A couple of months ago, a Londoner told me they were planning to head to Leicester. According to her, Leicester wasn't just north of London, it was (emphasis on the definite article) the North. I wasn't sure how to break it to her that Leicester is in the Midlands. Being a Londoner once myself, however, I was aware that everywhere north of Watford is usually the north to most Londoners. At the beginning of April, however, Ann and Peter Sansom, two poets utterly linked with the north on the poetry map, came south to join us for a reading in Leicester, the Midlands. This was for WORD! at the Y Theatre, a regular spoken word event which includes Open Mic readings, which I often write about here. There were Open Mic readings from Richard Byrt, Jayne Stanton and Michael Brewer and others.
I was lucky enough to be the support act, along
with Roy Marshall, and read a few poems that had appeared or about to appear in
the next issue of The North, the
magazine edited by Ann and Peter. Earlier, the pair had held a workshop at De
Montfort Uni, which was great for me as I literally finished work for the day
and nipped over. Readers of this blog will know that I often pop up to
Sheffield for workshops with Ann and Peter, run as part of their organisation The
Poetry Business.
The evening was compered and organised by Pam
Thompson, who also read some fine poems too. Both Peter and Ann read really
well and Peter’s reading was warm and entertaining. I had heard him read once
before in Leicester at States of Independence. I’d never heard Ann, although I’d read quite a
bit of her work, including the Bloodaxe collection In Praise of Men and Other People. Here's a pic of the cover:
I’m sharing Ann’s poem ‘Confirmation’
here; Ann very kindly gave me permission. This poem has previously appeared in The Rialto. Ann read it at WORD! and I
thought there were so many interesting things going on in this poem. The tone
is conversational perhaps and actually quite funny: ‘what miracle’s he going to
perform on this, godforgiveus?’ but there’s a great deal of menace here. I also learnt a new word, apparently ‘slaumed’
is a dialect word for smear. What struck
me in this poem is the way the school girls are made to literally work on their
‘knees’ for their visitor and then in their own social lives behave in a servile
way. That final couplet, where the roadie is ‘here / and cocky and think
yourself lucky.’ is compelling and you feel a bit sickened for the girl. I
thought this poem was pin-sharp and here it is:
Confirmation
In honour of His Grace, you had us on our knees
for weeks,
‘a blessing on this visit and please god no
silliness.’
Run ragged with dusters, shouted at for holey
plimsolls,
threatened with expulsion, some broke down,
distraught
in the branches of the forsynthia arranging,
or, bright black with Brasso,
muttered in the trophy cupboard, ‘he’d better
be worth it the bastard.’
We slaumed silver paint on the refectory
radiator, lugged planks
to make an altar in the gym, ‘what’s up with
the table we always have?
What miracle’s he going to perform on this,
godforgiveus?’
But we were whispering by then, disappointed by
the almighty
but holding our breath when He drew up. We queued
and bobbed
to kiss his glove, got te absolvoed, took the
slap to strengthen us.
Amen. Friday night: Roy Orbison invited Kath
McMahon
to his dressing room at the Odeon, Bo Diddley’s
drummer
got Jacintha Malley’s phone number, Gerry
Marsden’s roadie
Instructed, I forget who it was, on the needs of
the elderly
balding purple silky not so godly nor entirely
manly, but here
and cocky and think yourself lucky. Obedience.
We knew our place.
Thank you, Sister Mary Frances.
