Poets of London
Jul. 7th, 2019 07:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootThe poetry reading went well though it was a close call.
My friend had been rehearsing 'The Mad Professor's Daughter,' by Allan Ahlberg, and timed it to 4 minutes and 40 seconds. This was within the time limit set for each performer, according to what he saw on the webpage, but there were a lot of people there that night so the impresario decided that speakers couldn't have more than 4 minutes each. My friend protested vociferously, the impressario made it very clear that this was how it was going to be, I offered half my time, because no way was I going to be up for more than two minutes at the most, the impresario said it couldn't be done, other poets started getting riled because we kept them all waiting, regulars were getting annoyed because who the F were we again? The atmosphere grew tense and everything was our fault, with a few loud commentators suggesting that maybe if we didn't like the way things were done there, we could go elsewhere. 'There's one in Hackney,' someone suggested, their voices implying that if we couldn't accept the civilised rules of Covent Garden artistes, we deserved whatever shanking greets obstreperous poets down Whitechapel way.
I found this all very unfair, as all I had done was offer half my four minute time to my friend. 'If we do that, everyone will want it and the whole thing will become ungovernable!' Thundered the impresario, surrounded by an increasingly angry crowd. I wondered if we would have to fight our way out, and decided that the best strategy would be to grab the impresario's lap top and throw it to the back of the room, diverting the irate poets and their fans, while we dashed out of the firedoor. The only flaw with this plan was that a)there were over 40 of them clustered around us, b)the impresario's laptop was safely behind him and c)what I thought was a firedoor turned out to be the toilet for disabled people. With nothing reconciled and everybody irritated we sat down, my friend muttering that he would never go there again. I almost agreed with him, though I was less worried about frenzied scriveners than about the only-OK expensive food and rough-as-a-badgers-arse expensive wine.
People were generous about my performance, though it was an intense experience, standing so close to all those eyes. The problem is always the same though: a poem that reads well on the page is not always a poem to be performed. A terrible poem is rescued or at least its mediocrities obscured by a great performance, and then of course, if someone buys the book they find themselves disappointed by what they read. Performance has an element of effort, the poem on the page is beyond all that, it doesn't need the colour-enhancing nuance-destroying emphasis of human voice behind it. Still, yes, they liked it, which is nice.
My friend got up and performed the Mad Professor's Daughter very well, cutting a bit out of the middle and keeping it nicely down to just under 4 minutes. He didn't tell them it was someone else's creation, which is a bit rude, but then he was nervous, and just rattled into it as fast as he could. I don't think he'll be back, and I'm still trying to work out whether I will be.
Missed Pride for reasons to be discussed later, possibly... But right now, I'm so tired, I can't even keep this up. Except to say that Trump's marvellous claims about the airports of 1775 have inspired many to explore the hidden history of the US.
https://twitter.com/hashtag/RevolutionaryWarAirports?src=hash
https://twitter.com/hashtag/RevolutionaryWarAirportStories?src=hash
My friend had been rehearsing 'The Mad Professor's Daughter,' by Allan Ahlberg, and timed it to 4 minutes and 40 seconds. This was within the time limit set for each performer, according to what he saw on the webpage, but there were a lot of people there that night so the impresario decided that speakers couldn't have more than 4 minutes each. My friend protested vociferously, the impressario made it very clear that this was how it was going to be, I offered half my time, because no way was I going to be up for more than two minutes at the most, the impresario said it couldn't be done, other poets started getting riled because we kept them all waiting, regulars were getting annoyed because who the F were we again? The atmosphere grew tense and everything was our fault, with a few loud commentators suggesting that maybe if we didn't like the way things were done there, we could go elsewhere. 'There's one in Hackney,' someone suggested, their voices implying that if we couldn't accept the civilised rules of Covent Garden artistes, we deserved whatever shanking greets obstreperous poets down Whitechapel way.
I found this all very unfair, as all I had done was offer half my four minute time to my friend. 'If we do that, everyone will want it and the whole thing will become ungovernable!' Thundered the impresario, surrounded by an increasingly angry crowd. I wondered if we would have to fight our way out, and decided that the best strategy would be to grab the impresario's lap top and throw it to the back of the room, diverting the irate poets and their fans, while we dashed out of the firedoor. The only flaw with this plan was that a)there were over 40 of them clustered around us, b)the impresario's laptop was safely behind him and c)what I thought was a firedoor turned out to be the toilet for disabled people. With nothing reconciled and everybody irritated we sat down, my friend muttering that he would never go there again. I almost agreed with him, though I was less worried about frenzied scriveners than about the only-OK expensive food and rough-as-a-badgers-arse expensive wine.
People were generous about my performance, though it was an intense experience, standing so close to all those eyes. The problem is always the same though: a poem that reads well on the page is not always a poem to be performed. A terrible poem is rescued or at least its mediocrities obscured by a great performance, and then of course, if someone buys the book they find themselves disappointed by what they read. Performance has an element of effort, the poem on the page is beyond all that, it doesn't need the colour-enhancing nuance-destroying emphasis of human voice behind it. Still, yes, they liked it, which is nice.
My friend got up and performed the Mad Professor's Daughter very well, cutting a bit out of the middle and keeping it nicely down to just under 4 minutes. He didn't tell them it was someone else's creation, which is a bit rude, but then he was nervous, and just rattled into it as fast as he could. I don't think he'll be back, and I'm still trying to work out whether I will be.
Missed Pride for reasons to be discussed later, possibly... But right now, I'm so tired, I can't even keep this up. Except to say that Trump's marvellous claims about the airports of 1775 have inspired many to explore the hidden history of the US.
https://twitter.com/hashtag/RevolutionaryWarAirports?src=hash
https://twitter.com/hashtag/RevolutionaryWarAirportStories?src=hash
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