I attended a reading of his new book, ‘Eely’, by Steve Ely, in Huddersfield, as part of Huddersfield Literature Festival.
How the hell am I going to describe this? I will try my utmost.
It is a book of poetry. It is not a poetry “collection”. It is not a bunch of poems that somebody wrote, and then put together. Every word in this book is concerted, and part of a single, coherent, dedicated work.
But you can dip in and out of it, and read the individually titled poems in isolation, should you want to.
I am a post-doctorally qualified scientist. Whenever a writer invokes scientific terms in their writing, I immediately want to know with what authenticity and accuracy they are doing it. Steve Ely has done his research, and you may take it that everything he says in this work that sounds scientific has the same rigour as an academic paper in a reputable journal. Steve Ely has dealt with his subject in that regard with more thoroughness than any other writer of poetry or fiction that I know of. I hope he has set a new standard.
This is a working class book. The experiences related are from working class characters who speak in working class vernacular. The breadth of vocabulary and the ingenuity of language in the whole work is broader than anything I can think of. Broader than Ted Hughes. Broader than T. S. Eliot.
I am struggling to describe such an unexpected, diverse, complex, and important object. I would say that it resembles ‘Dread Beat And Blood’ by Linton Kwesi Johnson, in the sense that it brings poetry to a set of subject matter that previously had been neglected. But it is much more detailed and thorough than any other poetic work I have previously read.
Parts of it will amaze and inspire you.
Parts of it will inform and engage you.
Parts of it will make you feel sick.
You need to read this book. If fewer than a hundred million people read this book, the Earth shall die.
The bitterest irony of Brexit is that the Tories, not the Ukips, have managed to take the rational resentment that resulted from the closure of mines, steelworks, and major manufacturing industries, and re-package it in such a way that they can control the degree to which the working class in places like Barnsley, Consett, Grimsby, Stoke, and Merthyr Tydfil become disengaged from mainstream politics.
It is not that the lunatics have taken over the asylum. It is more that the clinical director of the asylum has consulted with the lunatics, and come up with a programme to make them all more mad. But they will still be in the same asylum, and, because of the increased costs associated with this programme, everybody will get less food, shorter exercise and recreation time, and some medications will be withdrawn.
When the Great Strike ended in 1985, the people of the mining communities were tired out, and conflicted. It was a war and, like any other war, in spite of what Billy Bragg says, it was not a “liberating experience”. Wars are complex and nasty sequences of events in which mass groups of individuals are crushed by forces. The strike made things different but, if it made anybody free, it was only for fleeting moments. As J. K. Galbraith observed, absence of money limits freedom more than dictatorial government ever could.
I am presumptuous enough to say “we” still have our banners. Nobody in my family was a miner, but I supported the strike when I was 17. I donated money. I went on marches. I gave out leaflets. I had never-ending arguments with my father. It got to the point where we could not ask each other if we wanted a cup of tea without it resulting in an argument about the miners’ strike.
But the banners represent nothing if we are not in control of our own destiny. If you march behind one of those banners, I would like to think you are an independently-minded, democratic socialist. I would like to think that you have the instinct to question what you are told. In 1985, the ruling class used the strike to accelerate the pit closure programme that they had already started. This country appears to be on the brink of another epoch-making political and economic change, the direction of which still lies with the ruling class.
However you voted in the referendum, I ask you this: since when did change which is in the hands of the ruling class ever benefit the working class?
I arrived at Lobby 1867 on Westgate in Wakefield with only a vague idea of what I was going to read in my open mic slot. The organiser and compere, Tim Brookes, told me I was on second from last, in the second half, and so I would be able to listen to nearly all the other performers, and see if any theme would emerge.
Tim Brookes began with a piece called ‘Watch With Mother’. My friend and Black Horse Poets colleague, Stefan Grieve, read ‘If Time’, and ‘Sanctuary of Words’, which he wrote at a recent writing workshop at Wakefield Library, organised by Tim Brookes, and conducted by Gaia Holmes from Halifax.
I am not going to review all the open mikers. It suffices to say that the standard was generally very high, but some people could still do with doing a timed rehearsal beforehand, INCLUDING ANY PREAMBLE, all the better to stay within the 4 minute slot. Tim is commendably energetic in enforcing the time limit, but more cooperation from the readers would make his task easier, and wouldn’t kill anybody.
Aamina Khan read her pieces off a smart phone. She did not give titles to any of her pieces, as far as I could tell. When she is not reading a piece, Aamina talks incessantly, in a way that I find engaging. The banter is sufficiently relevant to her performance to be worthwhile, but not so long as to prevent the pieces from speaking for themselves. She read: a piece about regional accent (Aamina herself has a Calderdale accent), a piece about pain, and a piece that she said was inspired by me – by William Thirsk-Gaskill. I did not quite follow the explanation of this, but I gather it was to do with a reading that she and I attended, along with other poets in an anthology called We’re All In It Together, published by Grist Books. I had said something to her at that event. It might have been, “We are not many peoples. We are one people.” I also caught the phrase, “And then this old guy came up to me”. I am grateful for all acknowledgements. She finished with a piece about the deadline for a university assignment. The narrator may or may not be trying to convey ADHD. Aamina finished her set to rapturous and well-deserved applause.
The next headliner was Emma Purshouse, from Wolverhampton. She opened with a piece about the flamingoes in Dudley Zoo, delivered in Black Country dialect, and recited from memory. She followed with a piece about a contemporary version of Punch & Judy, delivered by Punch. Her next piece was introduced with the words, “This is what might happen if Thelma and Louise lived in the Black Country, were in their seventies, and didn’t have a car.” The next was about a poster on a pub wall, delivered in the voice of a drunk, female narrator. And then a poem about the sounds made by a walrus, narrated by a male walrus. And then a canal poem, set in Tipton, and poem about a woman who meets an antagonist on a bus.
Emma Purshouse’s poetry is mostly delivered in a Black Country accent, and contains dialect, the most significant elements of which are explained in advance. The accent and dialect are well-handled, because all the pieces stand up because of their subject, characterisation, and craft: the accent is the means of delivering the poem; it is not the whole poem. It lends authenticity, rather than acting as window dressing. Her first full poetry collection is called Close, and published by Offa’s Press. (In my browser, WordPress has not rendered this correctly, but the link to Emma’s website still works.)
The second half was compered by Lisa Falshaw, another Black Horse Poets colleague. She read a Larkinesque piece called Photographs, and an ode to a paperclip.
The third and final headliner was Steve Pottinger, also from Wolverhampton. He mentioned coming from a relatively small city, near a relatively larger city, which diverts money, publicity, and opportunities away from the smaller city. That gave me an idea for my open mic slot. His first piece was about returning home from a trip to Birmingham on train full of drunks. It was authentic and well-observed. And then came ‘In Praise of the Hardiness of Market Traders’. ‘The Crown and Sceptre, Friday’ is a poem set in a traditional pub and again was well-observed, and not sentimental. Next came a preamble about a real, Chilean street dog called El Vaquita. The preamble was just enough to set up the poem, which was moving and powerful and full of emotion, but again, without sentimentality. ‘Fatima’s Working in Cyber’ was an economically-written and acute satire based on a Conservative goverment poster from a few years ago. It raised loud cheers. And then a poem about Palestine; ‘7:19 In The Evening’, about a busker singing in Birmingham New Street station, which was a suitably lyrical and calming end to a set full of fervour. To find out about El Vaquita, you can either google it, or you can attend one of Steve Pottinger’s performances, which is certainly the course I recommend.
Another open miker I will mention is Faye Marshall, a regular at Getting Gobby in the Lobby and also a colleague of mine from Kevin P. Gilday’s lockdown venture, Scribbler’s Union. She continued the West Midlands theme with a piece about racism experienced by an Irishman in Birmingham. It packed several punches, and was well-handled.
I read a piece called Echo, which my wife says is the best poem I have ever written. It is about my late mother’s dictating machine, and all the punctuation is set out in words. Further to Steve’s remarks about larger, neighbouring cities, I finished with a short, silly piece I wrote about Leeds, which provoked suitably ironic cheers.
My piece mentioned the discovery (or, as I read it, the “invention”) of oxygen, and so it was entirely fitting that the final performer was Tom Priestley, who was standing in for Joseph Priestley, who couldn’t make it. I have heard him perform before, and he delivered another excellent set in his distinctive voice.
The open mikers were good. The headliners were outstanding. For a “pay as you feel event”, it was incredibly good value for money.
iamhyperlexic 