Reviews

The John Tripp Award for Spoken Poetry Grand Final

Celebrity Restaurant, St David’s Hall, Cardiff

Wednesday 26 November, 2003

 

Arriving just in time to reduce the cost of parking might seem Scrooge-like near Christmas, and not good thinking when an extreme corner of the restaurant was only vacant to my listening, but for a white male somewhat past his prime in his sixties, unsure of where his place is now in the scheme of things, it made sound economic sense. 

 

To hear or not to hear? was the immediate question, and whether, as a compromise, it be better for me to just sit back, enjoy a glass of wine, or attempt to pass the time in concocting word rhythms from the possibility of unintentional verbal cues given by the competing poets.  I managed the easy part, that is, I drank small quantities of alcohol so as not to go beyond the legal limit while driving, but word games did not come to pass in the jumble of sounds without connections.  It was purely experimental you see, nothing serious to make the panting heart of any poet think that he or she might have an outstanding competitor in their midst, who was keeping himself back for greater things. 

 

Regarding the consumption of alcohol, I have found that smaller amounts to the larger seem to sharpen observation but not the easy assimilation of speech.  Without the use of the microphone, which had a faulty connection, there was only the often muffled clutch of words, sharp cadences and quickening rap of sounds to hear. One could have uttered: "Can’t hear, speak up? But nobody did, not even myself.  I was somehow content to leave things the way they were.  No interference, a dispassionate observer, but not quite.

 

For, shall I say, democratic thinking wordsmiths, who wanted everyone to hear their "sullen art" as Dylan Thomas wrote, the microphone was an invalid in their hands, falling apart like a comic, collapsing puppet without strings.  One young, beautiful poet, who wore the make-up and dress style similar to a twenties film star - I half-expected her to perform the Charleston  -  projected her  fine speaking voice for about five seconds before the connecting flex fell away from the microphone wriggling like an eel to loose coils on the floor.  The poet cast a cool-eyed glance at the impotent microphone, possibly thankful that she had escaped being electrocuted and used her natural voice.  I heard something, while the volume was good, about a woman’s erotic zones before the low ceiling absorbed most of the words.  I suppose I should have asked the poet for a very special rendition, but she was with her boyfriend and he might have not understood my true intentions of just wanting to listen and understand.

 

Another poet, again a woman, and equally beautiful in her mature years, was conspicuous with a long, black feather that seemed to grow out from her small, black hat.  How the tip of the feather bounced and swayed when she moved!  How it trembled and danced when she read her poems!  If a small light had been fixed on the tip of the feather, the movement would have possibly conjured a kind of balletic, strobe effect, accentuating gesture and particular words said.

 

I achieved such an effect in art college in the early nineteen seventies.  The formula being:  Darkness + Single road lamp + Night Club music + B/W Video Camera + Using the light source as a means of visually revealing my interpretation of the music by moving the camera to the beat and rhythm = Light Ballet, or "Taking a Line for a Walk".  It should be said that the experiment ruined the lens of the camera, and an expensive item it was to replace.  The art tutors happily paid for a new lens, but the head technician never forgave me for what he regarded as pure vandalism - art for arts and all that.  Just thought I would mention it in passing.

 

With time moving on and the pay-on-foot machine of the NCP clicking my life and the money away for the privilege of parking, I decided not to wait any longer while the judges decided to reassess who should come third in the contest (I believe it was for third place); I dislike seeing the covered-up hurt of poets, or any other participants in a discipline, in smiles, shaking of hands, slapping on backs of the winner and runners-up.  The delicate mixtures of a personality that make up their egos, surely, require some form of remedial treatment after such trauma.  Better to keep the proverbial chin up and write on, as I am sure all the poets do until the end of their time.  Speaking of time, it is also a good time to mention my NCP ticket: V.A.T. 17.5% 0. 92. Time: 19:15 to 22:26 = £6.20.