Autumn comes in, it is sometimes said, with the last horse in the St. Leger and so the last event of the summer was the Poetry Lunch as part of a day of poetry events in this year's Havant Literary Festival.
The weather forecast had threatened to make it an indoor affair but, as it happened, conditions were ideal for a garden event comfortably attended by about 25 and it was remarked that it's always a good sign when the audience at a poetry reading outnumber the readers.
In the back yard of the Green Party, I paid tribute to their support for minorities and commitment to diversity as the token bloke among the four readers. And why not.
I was lucky in my risk-taking gambit of arriving not knowing what I was going to read that the open selection process picked a successful poem to begin with. I asked one table to pick one of my booklets from the colour of its cover and they picked the blue one, Walking on Water. Then another part of the audience picked a number between 1 and 12, the number of poems in that book, and they chose number 6, which is Herbstregen, the hypnotic attempt at a sestina I wrote gazing abstractedly out of the office window several years ago. Then, in line with what I was once told as a sixth-form student of poetry, that 'poets like to read their most recent stuff' (Linden Huddlestone on Ted Hughes at Cheltenham circa 1977), I read my very latest little masterpiece, The Singing Typewriter, which is proving something of a success in its own little way.
Denise Bennett read three poems from her highly-acclaimed (by others as well as me), recent book, Parachute Silks, which is always a pleasure and a guaranteed success. This was no open-mic of randomly assembled parvenus who fancy having a go. The readers were proper ones (I won't deride them by saying 'professional') who could do it in the open air and the audience were kind enough to listen attentively rather than involve themselves only with their 'light vegetarian lunch'One great advantage of a vegetarian buffet is that you can help yourself to a bit of everything without having to ask or follow a known vegetarian round the table only taking some of what they take. And, just as important as the applause for the poets, was the applause for Mrs. Dawes, whose art in producing the food was at least as admirable.
Joan McGavin, the soon-to-be outgoing Hampshire laureate, provided some radiant and luminous poetry in what I took to be a voice that originally came from somewhere near Edinburgh. I'm no accentologist but, having once heard Stephen Fry's quick repertoire of Scottish accents on an edition of QI , I like to think I know when I hear echoes of Morningside but, wherever it came from, it added a subtle music to her poems not always available from one born in Nottingham, schooled in Gloucester who finally washed up in Portsmouth.
One of the great things about poetry is that is simply to be enjoyed and it isn't competitive, even if competitions do constitute a significant part of the poetry world. This quartet offered slightly differing perspectives in their civilised, accomplished ways and, yes, even I wasn't bad at all by my own casual standards. But you can tell a natural performer when one shows up and Stella Bahin was that, doing everything from memory, animated, striking and impressive. She did a period of Poet-in-Residence that involved going into schools, for heaven's sake. You can't be a faint-hearted shrinking violet if you are strong enough to do that. And she also tried out new work to see how it worked, which I can quote in full,Corbyn
Got in.
Certainly the shortest poem I've ever heard recited live. What did we think.
Well, Stella, I don't know how long it will remain topical. Was it Ezra Pound who defined literature as 'news that remains news'.
But, what a marvellous, friendly event and tremendous success it was.
Poets are supposed to have vices, it's almost the law. On the way from the Lunch to the presentation, Dylan Thomas would have sneaked into the pub for a couple of quick ones but I nipped into a well-known turf accountants to check the racing results. I have rarely been more confident in a horse than today's best bet, Emotionless, and I'd gladly have had ten times as much on it but there is no such thing as a certainty. Not only had it won to make the whole day a profitable one but I'm also now the happy owner of a 16/1 ticket on the new 6/1 favourite for next year's 2000 Guineas.
What a tremendous name for a horse. I've found a new hero.
At the Competition Reading, David Attwooll - that's double T, W, double O, double L- read the competition winner, The Greengrocer's Apostrophe, as here, http://www.havantlitfest.org.uk/competitions.php as the climax to a fine selection of runners-up and commendeds, judged by Joan. I'll gladly admit that I wouldn't have gone to that without a complimentary ticket because I wouldn't expect such an event to be brilliant. Competition winners aren't always wonderful but these were all genuine, engaging, thoughtful poets who had written more than one poem each worth hearing so I'm tempted to think that Joan did a good job of sorting it out properly.
Top marks to the Havant Festival, a low-key affair this year in the circumstances (like the organizer standing for 'higher office'). There ought to be more of it except that it has to be organized, paid for and find enough interested in doing it. And if it happened every month, it would no longer be an occasion, so Long Live Our Gracious Festival.
And let's see if Tim is prepared to stand up when we sing that one.
