Morecambe Poetry Festival 2023 write-up

Matt Panesh, poet, mastermind, whirlwind and festival visionary

The Winter Gardens – Venue – grand, shabby, imbued in history

Johnny’s Bar – Venue – where we build new histories and the audience are warm and lift up every performer

Friday launch and evening

Back in Johnny’s for the evening

Clare Ferguson Walker was a joy to photograph, a new friend

Apologies, right near the beginning of this blog, to those I missed over the weekend because I needed air or snacks, or was carried into conversation xxx

So, I didn’t catch absolutely everyone I wanted to with the festival running from midday until 2am each day. I am sorry I missed some friends performing, but so happy I got to see them and catch up. It was difficult to choose between supporting people I had seen before and seeing people new to me. The quality was so consistently high. But, I also wanted to chat and catch up with friends and make new ones, get books signed and drink in the September air and feel the rain on my skin.

I had some moments where I had to be outside in daylight and air for a while. I walked on the beach a little and I did venture into the arcade for a short time.

Saturday start with Dommy B and John Hegley – both were their usual joyful, energetic, engaging selves

Firstly, we sorely missed Barry Fentiman Hall who had to cancel the day before the event. I am hoping we both make it there next year.

Trystan Lewis

However, the brilliant Trystan Lewis, who I meet at the first Morecambe Poetry Festival in 2022 and I knew he was good then and he has been getting about and reading in many places over the last 12 months.

He has great rhythm and internal rhyme:
‘I’ve been through the data of the traces left behind’ ‘not been honest with/in their sonnets of romance’
and I found this line beguiling:
‘If you can gaze upon the frightening face of this Medusa, full-square in the eyes and still not be turned to stone’

And ‘Don’t tell Dad!’ is a well-crafted poem of gradual progress and subtle evolution of a relationship between Dad and child. Moving and relatable. The flip to ‘Don’t tell the kids!’ is flooring. ‘Don’t tell the kids that we looked at the screen and we pointed at the shadows and they told us what they mean.’

Nina Lewis

Nina is a friend from Swindon Poetry Festival volunteering days and is based in the Midlands, so it was great to have chance to catch up and hear some new poetry from Nina and some from her V Press book, ‘Fragile’ and share late night toast, chatting and sharing poems in the Air B and B kitchen until the early hours.

Kate Millington

I met Kate when she came to perform at the Huddersfield slam in 2022. Her poetry is an important, honest and moving account of childlessness and Kate shared poems from her book, ‘Imprint’ (Fawn Press).

‘I orbit what I lack’ was a compelling refrain and I felt the fact it kept repeating echoed the way the lack arises in life, but then is forgotten, to arise again later.

Other people seem to judge or guess at the lack of a child and make assumptions about choices and know the way life ‘should’ be lived.

I love the fact Kate leaves us with the warmth of ‘green footprints in the snow.’ 

Ben Willems

Ben is an old Manchester poetry friend and I invited him because I am never quite what he will bring to the event, but I do know it will be brilliant, surprising and entertaining. I was not disappointed.

Ben’s set was playful and rhythmic and lines that grabbed me the most were these:

‘All masks are animal
bat cave silhouettes.

All howls are answerable
just let
it rise’

and his play was no more evident than in the poem ‘Newton for Hyde’.

Is started with: ‘Hyde’s for bitter…
and ended with these lines
‘…for newt of eye
eye is for apple
apple for Newton
Newton for Hyde
Newton for Hyde
Newton for Hyde
Newton for Hyde’.

My set

I shared poems of beer and connection, 90s indie gigs and the sea. The audience was so warm and respectful, yet loud in their appreciation with whoops and applause. I reckon the biggest and best audience I have ever performed to.

Thanks to Louise Hart for these photos and to Matt for the loveliest intro and for inviting us to be part of the festival.

A little Born Lippy

I caught a little Born Lippy before getting out to walk the shore and breathe the sea air for a bit.


Midlands Takeover

Steve Pottinger and Emma Purshouse are good friends who became even closer friends over lockdown as they hosted workshops and events online. I made many new friends through these online connections. I am ever so grateful some of their events continue to be online and hybrid as well as them having returned to real life hosting too. I realise how much hard work online events are – I find them more difficult than live events to host, personally. I met Richard Temple in the audience on the Friday night and enjoyed his set.

Scouse Takeover

Another treat for the evening with good Manchester friends, Jackie Hagan and Gerry Potter who both owned the stage of the Winter Gardens. I was delighted to see and hear Jackie as Jackie has not been performing for a few years. Then, Roger McGough took to the stage. I loved his coat and is poetry was all I expected and more. All the poets in this takeover were humorous, relatable and unflinching in places.

Roger and Henry chat (Q & A) and the most amusing part of the festival for me – when I was talking with Manchester poets outside I return to my table to find Roger and Henry are in my seat!

Welsh Takeover

After queuing for books to be signed by Roger and Henry and Gerry (I already have all Jackie’s books) I managed to catch some of the Welsh takeover.

Sunday – the final day

Rose Condo – How to feed an artist poetry and a roast dinner for all

After an interesting and useful symposium on how to make poetry walk in the UK Rose nurtured the artist in all of us. We got to blow bubbles, drink water and think about it’s origin and think about giving more and what that means.

Barney Hallman – German takeover

Barney was a new entity to me and I was mesmerised by this bundle of bright joy who was performing a poem about an uncertain snail for us. Also, loved the fact that when I had one of my request songs played he knew every word to The Sultan’s of Ping ‘Where’s me Jumper?’ and we danced and sang enthusiastically in our separate corners of the almost empty Johnny’s as one of the last moments of the festival.

The 4 Johns – Hull Takeover

Several Hull friends I hadn’t seen for a while were some of the 4 Johns. These four performers were a very different style to each other pulled together by the fact they were all sitting in a cafe doing puzzles or reading the paper and drinking tea.

Joy France and Skully

I thought first of all this would be Joy and a puppet or robot, turns out Skully is a person and they are battle-rapping emotional material on stage and it ended with a hug. Brilliant!

Manc Takeover

Sadly, Tony Curry could not make it over. However, it was so good to see and hear Chris Jam for the first time since lockdown and Rowland Crowland for the first time in a year.

Word Walkers launch of zine and absent friends poem


Big White Shed hosted the launch of the festival zine that was made from poems written on the Saturday morning and printed over the weekend.

Carol Ann Duffy and Jackie Kay

Our final event at the Winter Gardens and consistently good poetry shared by an ex poet-laureate and Makar.

The final evening

Sorry I didn’t get photos of everyone – was flagging a little by this point in the weekend. It was great to see friends, Rich, Oz and Gordon Zola up on stage doing their thing again and new friend, Beth.

Matt Panesh – Final poet

And, what better to way to finish the festival than with some poems from Matt Panesh, himself? The audience was still as warm and loud as ever until the final applause.

A little dancing & some last photos with wings and Walter’s coat

How much love was there? A love poem to Morecambe Poetry Festival 2023

There was love in the form of water

in small paper cups.

If you took every tea-pot, wine glass, champagne flute,

every tankard and every barrel of Fosters, Smiths, Neck Oil,

every bubble tub on every table

you would still not be able to contain it.

You can’t buy this or bottle it.

This love is bounding out

like a puppy eager to greet you.

It hugs long and true

like a bear.

It is like a sunset at high-tide

taken through The Picture-Frame.

It is a view that cannot be improved

or imagined without immersion.

Like swimming in the Irish Sea

and shivering at the thrill of icy brine.

This love is like having your request played by the D.J.

even though it is The Sultans of Ping.

It is a German-Irish poet

sitting beneath painted wings

and singing out every word.

And we take this love home with us.

In the anthology,

in our notebooks

and we resonate with hugs.

As we were held by friends, by words, by accents.

We were held by song, grins and humour.

And we were held by this space created for us

to meet, to read, to dance,

to belong

and to love.

Soundcloud link here to the poem:

Listen to How much love was there? – Morecambe.m4a by Sarah L Dixon on #SoundCloud https://on.soundcloud.com/8aJLyhttps://soundcloud.com/user-956777371-966720437/how-much-love-was-there?

It was brilliant to hang around with so many poetry friends and in particular Lucy Power and Michelle Noonan who were excellent company xxx

Next year – Morecambe Poetry Festival dates -21st September 2024 – get it in your diary!

Quiet Compere stop 6 – Zoom August 17th

Workshop

We had a widespread group for the workshop on the Tuesday (I had to move it to the day before as I have started a full-time job and run out of holiday days). 

After a brief panic because both Zoom and Eventbrite were being glitchy we had a great turnout, considering we clashed with Nine Arches triple book launch. I think the choice to reduce the length of the event and not have an open mic, as there was very low take up on this last time, helped with audience numbers. I may well run a double open mic read-a-round session in November ahead of the finale.

Dave Pitt – Dave performed a poem about Hillsborough and provided brilliantly brief yet insightful introductions to all poets in the first half.

Ruth Kelsey –

Ruth shared two poems about her journey. I felt honoured she shared them with us. They were the most concise and direct poems of her set. The lines:

‘like making up the words to hymns

By mouthing shapes we think might fit, and hope no-one will notice.’

particularly chimed with me as capturing that feeling of unbelonging with such precision.

Nicky Longthorne –

One last cigarette and endless cups of tea stood out for me as a poem that had a bouncy rhythm, that contrasted well with the content and I think the lines running into each other until that final line and giving that space worked so well and I was glad we could see that on screen, one benefit of being on Zoom instead of live.

Jonathan Kinsman –

Such breathlessness in ars poetica and I started writing down lines to comment on and ended with two-third of this poem in my notes and the line ‘at what age did you begin to feel an indescribable falsehood inside?’ provided such a invitation to intimacy in that one question.  

Liz Mills –

I loved Liz’s Scottish accent. The poem about Clarice Cliffe pottery was accompanied by a piece on the screen as ‘the poor girl from Tunstall, a mover of clay mountains.’ And Aunt Winnie was exquisitely described.

Siegfried Baber –

There was great detail in Siegfried’s family-focused poems from ‘a tender seam of blue sky.’ AndApplying Bruce Lee’s three principles of Kung Fu to my grandfather who has dementia was at once moving and compelling.

‘he hangs like a shadow

from the branches of a chestnut tree

until his arms ache and his grip finally falters.’

The scent of honeysuckle by itself and think the combination of ‘the scent of fireweed, honeysuckle and dark peppery nettles.’ may be quite overcoming.

My set

I then performed a brief set including my epic love poem (shrunk to 2 pages from 6) to some of the people and some of the places. This is one of only two poems written since starting a new job eight weeks ago. I am finding it difficult to balance full-time work, single parenthood and tour admin and find time to write. I am hoping that a return to work and school routine will mean more time for creative ventures, be that playing an instrument, collage, colouring or writing. I have read a book of poetry a day in August and loved immersing myself again in this way with the moments I have found. 

Second Half

Olivia Tuck-

There are wonderful observations in the pieces Olivia chose for her set. ‘Perhaps poetry isn’t what I love, but how I love’ and from the Stim poem ‘O, secret metronome of me.’ I have not heard stimming tackled as a subject beforeand as one easily annoyed by repetitive noises this poem challenges me to have more empathy.

Hannah Linden – Hannah’s Childhood poempinpointed one elegant and important purpose

‘Today the only job I have

is keeping the blackbird quiet.’

and she delivers searing social commentary in the poem about the neighbour’s treatment of the wasp nest.

‘I hadn’t minded the wasps myself. They come back every year and have never stung anyone. I’m guessing they might want to sting someone now. Oh how my country has changed.’

Gill Lambert –

The whispering of salt was surprising, while also being spot on and

‘though she throws spilled salt over her shoulder,

whispers it, like prayer, into cooking water.’

and at the end the tender giving away:

‘How her father loved her,

gave her away, like salt.’

I loved the variety in Gill’s set too as she brought us snow, salt and summer.

Finola Scott –

Finola’s poems describe a place with a child as ‘a sweet oasis in a careless city.’ And the idea of ‘time worn thin’ grabbed me and stays with me now.  And I loved the music in the line ‘unstackably awkward on Formica shelves.’

Sharon Larkin –

We seemed to have a honeysuckle theme tonight and how subtle the honeysuckle scent is, yet so recognisable.

‘honeysuckle smuggles her scent,

no more than a whisper at the start.’

Marsden Mechanics up next Friday 16th September

The next event is my first local hosting since I moved to The Colne Valley five years ago and I am hoping for a good turn out at Marsden Mechanics.

Tickets available here:

https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/quiet-compere-marsden-mechanics-live-and-online-tour-2022-stop-7-tickets-382427299347/

The Poem Place – Episode 3

Hi All,

I am delighted to feature in this podcast hosted by Matt Chamberlain along with Bethany Goodwill and David Dykes.

https://www.buzzsprout.com/680696/2790415?fbclid=IwAR3GbjcIjhMOYK9OE7JEJkwy_QqEQcJBZSBVlkEoSTjOgk2OJRH7UqHE29E

My poems from the podcast are below:

I could talk of childhood beaches

of the rock-pools at RhosColyn,

saltwater rashes

and the eel that brushed passed our legs,

eliciting squeals and a swift, slippery exit

across weed-draped rocks.

 

But then I wouldn’t be here in Broadstairs,

one-fifth of a mile from Dicken’s holiday home

but only caring for the lap of brine,

to lean into the waves, to lie back and be uplifted,

to be pulled and pushed

to be part of the tide.

 

I could talk of a Maryport sea-wall

in October,

the wind from the North

almost blowing us over.

 

But then I wouldn’t be here in Margate

swimming with friends I made half an hour ago

and drinking a Margate mule.

 

I could talk of childhood beaches

but I am always a child when by the sea.

315 fine line horizons.

Two dozen seaside sunsets.

11 actual swims in the oceans

unable to touch the bottom.

Properly deep.

 

I could talk of childhood beaches

but in shell years, in sea-glass time

I am not yet even one.

(First published on Thanet Writers, 2019)

Sold out, closed down

You can buy a table lamp for £39.95

but you cannot afford to light it.

Instead, you spend hours gazing

at a stained-glass glow

you can never own.

 

A haircut at the barbers is a fiver

but you and your money are turned away

because you are a woman

requesting a crop cut.

Your cut should take longer,

be coloured and curled

and be more costly to maintain.

You resort to hacking your hair with scissors.

Buy an over-priced pint with the note.

 

They close

Abdul’s corner shop,

the libraries

the smaller schools.

Then the good old standards go:

Marks, Debenhams, Peacocks.

Those who complain

only ever buy online.

It is cheaper and delivery is free

if you keep spending.

 

The NHS

is dismantling itself

one over-worked nurse

or PA at a  time.

 

Community disintegrates

as the lonely find a self-serve checkout ,

a machine for train tickets,

an instruction to disembark

at the centre of the bus.

The smiles and civilities have been sold

to the same place the grit is

and tarmac for potholes.

 

I am reminded of the time Kwik Save closed for good.

We ripped out the shelves with youthful relish

unplugged the freezers.

Glad we wouldn’t be going back.

 

But now when places close

the shelves and freezers stay in place.

No new buyers

to make these air hangars better, brighter, vital .

These high street windows

are dead-eyed and down-cast.

 

The heat chokes us.

The rain soaks us.

There is no comfort

 in this summer.

We are all red-eyed and irritated.

We itch for a revolution.

 

We are hungry for it,

but we are tired

our cores are built from broken promises

and specks of guttering hope.

These used to be what made our eyes shine

they are now lit, sometimes,  by wine or whisky.

Soon to be dead and dull

for good.

 

For all the good will have drained

from even the most optimistic minds.

Optimism thrives

when possibilities are many

as each runway, PROW or freedom

is grown over, boarded up or denied

our hopes are put out

with the small metal hat

that used to countdown to Christmas

but instead of building excitement

this time

each extinguishing hurts

and is permanent.

 

We seek relief in the cloak of songs

from when we were fourteen.

We watch superhero films

to convince ourselves

it will all be okay.

But it isn’t.

And it won’t be.

There will be good moments.

Blissful weeks away from reality.

 

The world is dying.

There are no buyers.

We are the dinosaurs  this time

hoping for a meteor

before bland-faced, blond-mopped stupidity

ends us instead.

(First Published by International Times, 2019)