Anthony Joseph in Soho

At the same wonderful Apples & Snakes gig where I filmed Joolz Denby, was poet, musician and academic, Anthony Joseph, reading from his most recent collection ‘Bird Head Son’. Taking for his theme his Trinidad roots, the book explores family, ancestry, language and the mythology of the Caribbean island all in Joseph’s surreal and musical style. You can buy 'Bird Head Son' direct from Salt Publishing here.

Here he reads and discusses ‘Jack Spaniard nest'.

I hung my head

I’ve been re-listening to Johnny Cash’s American recordings this week and there’s a cover of a Sting track (from his 2002 album ‘Mercury Falling’) that strikes me as particularly relevant. On first listen it’s a murder ballad telling the story of a young man who upon taking his brother’s rifle accidently shoots a man.

The perpetrator claims he was practising his aim when the rifle went off without intent to shoot the lone rider on the prairie, similar to that of a gang of youths intent on scaring another when one accidently knifes the other and leaves one of them dead. ‘I hung my head’ is a story about shame, it’s a warning to think before you act. The protagonist didn’t want to kill anyone, his thrill was the role play of the situation. Although when playing with dangerous instruments so carelessly the situation will inevitably end in tragedy.

To me this song should be taught in schools. Don’t be foolish, don’t carry knives or guns, don’t pretend to hurt people or practise your aim, because inevitably it will end in tears, shame and a public stoning from the tabloids (modern day Gallows if you will?). Think before you act! There, rant done for the morning.

Joolz Denby in Soho

Recently I was tasked with helping Apples & Snakes with a new filming project. The challenge was to create a film of a poetry reading that varied from the traditional 'front on' approach with a static poet square in the centre. We also wanted to make it as clear as possible to the audience what the poem was actually about.

So, we asked the poet to tell us about the poem, then we filmed them from two angles to add a bit of diversity into the mix. First up was Joolz Denby...

Joolz Denby performs 'Smoking Joe' from Apples and Snakes on Vimeo.

Trashed Exultations

So my Keyhole followers, I’ve been absent for a while I know. But it’s been for a very good reason.

Last night saw the first ever Trashed Organ event. You may remember I rambled on about this organ from Clerkenwell Green a few months ago, but since then the beat up musical instrument became a idea for an event, which became a night of poems and music, which actually happened.

Our colosseum? The eclectic Duchess pub overlooking the industrial splendor of Battersea Power Station that held court to a ramshackle parade of ditty day dreamers, gramma correcting, cock jangling, love struck writers.

We had stories of house hunting colonists on safari, fabric softeners and horrendous chat-up lines, Bakerloo and Victoria, sausage sandwiches, Norton Cannes, piratical marketeers, south London chav lads sprouting angel wings and the charming rustic rhythms of A Polystyrene Hat.

With a line up boasting Courttia Newland, Katie Bonna, Ben Gilbert, Sam Peczek, and fellow organ grinder Rob Haughton the night far exceeded all expectations.

So, thank you’s are due to our fantastic audience who gave up a World Cup Wednesday to come to our trashed delicatessen half a mile from the nearest tube. Please accept our trashed exultations! We also thank you for taking part in our fancy little game, ‘Trashed Laureate’. Congratulations are in order for the winner of a bottle of our home brew port with the line ‘The elephant man was ok. He was just born in the wrong dimension.’ Truly profound.

So what next I hear you cry over a violin stringed moment of off-key bliss? Stay tuned our trashed friends, for Trashed Organ 2: Judgement Day, coming soon…

Punk Magazine

I stumbled across this video the other day of Punk Magazine founders, John Hallstrom and Legs McNeil (resident punk) talking about the infamous 70s fanzine in NYC. I admire their DIY ethos and the ‘just whack it’ approach, to which the interviewer can’t quite understand where they get the funds to keep the enterprise running. There are some amusing comments towards the end about ‘London kids’, to whom punk is only fashion, “Would you want a safety pin up your nose?” and “They’re all morons.”

All in all, the sarcasm adds to the image and help creates an inspiring document for anyone who wants to make and distribute something themselves. Although I do think they're hiding something...

Spilt Milk

A weekend treat to go down with the sun. A new and exciting bundle of chapbooks, pamphlets, and micro anthology’s to review for Hand & Star. I like it when poems arrive in short punchy bursts, an afternoon long package that can be devoured, critiqued and praised over a few short Sunday hours with a glass of water and a bourbon biscuit.

In other news my poem ‘July’ features in issue 2 of the delicious 'Spilt Milk', a culinary platter of warm foamy words, which can be viewed online here, enjoy!

A Plate of Chicken

During a recent trip to NYC I stumbled across NoLita bookshop McNally & Jackson. Amazed at a poetry section that gave more shelf space to poets I’d never heard of I pulled out the rather square shaped book of Matthew Rohrer’s gastronomically titled ‘A Plate of Chicken.’ Inside were sixty-one pages given over to a collection of seven line stanzas, acting as the spinal vertebrae of one continuous poem drawn over a long hot New York summer.

At first glance it’s a random assembly of lines that have little coherence with each other, that read more like catharsis for the author, purging the substance of his mind to fill the chicken bones with meat (the book doubles as a flick-book, depicting the devouring of a plate of chicken). But look again and see the first and last lines of each seven line stanza conclude with the same word, weaving a small theme into every poem;

If you don’t pay attention you’ll slip into a hole.
Don’t we all understand evil?
I knelt to the floor to stare at the baby.
Infinite variation in each moment. We’re home.
Coffee smells better than riches.
I like to lie back and think of my next job.
I plan an elaborate leap into a deeper hole.

It’s full of poetic instructions and garbled imagery, and at times Rohrer takes the role of throwaway philosopher for the mundane. ‘The gate to hell is through the loop of a neck tie.’ Cleverly crafting one-liners that you'll want to add to your facebook status. Although Rohrer’s meal can be a tough one to chew at times, with his penchant for one liners that read like quotes on the back of witty birthday cards, he delivers some hugely stimulating ideas;

My function, is to be in love between two people who hate each other.

Rohrer himself states, that the chicken title seemed right to put across his attempt to unite poetry with the mundane and everyday, rather than attempting to be prophetic. For him, poetry is a way to explore the normality of life, spilling out hundreds of poems in a few days just like the hundreds of words we use everyday to explain whatever it is we do.

There is no resolution to anything in ‘A Plate of Chicken’. The meditative nature of these lines give us little insight to the normality of the poets life, but remind us their existence isn’t to change anything, but to just live on. The book has so many great lines it’s hard to pull a quote that does it justice, although there is one that has stuck with me, and seems to live up to the instructional, philosophical, mundane tone the poems favour, and makes me want to give it a go.

When all hope seems lost, write your name on paper and flush it down the toilet.

The Sparks

I have a new review up on Hand & Star of Ben Wilkinson’s pamphlet ‘The Sparks.’ I gave it 4 stars as it’s a great short read full of shadows, weather and flickering lights. A stormy bunch of poems, good to read with a cup of tea by the window.

Be sure to also check out Ben’s blog, Deconstructive Wasteland for musings and literary news.

Trashed Organ

Walking back from Exmouth Market yesterday with a 6pound beef stew curry in hand shouldering a light rain, we passed a trashed organ on the side, by Clerkenwell Green. Its rain-splashed keys, grimy with car exhaust sat restless like a child in a waiting room. Its electronic boards hung like eyeballs from sockets pulled by fox mouthed scavengers, and the pedal hung limp like a deck bound beaten fish. An empty paper cup spewed grassy moss and a cigarette butt pouted from the roof like a decapitated tree stump. I smeared a finger along it’s music and didn’t hear a sound.

Later the spice from the food would creep in on stilts and blade its way over my mouth. I had to drink a glass of water.

Introducing...

Donald Dunstan, a 46 year old electrician with a slightly tubby belly, massive sideburns and bushy eyebrows. Donald is unusually tall, clocking in at 6’7. His work mates call him ‘Duny’ (after the Australian slang for toilet) on account of his time specific bowel movements. He was originally born in Clacton-On-Sea, although now lives in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire with his wife and two children, a girl and boy, 21 and 17 respectively. He’s somewhat conservative in views and left school at an early age to pursue a vocation. A photograph of him with a bucket and spade and his parents on Clacton beach sums up his most consistently happy memory. He secretly hopes one day his family will settle there. His ambition is to retire as soon as possible, and his greatest fear is never being able to afford to.

Donald is the product of a fruitful day spent at The Royal Court taking part in a playwriting workshop hosted by Penpals and London literature developers Spread the Word.

Led by award winning playwright Alia Bano, (featured in today’s Observer) author of the critically acclaimed Shades, it was great to dedicate time to developing ideas for the stage amongst peers, and before long I had a pen portrait of the somewhat unexpected Donald. Here’s a typical conversation with Donald, using the 10, 9, 8, 7, 6… words game.

(Don and Friend are sitting in a pub)

Don: Lost my pension the other day. Company went completely broke.

Friend: Money’s safer under the mattress these days, you know?

Don: Until some sod breaks in while you’re away.

Friend: Heard about that, what did you loose?

Don: The cash that’s under the mattress.

Friend: Christ, that’s rotten luck mate.

Don: I know, I’m skint.

Friend: Next rounds mine.

Don: Whiskey, thanks.

Friend: Sure.