Tuesday 13 December 2016

Winter

Nine months have passed since I was appointed Otley Town Poet and the time has zipped by as quick as a rat up the garden. Another busy season has been and gone and we are now entering, what should be, a bleak and chilly period, but this has yet to be seen. This will be the penultimate blogpost of my year in the role, and just typing these words has conjured up many emotions for me - it has been such a marvellous job being Otley's Town Poet and don't want it to end!

I first want to thank everyone involved in the 'Responses' event at Otley Folk Festival in mid-September. We packed out the tap room at The Fleece and there is definite scope to set up a similar event next year. What was most striking was the mixture of folk and poetry fans, Otliensians and out-of-towners in the room, all brought together for the love of music and words. The commissioned poems were truly outstanding, as was the guitar playing.



Also there has been a great deal of interest in the 'poetry parcels' I've hidden around the town. There is still time to find them and take part in a communal writing experience (details of the project are featured in the blogpost for autumn, below). This will feature in Otley Matters, the town's newsletter, which has published three instalments of my serialised poem, 'Shaman', which focuses on a fictional character who walks the streets and hedgerows, drunk on the landscape and history of the region.

I especially want to congratulate Jane Kite and Peter White at Otley Word Feast Press/Half Moon Books for the successful launch of their pub poems anthology and also the inspired idea to open a Pop-up Poetry Book Shop at their HQ. The last weekend in November saw a book exchange and poetry readings and a high attendance of passers-by. I think this really represents to the innovative work by Otley's artistic community to engage new and existing audiences.

Last season was a busy period for in terms of poetry readings. Apart from commitments on home turf, I visited Manchester, Sheffield and Scunthorpe to recite verse and spread the word of what's happening in Otley. Here's a picture of me (not sure what I'm describing!) at Off the Shelf Festival and here's the link for my reading at Scunthorpe's Cafe INDIEpendent and interview for Mouth Magazine. This season won't be as busy, but there are plenty of projects and outings in the pipeline.

I'll be reading at Chesterfield's Spire Writes on January 28th at the Labour Club where I'll be sharing a stage with the amazing Helen Mort and Steve Nash. Then I'll be reading in Leeds at Wharf Chambers on February 9th as part of the Enemies Project North by North-West Tour, for which I'll be joining poetry royalty Ian McMillan for readings. In addition to this, there will certainly be more Otley-based projects before my tenure is up. The only project I can confirm is a play for voices that will be broadcast on East Leeds FM and available to download. I will be writing a narrative to link together poems by other writers relating to Otley in the style of Dylan Thomas's 'Under Milk Wood'. And to finish on a festive note, I tried a little experiment on the X84, leaving seven Christmas Crackers containing specific poems and (bad) jokes relating to Otley. One commuter kindly tweeted about it here.

So Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and do say hello or get in touch if you have any thoughts on poetry in Otley. Here is a festive poem for you - and a cautionary tale!

Unplug the fairylights before bedtime.

Royalty wearing paper crowns,
amongst snapped crackers and sherry,
battled with burnt turkey thighs,
passing round sharper knives
and pointier forks in a cavalry charge of cutlery.

A kitten pawing baubles
near the balding tree’s stump
shook pine needles from its mane
taking a running jump into a box where
a urinating baby had laid.

Itchy knitwear smothered
a boy sneaking in from the garden
after shooting two robins
and the next-door-neighbour-but-one
with a GAT gun whilst out hunting a partridge.

Farts and reruns filled the air
and batteries from smoke alarms
powered a train chugging along
plastic tracks, beside skirting boards,
derailed by a tartan slipper.

Fairylights circling the roof
spat sparks, flames snaked
down the walls, each room
razed to the carpet in seconds,
doused with a giant glass of egg nog.

The fire engine from last year
gathering dust under bunk beds
was not needed, for the charred remains
of tenants asleep in the dolls house
were carried away by remote control ambulance.