Charles Johnson, the man who founded Flarestack, does the entire job using a high quality laser printer, a stapler and his trusty kitchen table. He has been doing this for ten years. All over the world there are people like him doing work like that for little or no recognition.

 

It’ll be good to have some merch to tout around the gigs, I think, especially pink merch. Of course I do have enough poems for a collection (or maybe even two) but this is a good start. Something to show. Something to sell.

 

Actually it mystifies me how few poets actually buy poetry when they go to gigs. I’ve always thought this is because poets are poor, but my friend Bert pointed out to me that they don’t seem to mind shelling out a fiver for ticket, and then another tenner for round of drinks, but when it comes to actually buying a book, they are surprisingly disinterested. I wonder why this is. I try to keep buying books at gigs if I like a poet’s work. Last night, I had a number of compliments about my reading, but only one person actually shelled out £3.50 for a copy of the pamphlet. Chris Hamilton Emery of Salt publishing recently said that poets are not the people who actually buy poetry. Why not? Shouldn’t we? We need to support each other, surely, in this very small world. For the price of a a couple of Starbucks coffees and a biscuit, you can buy a whole book of poetry. Now what’s better for your health? Okay, of course it depends on the blend and it depends on the poetry, but you get my drift.

 

What is both thrilling and exasperating and utterly democratic about the London Poetry Scene is the way that you can listen to experienced, published poets reading alongside complete novices at an open mic any night of the week. This occasionally yield surprises, and the mix is strangely exhilarating. A small corner of power is available to you if you rent out a room once a month to organise a poetry event.You need no credentials to do this, and will most likely get an audience if you start booking poets or would-be poets, who then invite their friends to come and listen. Before long, people are asking you if they can read at your event. It is all rather strange - another type of artistic democracy that is both a blessing a curse. Some dreadful stuff goes on. But some pretty fine stuff too. Similarly I could set up shop as a poetry publisher tomorrow, and I am almost certain that with the word spread around facebook and a few well-placed adverts, I’d be inundated with would-be collections within weeks and be in a perfect position to play god, whether or not I was qualified. So many words, so little space!  Of course what is perhaps most frustrating in all of this is that despite the choices available to publishers, the best work isn’t necessarily the work that’s published. Often it’s the mediocre, safe or mawkish that makes it to the shelves.

 

Tomorrow (Monday 21st) I’m reading at the Troubadour; nothing democratic about that. Eight invited readers, no open mic, a proper microphone. Am I excited? I think so ...