that Austen's work should stand alone - although, yes, I admire her hugely and wish I'd been around when she was alive on the planet. I think that the interest in Jane A. and others often stems from that sort of wish. A desire to claim her back - to pull her from the clutches of the past, from out of the river Styx (am now picturing The Mummy and that's not quite right - descending into purple prose here ...). Hopefully, though, you can follow my drift.

To me, the whole Shakespeare mallarkey smacks rather of point-scoring. Why can't we just leave and marvel at his brilliance. Does it really matter if it wasn't him? And why do some people appear to present these unmaskings of "the real Shakespeare" with lip-smacking relish - as if they hate the poor chap.

I felt much the same about the whole Carver affair. How some appeared to get pleasure from declaring "Ah yes, not so great now, are we Carver? We know now that it wasn't you, but your editor. Ah ha! We've found you out." Similarly I do rather wish that his "unsullied by Gish" pre-writings hadn't been published. What has that added? I felt as a fan that it rather took away.

Much as I've often wondered out loud just how culpable Ted Hughes might have been in Sylvia Plath's death at least he kept their private lives private and didn't go through her waste paper bin to publish earlier drafts ...

A writer friend who has gone on to be famous and highly successful once told me she'd had written into her will that she wanted all her old diaries destroyed after she was dead. (She uses them now for material - of course). She said she didn't want people poking about in her teen thoughts/ dreams/ stupid and rubbish scribbles. And I think she was right.

In this age when all remains on the world wide web for ever (or at least until the power runs out and the lights do finally go off!) it gives one pause for thought. How on earth can we manage what is left behind now? Will collaborations/ re-writes/ emails, etc. etc. might be dragged out to show - ah ha! - that we didn't do it all alone. That each and every one isn't after all (to paraphrase Hugh Grant's character in About A Boy) an island! (Yes, I know that if he were he wanted to be Ibiza!)

So. No. I shan't be going to see the film. Nor shall I be reading any exposes on writers/ artists lives and what they've left behind. Not if it might leave a bad taste. I much prefer an artist's work to stand alone. To delve into the dead's psyche feels rather too much like grave robbing to me.

I Wish I'd Looked After Me Teeth

I Wish I’d Looked After Me Teeth

Once again there’s discussion in the news re. how to pay, and who should pay for the care of the elderly.

This is a subject dear to my heart, as my dear old Dad developed dementia (maybe Alzheimer’s – who knows, the doctors were certainly reluctant to give Dad a definitive diagnosis. Maybe it doesn’t matter when the end result is the same …). And his small inheritance which he’d hoped to leave to us kids was spent on expensive yet crap care.

There are just two things I’m going to discuss here. The first one briefly – I’ll come back to that in another blog – and the second one I want to explore here.

1. Sadly, my experience of residential “homes” for people with dementia is: They’ll say anything to get your money. It goes without saying that I was vulnerable too because of the guilt and tons of other emotions, about basically kidnapping my dad and placing him in a home. Why did I do this? All the usual reasons. But more of that later. But I decided that if this had to be the only option for Dad, then I wanted the best for him. It’s what he would have done for me. Trying to get the “best” I ended up transferring him twice, and was promised, in turn, all sorts of excellent care by all three of the care homes he stayed in, (in the two and a half years before he died). Sad to say they all lied. They all subjected my dad to thoughtlessness and casual neglect (or maybe stronger neglect as apparently my dad punched a care worker on his nose – hmmm, Dad wouldn’t have taken abuse from anyone! So who knows …) And, to add insult to possible injury, I was paying £850 A WEEK for that so-called care. The Beatles were right - money can’t buy you love.

2. I’m seriously considering saying to my kids – If it looks like I have to go into any sort of residential care, then it’s EXIT for me, or if not then at least HAVE ALL MY TEETH PULLED OUT. My father’s generation routinely had their teeth extracted – especially in the forces, during the Second World War. My Mum would tell us children to look after our teeth, and regale us with hairy toothy tales, and how she’d avoided having hers pulled out when many of her friends went down that route. They were told it was more convenient and that cleaning and having fillings, etc., was too much of a bother. Much better to have brand spanking new ones with less fuss. So, my theory is that because of this, many care homes for people with dementia haven’t got to grips with the problem of teeth hygiene and teeth cleaning – because the vast majority of the residents have dentures. My dad had a lovely set of his own teeth. Like Mum and all of us, he had regular six-monthly (I know, now they’re yearly) checkups and was proud of his teeth. He took care of them. Looked after them. I remember back when Pam Ayers won Opportunity Knocks and how my parents would roar with laughter at her poem I Wish I’d Looked After Me Teeth – happy in the knowledge that their gnashers were shiny and clean.

I first realized Dad’s teeth were a problem when it was clear that they were discoloured and almost brown. I asked the carers to please make sure he cleaned his teeth. I was met with blank stares, which I came to recognize was the normal response of carers on low pay and with English as their second language. I don’t blame them, I blame those who are coining it in, buying in cheap labour from other countries, giving minimal training, and paying the minimum wage while fleecing residents’ family members who pay through their noses and their guilt! We all hope for the best!

Dad was deaf when he went in and wore hearing aids. These were never cleaned out by the carers, unless I made a fuss; and even then it was like I’d asked them to perform brain surgery. It was too much bother. Never mind that it ought to have been my Dad’s basic human rights – to hear as best he could! He had nothing else to occupy his days – as their promised activites never arrived ... Dad became more and more isolated, more frustrated, and his spirit sapped. (Oh how I cheered inside when I was informed that he’d punched one of the assistants!!!)

Dad would use a toothpick after his meals. But this wasn’t allowed in the care home – “In case he harms himself” – so we brought him in floss – again not allowed by the Gestapo. Dad’s teeth continued to decline and I insisted that he saw a dentist. They tried to get me to take him, but he was so demented and anxious that this was a ridiculous idea. What on earth do I pay you for? I said.

Then came the day when Dad was mithering about his teeth more than usual, with his fingers in his mouth. ‘Can you please check his teeth?’ I said. Eventually I discovered a couple of weeks later when I looked inside his mouth, that he had a broken tooth. I hit the roof with the carers. There was much fussing about, and this proved the last straw for that home – there were numerous other things which happened not least of which was Dad developing a bed sore.

Now, when I think back with hindsight I wonder if it would have kinder to suggest he had all his teeth extracted. I know that wouldn’t have happened because 1) they would have thought I was a nutter daughter, and 2) he was unlikely to survive the anaesthetic.

I seriously don’t think that care homes have thought through dental hygiene. Imagine, not only not having your teeth brushed day after day, but also having bits of meat and other food stuck in between your teeth, sore and rotting. Think of no-one understanding and caring, and how you lose all your dignity, and are in pain. There’s also the real danger of infection from teeth tracking down to the heart. This is a real medical danger.

So, I Wish I’d Looked After Me Teeth? Hmmm. In the horrible neglectful shameful shambles which is elderly care, it might well be better if you hadn’t!

We Are The Beatles: Lennon and Lennon

On Collaborating with Helen Thomas

I count myself as very lucky to have a writing pal I trust enough to collaborate with. Now, it’s not unusual for musicians to collaborate – think McCartney and Lennon – but I don’t know any poets who collaborate with other poets (unless they’re married).

Raymond Carver had his editor Gordon Lish, and I’ve got Helen Thomas.

It started when we spent time together on a poets trip to the New York book launch of Short Fuse: A global anthology of new fusion poets, editors Todd Swift and Philip Norton. We hit it off straight away, and had much fun there, where - during a radio interview - Todd said we were like the new Beatles. This was when our collaboration began. We both wanted to be John Lennon – I wrote a poem called Lennon and Lennon, and Helen wrote We Are The Beatles. I guess – okay Helen – that Helen (who’s a no-nonsense Northerner from Lymm in Cheshire) is indeed more Lennon, whereas because I’m from hippy-trippy South West Bristol, I’m more McCartney (gawd, I can’t bear Paul McCartney).

We decided to write a stage play based on our adventures (which was never finished), where I’d write one scene, send it to Helen, who’d polish it, then she’d send the next scene to me where I’d add my alterations/ suggestions, and so it carried on. We discovered that we were on the same wave length, and I trusted her opinion completely.

I’ve admired Helen and her word craft from the off, and have to say that her suggestions have been spot on.

Next I asked Helen’s advice and editorial skills on a few poems. They were mainly ones which I had a deadline for. We both found that something new was happening. It wasn’t a mere case of editing. I found that my work was transformed by Helen’s intervention, and she said that she’d never have written anything like the finished poems if I hadn’t begun them. The finished poems which we wrote together, then, were an amalgam of both our talents – and I think greater than the whole. A bit like Lennon’s rough added to McCartney’s smooth. Not that Helen’s poems are rough at all! I had (have) a tendancy to waffle and write more dancing poetry whereas Helen’s were (are) tight with no lean meat. If you’ve not read Helen’s poems then do.

I guess we both have the same sort of humour and find the same things funny, which is essential. I can’t imagine this sort of creative partnership with anyone else. Helen now collaborates with her partner Owen and they are Tingle In The Netherlands – again, visit them on facebook/ youtube, myspace, etc.

I hate anyone else’s input on my work – which is a terrible thing to admit – but I know that Helen can tweak something even better from my poetry.

I don’t call on Helen for all my poems – after all, she has her own work. But also because many of my poems are distinctively mine and have my voice. I enjoy the ones on which Helen and I have collaborated or which she’s edited for me. They have that extra Helen oomph!

The process usually starts with me contacting Helen in a panic – I have a poem I need for a festival/ performance, etc., and it’s just not coming together and I’m running out of time. I’ll then send it to Helen, and she’ll send back suggestions (usually in red). They could be suggested alterations, suggested rhymes for me to think about, or just a “I don’t think this scans”. It always gives me an injection of creativity and helps either jumpstart the poem, or triggers an avenue I’d not thought of, or highlights something I knew deep down wasn’t working.

So, here’s one of the first poems we collaborated on. It ended up a joint poem as Helen picked out many of my lines, added some new ones, and made tight suggestions. We wrote it for one of my performances at Ashton Court Festival (it’s credited to us both).

We Are The World by Helên Thomas and Rosemary Dun

By aspirant bouncing butterflies, I crouched coy as a grub

Back stage at the One World Festival, I wasn’t in their club

Of housewives with a hobby, belly dancing, flounced in silk

Some looked like Mr. Blobby with skin as white as milk.

Pot bellies swathed in chiffon, they danced the seven veils.

Not one of them was muslim, but some had come from Wales.

“We love the Arab traditions,” trills Mrs. Pontin-Fraynes

Elsewhere in far off deserts, vultures peck at shallow graves.

The Cotswold Samba Band’s as hot as Salsa and tequila

Amplified like gun shots on the streets of the Favela

As the future of a hunted child forever lies unfurled

His culture’s cherry picked by those who sing, “We are the world!”

And so I seek asylum in the toilets down the hall

From the Anglo Saxon Mummers, and their global festival.

Their faces stodgy cake mix paste, no dusky maidens here,

Just flaccid white bread, lemonade, drop scones and ginger beer.

So, thanks Helen, and until the next time xxx

Columbo, My Mother, And Me

COLUMBO, MY MOTHER, AND ME

We now live in an age where television and film help form part of our own personal historical and emotional landscapes. Yesterday came the news that Peter Falk, the actor who played Columbo, was dead. I felt sad, in a way which touched me viscerally. This is ridiculous, I thought, you didn’t even know the man. But then I realized that it wasn’t about the whole celebrity movie star thing - where you can feel as if you know someone and are then sorry for their passing. This ran deeper. And I realized it was much to do with my emotional landscape. This led me to reflect, blab out loud in the ether, about the intimate interaction between ourselves and that box in the corner of the room. Television has a way of inveigling itself into our lives on an emotional level, maybe even deeper than literature in the form of favourite books, can.

I would not have been bereft if I’d seen in the newspapers that Lizzie Bennet had died or that Jo March had been run over by a bus. These, I know at a deep intellectual – yes and emotional - level are fictional characters. And yet, onscreen with a much-loved television character the identification and emotional melding with character also embraces the actor: a living embodiment of a much-loved fictional character. Even though one’s intellectual brain is telling you that they are a separate person, somewhere on a more primitive visceral level there’s a bit which connects the onscreen with the actual. Our perceptions of reality are blurred.

I don’t mean that if I’d met Peter Falk I would have been one of those crazies, convinced that he was Columbo and not Peter Falk – but I’d also be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that a little voice somewhere would be trying to pipe up with “Look, there’s Columbo!”

So why did Peter Falk’s dying make me feel more sad than I’d ever been about other stars/ celebrities passing? It came to me, like one of Columbo’s flashes – “Doh,’ slaps head with hand – it’s because it’s a connection to my mother. I have fond memories of sitting on the sofa with my mother – now herself long dead, and who had loved Columbo. I adored my mother and absorbed many of her loves. I grew up with Columbo as part of my emotional landscape. My mum told me how Peter Falk was part of the new American cinema new wave alongside John Cassavetes, Gina Rowland, and Ben Gazzara. She told me all about his glass eye, as I tried to figure out which one. Yes, Columbo is inextricably woven into memories of my mother. With him gone, another piece of her goes too. Rational? No. The truth? Yes. Or something close to it.

Oh, and one more thing.

How The Light Gets In: Hay On Wye Festival

Well, this will be my third attempt to write this blog this morning. Computer keeps freezing - I need work! So, like the How The Light Gets In why not book me for my one-woman show called If Love Is The Answer, What Is The Question? One hour long.

How did this all come about? I was approached by the lovely people at the music and philosophy festival How The Light Gets In which runs alongside the BIG Hay On Wye Festival. I was thrilled to be invited to perform during an hour's slot 2.30-3.30 on Weds. 1st June 2011. Whoopee!

A couple of weeks before the big event, and I'm thinking OK, wonder who else is on with me? A quick check revealed that I had the whole hour to myself and that I was billed as Live Comedy! Eek! And also Woo hoo! Exciting and scary. So, being the old trouper that I am I immediately panicked and thought I know - I'll get - a UKELELE!!! (Bear with me - all will become clear).

Yay! But I can't play the ukelele.
So, I searched for ukelele lessons and luckily there was a 2-hour workshop in Bristol. Along I went, and there were about 20 people there too! So, I reckon that my lesson was about the equivalent of 10 mins uke instructions. Never mind! I went home and realised that I couldn't remember any of the chords, that they were too complex, as was the strumming which I couldn't do either. So, driven by panic - only 2 weeks and counting to the show, I picked something which sounded ok and wrote (well ok devised) a chorus about - Brian Cox! Then added verses (with the help of my mate Helen Thomas - more about that in another blog), and I had my comedy song-slash-poetry mash up (or as I like to refer to it, my mish-mash up!) Taking heart from a late-night tv viewing of Stewart Lee asserting that comedy songs are the way to go!

Next - and through diddling about on the internet researching space, philosophy, etc. I came across the sad story of Laika the space dog. David Bowie's Major Tom kept playing in my head, and I discovered that by noodling about on my uke, I could pick out the melody, and so the song-slash-poem Laika Dog was born, the chorus being : Hound control to Laika Dog/ take your worming pills, get ready for lift off/ etc. (You get the drift ...). Oh, and some lovely drawings courtesy of my daughter Morgan.

Ok, this was coming along - then a poem on philosophy, plus another comedy song based on The Rapture (the predicted coming of the Lord on 21st May which never materialised) was - of course - based on Country Joe and The Fish Vietnam Song - accompanied on a newly purchased tambourine!! Oh yes!

Good, good, coming together. Next a chat through with my mate and sometime collaborator Helen Thomas on content, and before I knew it the rest of the show had come together. I decided on a theme - something which had been running through my head for a while and there it was. My very own new one woman show!
I'm a big fan of going with first thoughts - as suggested by Natalie Goldberg - and it was amazing how seemingly random thoughts and ideas coalesced into a show with an overall theme. I'm also a bit of a devotee of surrealists random-ness, and the audience participation - which went extremely well, formed a large part of this. We did a list poem together, a flip chart was involved, some laughter, a small open mike, and a resolution of: If Love Is The Answer, What Is The Question. Finishing off with a playing out to The Beatles All You Need Is Love - preceded by a random (and hilariously unexpected) fanfare in the middle of one of my poems as the sound engineer, who'd been fiddling about with the levels on the cd accidentally fired up All You Need Is Love, and the excellent trumpeted fanfare rang out. Brilliant. I shall use that as an intro for my next show.

I loved the overall DIY feel of it all which I think is very much in keeping with my punk roots!

All in all, I had a lovely time. I do hope the audience did too. The tent was full, and no-one left before the end (so that was a result!!). I sold some books an all!

Many thanks to Josh who was my able assistant and wrote up the list poem on flip chart for me, and to his girlfriend Lily who had the chutzpah to write a four-line poem and get up on stage. Random cards were handed out for the list poem with the words Love is ... Those with the cards to then finish the line. The result was this list poem - written just as the cards came in (i.e. randomly - I love that, it gives more surprises!):

Love is
different

finding somebody permanent who you can annoy for life

looking after that special somebody

listening and keeping quiet

better as it gets older: far less messy!

pushing your mum in a wheelchair - uphill!

a warm jumper when it's cold.

a hot chocolate in the rain.

a dog bounding in the sea.

undefinable

a four-letter word

a tangled web

a gentle breeze blowing loneliness away

sharing time, enjoying each other's company,
being generous and knowing it's ok to be who you are!

Ah, and then ... but I can't really give away the rest as that's the point of the whole show.

If you'd like to book me for a thought-provoking, interactive, and rib-tickling hour-long show of music-slash-words-slash-comedy mish-mash-up, then do get in touch:rosemary.dun@virgin.net
I had lots of fun at the festival. Good food. Stayed at a wonderful B&B (I want them to adopt me!), bumped into a musician from Bristol who used to come along and perform at the openmike nights I used to host at Bristol's Folk House, hung out with some people I met at my show, and stayed for the comedy in the evening where the highlight for me was - yes, a comedienne performing comedy songs on her ukelele!! It's the way to go folks!

Peace and love, and happy festival season.

Fusebox 3 - We Are The Beatles

And here is another 2003 article I wrote for Rattapallax's online mag Fusebox (now no longer available). This was a follow-on from the anthology many of us were happy to be included in: Short Fuse: A global anthology of new fusion poets, pub Rattapallax, New York 2002. Helen Thomas and I were happy if not giddy to be present at the book launch in New York, October 2002. I was then asked to be guest editor of Fusebox and wrote this editorial on the kinda viva la difference between US and UK performance poets:

WE ARE THE BEATLES!

"Its like the landing of The Beatles," said Todd Swift. "The UK poets are here!" He was of course joking, and we were all in the recording studio of a New York radio station and it was October 2002 during a week long book launch of Short Fuse: a global anthology of new fusion poetry. Todd had been referring to me and Helên Thomas who were being interviewed along with Phil Norton, Todd and Fortner Anderson. Helên and I were in high spirits and larking about, but I was struck during the whole of our visit by how different UK performance poetry is to US performance poetry, and yet how it refers to and is influenced by US poets in much the same way as popular music and the Beatles were by US rock'n'roll way back in the 60s.

So, "Poetry is the new rock and roll" huh? Tom Phillips has a lot of fun with this in his poem; poking fun at how pundits seek to label emergent art forms as "the new rock and roll". And yet …

There's no doubt that performance poetry in the UK owes much to the import of slam poetry from the US. We've taken it to our hearts and added our own twist. I first became enamoured or "bitten by the bug" of performance poetry when I went to my very first slam, in Bristol, to support Lucy English. Wayhey! This is my type of poetry. I thought. And loved its immediacy and power – and entertainment value.

Lucy's poetry is well represented in this edition as she remains in the top 5 of my favourite UK performance poets. She displays a skillful mix of variety and humour in her work. Also, as another woman of – erhem – a certain age, I love "Old".

Performance poetry is subversive. It shakes the poetry establishment and challenges its hegemony. It lifts poetry from the page in ways that readings alone can't quite reach. Nathan Filer says that as he is primarily a performance poet and that as such, he prefers people to "hear" his material rather than "read" it. His "My Little Sister" is here in mp3 format. And this isn't a case of poetry poaching from the music industry nor from stand-up comedy. Performance poetry is an emerging art form, in its own right, which fuses spoken word with other art forms to become something unique. Glenn Carmichael is a fine poet who brought slam to Bristol with Bristol Poetry Slam; he mixes film, visuals, music and words in all of his performances, and his work is represented here in film.

Performance poetry does not rely on publishing houses nor academic institutions to define whether or not the work has "made the grade". It relies on the audience. And the performance poetry audience vote – either literally in the case of slams or via "bums on seats" - on what and who they consider to be good enough. No longer do we – the audience - need to be told what is or is not "good" poetry. No longer does poetry have to be hard work to be enjoyed. No longer do we feel as if we, or our audiences, need a university education to enjoy poetry let alone write it. This is a reclaiming of our oral tradition. And the way it connects with an audience is exciting.

That's not to say that performance poets are not published either. As you will see from the biographies, many have MAs in their art, or are jobbing writers, or have been published as "proper" poets; many teach at further education establishments and universities. Many of us refute the criticism levelled at performance poetry that it is "poetry lite" or represents a "dumbing down". My view is that performance poets up and down the UK and globally are producing spoken word that is accessible and has something to say about internal and external contemporary life. This collection goes some way to reflecting the UKs multi-culturalism especially with Khadijah Ibrahiim's moving tales of her grandmother's experience of arriving here on the ship Windrush from Jamaica in the 1960s. And her poem "Riddims Talking" is here in mp3 format. In Anita Govan's "black butterfly" one can almost taste the grit in those Scottish Edinburgh Streets. And Diké Omeje's wonderful witty play on words are cool, hip, and mesmerising – as are his performances.

In UK poetry gigs you can here the early influences of music hall monologues such as Albert And The Lion, and the clever cautionary tale verse of Hilaire Belloc and Joyce Grenfall, and even the songs of The Two Ronnies and Benny Hill. Humour is a key to UK performance poetry and can be every bit as iconclastic as Monty Python was. Poetry out loud in the UK includes a revisiting of working class traditions in the subverting of songs and mimicry – examples being Lucy English's "My Worst Things" and Helên Thomas' "We Are The Beatles". And then there is punk: Atilla The Stockbroker says on his website that he is "inspired by the spirit and "Do It Yourself" ethos of punk rock". Anti-establishment, irreverent, political, and very UK – yep, I don't think it’s a huge stretch to see punk rock's influence on UK poetry. Whether through punk poets such as John Cooper Clarke or Attila The Stockbroker, or even John Hegley.

And UK poets do not shy away from verse. Are not averse to verse (sorry!). Rhyme is not only making a bit of a comeback (especially through rap) but has never totally left. And yet, I gather from my trips and membership of various poetry group websites, that US poets are not so keen on rhyme. Please feel free to disagree. Here in this edition, Lucy English uses rhyme to good comic effect in "Excuse Me", as does other poets like Helen Thomas, Crispin Thomas; whilst Diké Omeje is one who uses rhyme for emphasis and to surprise.

Performance poets are more and more fusing words in ground breaking ways. Khadijah Ibrahiim is a fine example with her mix of rhythms and strong beats. You can hear the influences of Africa, punk, reggae, pidgin, dialects, rap, rock, hippy stuff, television, all and everything in poetry being performed. Wanna hear a vampire goth poet? We have her in the form of the wonderful Rosie Lugosi. I especially love her "Creatures of the Night" and "I'm being Queer for Britain". Magic. Then there's Attila The Stockbroker, a full-time punk poet who is a contemporary of John Cooper Clarke and who, in the grand tradition of poetry, mixes music and politics with wry spot-on words. In this edition he pays tribute to Joe Strummer of The Clash (Commandante Joe) who died suddenly this year.

Many poets now record CDs to offer more of the experience of their live performances and for some, to free poetry from the page where arguably its been tethered for too long. All this adds to the vibrancy which is performance poetry. At Big Mouth Cabaret nights we always have music which crosses over with poetry through its lyrical content and Bucky have been our resident in-house band and their rendition of The Beatles is in this edition.

So, are we The Beatles? John Lennon was a fine poet. When I was a kid I remember getting my hands on his Spaniard In The Works which I loved alongside the poetry of Spike Milligan (one of the founders of The Goons and Q, both forerunners of Monty Python). I would maintain that UK poetry is distinctive from, yet influenced by US performance poetry.

The Beatles work is now regarded alongside classical music. Yet in their heyday they were seen as "pop" and "lite". If poetry is the new rock'n'roll (which it isn't and that's a tired old cliché in any case) then I'd rather be Mick Jagger, no Otis Redding, no Marianne Faithful, no Ian Dury, no The Clash, no, Bananarama, no - many and diverse examples might as well be chosen. What I'm trying to say is that we are at the beginnings of performance poetry much as The Beatles and pop music was in the 1960s.

This isn't an academic work, but I maintain that there are parallels to be drawn. Then, "classical music" was seen as the only worthwhile music – the rest throwaway. Nowadays we have moved through rock'n'roll, punk, new romantics, the horror of the 80s, the boredom of the 90s, to the pop idols of today. OK, like some pop music some of today's poetry won't last the course. Some poets will be "one-hit wonders". (Now "readings" – which involve poets mumbling their poetry badly in back rooms of cafes - are different to "performance" and if I'm to carry through this analogy then I'd liken those types of "readings" to english folk music with morris dancing thrown in – but that's just my opinion! or bias). Being likened to The Beatles is not such a bad thing. In many ways it’s a useful comparison. Performance poetry has had the same criticisms levelled at it as rock'n'roll and The Beatles did back then. And yet it is a vibrant art form which is yet to have its day.

I bored Helên Thomas so much with all this that she wrote We're Not The Beatles (or 4 ants recreate Abbey Road – see cartoon) which she then quickly followed up with We Are The Beatles. When Helên and I collaborated on a project we joked that we were like the Lennon and McCartney of poetry – only neither of us wanted to be Paul McCartney - so I wrote a poem about that experience called "Lennon and Lennon". One of the poems we did come up with together, and which is included here, is "Ship Shape" - a poem neither of us would have written on our own but one we both like. Our come-uppance is that we both now live in fear that since our split one of us might write a Frog Chorus. Still. What fun we had. And there's nowt wrong with that.

I hope you will agree there is some very fine poetry here indeed. These are some of my favourite UK poets, and like all collections (well, like all my collections) there are exceptions to my self-imposed UK-based rule – Kevin Higgins (Irish), David Hill (Englishman in Prague), and Phil Norton (American living in Oz). I included them because they are so good. Phil Norton's mp3 of Everything Is An Alarm Clock is superlative and one to aspire to.

Oh, and this wouldn't be the UK without footie. So have included some football poetry. Yes, football poetry. Read it here in "On Me 'Ead, Son", and visit the football poets website and see what you think.

So, are we The Beatles? No, of course not. But we are here to stay.
Rosemary Dun © 2003

Yet Another Old Article

This one is from December 2003 when Big Mouth was in King Street, Bristol.

MY BIG NIGHT OUT (or a shameless plug for Big Mouth) by Rosemary Dun (3rd December 2003)


My top night out would start with my collecting some lovely poet from the station. As one of the perks of being a poetry promoter is that I get to pick the poets I book! Then we'd mosey on down to Bristol's equivalent of The Cavern i.e. Marlows, off Broad Street, which is Big Mouth Cabaret's new venue. By now my pre-show nerves would be kicking in big time. Being a host of Big Mouth's akin to holding a party where your fave witty people are bound to turn up – if only because you've booked them! I always get nervous that no-one will come. But they do! My top lineup would be Diké Omeje (mesmerising) and Matthew Harvey (hilarious). As MC I always glam up – all part of the fun. My best night would include my one-time resident band – Bucky - playing. Their last Big Mouth gig saw a packed audience cheering as Simon and Joff played on kids guitar (Simon) and tin bread bin (Joff) with Joff breaking off every now and then to draw a cartoon. Poetry, rock'n'roll and stuff. At the end of a kicking night and all loved-up with sexy and funny words, and Bucky, I'd head off with performers and chums, and even (ok, this happened once …) an admirer(!), to Renatos in King Street or the sumptuously seductive il Bordello. Yep, that once got so carried away ended up in a swish Bristol hotel ….with … ssssh … the rest I'm saving for my memoirs! So for a Big Night out with a difference I'd highly recommend Big Mouth.