A while back I was fortunate enough to be selected to read at Burnley Writer's Night in Burnley. I went along, on my own as Leanne couldn't get out of work. I was nervous but felt excited as I selected the poems that I would read out. I imagined that it would be a small smattering of writer types gathered around a semi-circle of chairs. When it was your turn to read you would either stand up and have a go or just sit, quietly, and read.
This assumption was wrong as when I got there a lady brought me into the room where the "show" would be held. She showed me the stage where I would be reading. It is a bit like when they used to show suspects the rack before they tortured them. Except not involving any illegality or pain. I remember holding my arms close to my chest. Maybe, I was more nervous than I thought. I made my version of small talk and was told when I would be up. After the break and about sixth overall. Which led me to obsessively count the acts.
Finding a seat at the back I watched the MC, a Mancunian lady who told a funny story and seemed to be very happy to not only be there but be anywhere. Which was nice. A few poets came and read. Some poems about the recent riots and some about nature. Personally, they wasn't my exact bag but you admire the craft and you admire the bravery it takes for them to read. One young lady read a poem about a recent assessment for some form of neurodiversity. I couldn't work out what flavour of neurodiversity but I told her, later, that it was a good poem. Not that it matters.
Before I read I was told I had five minutes so had time to read three poems. I had planned on reading four so it was a case of dropping one. Which was easy to do as you pick the longest one and don't read it.
I was called up. The nerves are a good thing as they help propel you forward. Because of the lights you cannot see the pairs of eyes on you. I read and people clapped at the appropriate times and laughed when they were meant to. It is hard to tell if people liked the poems or not as no one actually tells you. Of course you wouldn't want someone to rock up and say, "you read those poems about your mum? Yeah... well they were shit and you should probably just give up. I am going to get a drink so I can throw it over you, don't move". No one left the room and no one threw up.
Anyway, I read three poems, two are reproduced below and then ended on a funny little couplet. Gotta leave them smiling. I suppose.
A Hundred Little Deaths
The first death went by unseen:
A misplaced mobile phone -
Just something small lost at home.
Not enough for anyone to cause a scene.
The next death happened a lot faster:
A name missed among a long list
Of unfamiliar faces. Not enough to insist
The she might actually need looking after.
Another death came the night she went out
Walking down the motorway in her nightie
And an Uber driver took her home for free.
A broken lock, a shock and unrelenting doubt.
One more death came in the nursing home:
Hanging on to a withering vestige of her mind.
Picking up fragments of other, better, times
Only to swear blind that she is always alone.
With each death the woman is chipped away
The gradual destruction of a temple to Mnemosyne.
Each death is more obvious, more clearly seen,
We sit struggling with things to say.
Each of these deaths should help to prepare
For what is to come. The oblivion of the self,
The destruction of the mind and bodily health.
Before the final death. But it won’t be. It’s unfair
But the prison she is locked inside
Will still hold her even after she’s died.
Early Morning
Bathed in a watery winter sun
She holds her belongings tight to her chest.
A collection of fragments. She can attest
To the sanctity of every single one.
In her nightie and dressing gown,
Her breath hanging before her
Like a promise she watches disappear.
Her unfocused eyes cast down
To frosted grass. She does not know
Why she is here. Dawn’s chorus broke
The silence. Back to a world where no one spoke
Of the reasons she would go
Out into the night. Into the cold
Or why she can’t name her children.
A feature of life, now, it happens so often
That the text is written, the story already told
Before it happens. There is a sadness in her
That was not there before her mind,
Once so active, started to slow. Her kind
And quick mind fading, degrading forever.
It is hard not to look back to a time
Before all of this. Her love seemed infinite
Forged in a will made from granite.
Her unending compassion, her fine
Way of thinking and talking. The one who
Cared for others more than herself.
A cliché but true. A love greater than the wealth
Of others who gave things. The few
Memories she has left she clings to.
And so must we. The woman behind
The cruel, unfair erosion of her mind
Remains. The disease steals from us too.
Bathed in a watery winter sun
She is ushered indoors. She won’t recall
Being there or the biting cold at all.
This is the one bit of relief that can come.
Mother's Day Poem
Everyone thinks their mother is the best
Except, of course, if your mother is Rose West.
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