Purbeck Folk Festival 2013

DISCLAIMER

If you want to know about what anyone did apart from me, this is not the blog post to read. I don't remember. That's not how my memory works. I remember phrases, some of which are linked to faces, some few of which are linked to names. I remember liking things, I remember not liking things. I could, if I were to spend all day doing it, probably critique something by everyone with honesty & anecdotal amusingness, but this is not a private blog, & I'm definitely not going to be so gauche as to fling my (detailed) opinions of poems at people who never even asked for them. So - I shall skim over what other people did not because I wasn't listening, or I am uninterested in it, but because it simply isn't my place to remark on it, apart from in an entirely supportive "I rather liked that, old chap!" sort of a way apart from in private conversation.

The Friday

My flowey-cat-ears hairband (which you may remember from my supporting-of-Rob-Auton's-Yellow-Show-at-the-Art-House earlier this year) arrived just in time for the first heat of Purbeck Folk Festival Slam 2013, & performed Red Rum. The joy of having a sound system that enabled me to actually hear myself distinctly enough to modulate my voice, coupled with the adrenalin of having just traveled about a hundred miles at breakneck speed, combined to make for a surprisingly punchy rendition. I then acquired beer. 

A lady walked up to me, with that I'm-about-to-talk-to-you look. I know you, don't I? I thought. I know & I've forgotten & know you & I'm going to seem tremendously rude. "Hello!" I exclaimed, with vague recognition. "I liked your poem!" said the lady - or words to that effect. With my faith in my memory slightly bolstered, and my faith in my ability to read social cues (& respond accordingly) slightly antibolstered, I skipped away with the first of probably the most compliments of my work I've received of my work at any festival ever! *purrpurr*

 The Saturday

I made my way between two lines of Noel's beautiful bunting, & the poetry circle happened. It was a very little circle, but good things come in small sizes. A poet who reminded me, for reasons not-entirely-clear-to-me, of Peter Ackroyd, & dressed in rainbow (& whose name I rather frustratingly forget), read some engagingly detailed poems (my favorite of the festival). Much to my relief, Rianna Jane appeared, widening our circle into something other than the line it had been previously (circles being drawable within triangles and all). Then a lady with an interestingly-adorned stick joined us, and things got even more circular. All the while, we were quietly listened to by crocheters. Which was delightful.  

The Sunday

The second round of Purbeck Folk Festival Slam 2013 was a nailbiting affair. There were quite a lot of poets (I don't do numbers). Only 2 of us (I can count up to 2) would go through to the final round. As my darling was there, I performed the only poem I have yet written for him, 'I Love You'. It's more ... emotiony ... than most of my other poems, & that went down well. I balanced things out by performing 'Cyclopicam' (probably, I don't remember), which is about technologyparanoia (justified or otherwise).  

My favorite performance of the second round was a stonkingly Shakespearian poem from the point of view of Shylock by Justin Sellick. When brilliant acting & brilliant poetry collide, doubleplus brilliantry occurs.

There was a draw of some kind, so 3 poets were voted through to the 3rd round. One of those poets was me. The other 2 were Henry Rowe, with a heartwarmsome rappish autobiographipoem (& something else, since there were 2 poems each, but that's the one I remember), and Rianna Jane with her ever-popular 'Labels' poem (&, again, something else, but, again, - "squirrel!" - I can't remember everything).

I was absolutely astonished to be voted through. There were 16 poets to begin with. In purely statistical terms, the likelyhood of being voted through was ... remote. So ... I hyperventilated a little, & repaired to The Kings Arms for beer & thoughtgathering.

I considered it highly unlikely that I would win (I have never won). My thoughts (once gathered) were, therefore, these: 

There are tremendous soundsystems here. 

Which are the most sonorous of my poems?

Which of my poems would I most like to hear over that pa?

Also, THE FIRE STAGE (on which the final round of Purbeck Folk Festival Slam 2013 was performed) IS ENORMOUS! I'm scared. Which of my poems am I most confident about performing?

The most sonorous of my poems is 'Red Rum'. It is also the poem in which I have the most confidence. The poem in which I have the second most confidence (as a performance poem - as a page poem it is, in my view, a little ... holey) is 'I Love You'. Also, I wanted to perform that because my darling, to whom it is addressed, would be in the audience. (Yes - repeats. IknowIknowIknow - I loathe repeats. But lots of us did repeats, & I don't usually, & I probably won't again, so I'll let myself off. Just this once. She said, feelingly secretly - or not-so-secretly - mildly disgusted with herself for having given into this when-in-Rome-ing.) 

My second rendition of 'Red Rum' was ... oddly lacklustre. I found myself looking out at the people & wondering what they thought of it. That's not something I usually do. It was a pretty new experience for me. It's just that - THERE WERE SO DARN MANY OF THEM. & I didn't know if they were friends or foes yet. & they were being actually invited to judge me. With numbers. Which is always something I feel a little uncomfortable with in slams (& exams, & essays, & any other judging, number-assigning scenario). But slams are a good way of drawing people in to poetry. People like pseudogladatorial contests. They're exciting. & at least there was no question of me being eaten by lions. So I plodded on with what I was well aware was a poem not-terribly-in-keeping-with-the-mood-of-much-of-the-crowd, and tried to focus on its cadences, the sounds of it, its rhythms, for my own enjoyment if nothing else. My score for it was - unexcessive. I felt myself blanching, and tried to focus, tried to keep myself from zoning out. I'd been voted through, dammit, & I had every right to be there, & 'Red Rum' is a bloody good poem (though you might have performed it a bit more exuberantly), I told myself. Try harder next time. You can't expect to breeze through this. Don't be complacent. My second rendition of 'I Love You' went rather better. Not as well as it had the first time I'd performed it - I'd been less distracted by the stakes back then. More than anything in the world, I didn't want to come 3rd. Not again. I'd come 3rd too many times. It had all become a bit intense, like the monomania of a Philip K. Dick character, stomping through the universe INSISTING that something happen AGAINST ALL THE PROBABILITIES OF ALL THE FORCES OF EVERY NATURE THAT EXISTS IN ANY POSSIBLE WORLD. I took to the stage again. There was a moment at which I thought my voice might fly into the air & not come back, leaving me gaping like a bookish little goldfish, notbook clutched futiley in an ever-whitening hand. No. I had more gumption than that. I performed 'I Love You' with (most of) the conviction & emotional presentness a poem to my darling deserved. I had hoped the realness of its message, to someone actually out there, would make me & it more vivid this time, & I think it did. The audience (horrifyingly quiet for poor 'Red Rum') was ... more enthusiastic. It had thawed a bit. A couple more poems, & all might have been quite well. As it was, though, that was it. I came joint 2rd with Henry Rowe, and Rianna Jane (to whom my congratulations are due) won. Joint 2nd. My first 2nd (joint or otherwise) at any slam ever. Onwards and upwards. I am 26. I have, hopefully, many years of life, & many poetry slams, ahead of me. One day, due to the sheer statistics of the thing, I will win one of them. 2,000 monkeys, 7,654 typewriters...

We were given roses, us poets, which was just about one of the sweetest gestures in the world ever. Had I been Ernest Dowson, I would have eaten mine's petals. As it was, I asked it if my darling loved me, loved me not, loved me. It said he loved me. 

Many thankyous to Steve Biddle & the Freeway Circle of Poets for presenting me, & to Purbeck Folk Festival for having me.

FINIS