And what a weekend it has been. Afternoon train up to Scotland on Friday to St Andrews where there’s a big poetry festival called ‘StAnza’. Yes, with a the capital ‘A’ The train was packed with people and no coffee at the buffet all the way ...

 

A day and a half of frantic, if enjoyable networking on behalf of Magma Poetry, a magazine I’m on the board of. You can tell I’m tired. Fancy ending a sentence with ‘of’. It’s quite a relief to be campaigning for a group venture like a poetry magazine, rather than trying to make an impression as self and poet. But still quite wearying in its own quiet way. St Andrews is a beautiful, wind-blown town on the North Sea. Grey stone buildings and neat green university quadrangles. A ruined castle and cathedral and men in kilts on bicycles. Don’t their legs get cold? Sorry to go on about kilts, but I wouldn’t wear one without a pair of tights underneath especially with that wind off the North Sea. I do worry about their cold legs.

 

It was a wonderful experience topped off with the joy of meeting Adrian Mitchell -  I seem to remember saying it was an honour to meet him. I never talk like that. Honestly; I was star-struck and he was so NICE and chatty and Celia was with him. Celia from the poem:

 

‘When I’m feeling sad and weary

When I think all hope is gone

When I’m walking down High Holborn

I think of you with nothing on.’

 

They have been married a long, long time and seem so happy together. She doesn’t even seem to mind being the subject of that much-quoted poem. The great thing about poetry being such a small pond is that there’s not much space for snotty prima-donnas. You can hobnob with the great and good no matter what a small fish you are. What a thrill.

 

Two young women were wandering round the theatre foyer in fancy hats with a poetry menu; they’d recite a poem from the menu to individuals sitting around, and I ordered TWO poems. Just for me. Fantastic. This was followed by a late night slam which was quite raucous and won by a man in a kilt whose accent was beyond me. But then I was very tired.

 

Last night, after hot-training it down from Edinburgh I did a reading at the historic Torriano Meeting house with my good friend Norbert Hirschhorn. We’d rehearsed a kind of poetry tennis match, taking turns to read and I was a bit nervous. All very well to do a reading by yourself - if it all goes wrong, the only person you’re letting down is you. But with someone else, you could let THEM down. I need not have worried really. lots of friends turned up to support (Thank-you, friends!) I dredged up some adrenaline from my deepest being and the reading went rather well. Afterwards John Rety, the man who runs the place - eccentric, delightful and utterly entertaining said to me ‘You were better than I thought you’d be’. Well yeah. Thanks John. He is nothing if not honest.  Bert and I were pleased with our performance to a packed and attentive house and I hope we have a chance to do it again. Something lovely about having the support of another poet while you’re actually up there. I think the energy is stronger and it becomes more of an event.

 

Steeped in the poetic milieu as I am after the weekend you’d think I’d be full of inspiration. Not so. Just knackered. Maybe I’ll take the day off.