So, I went to a poetry workshop. No, I will not tell you where or when, for I am gearing up to be catty. I have been to several of these poetry workshops over the years – the first when I was only seventeen, oh, and one in a tent of all places, and by heck but do all the participants come in a kit marked ‘Poetry Workshop – standard model’? It’s enough to turn a girl to Jung.
For a start, wherever the workshop takes place, and no matter how many people booked into it, there will not be enough table-space. And too many chairs. Three or four people will be attempting to create immortal verse on a knee, muttering ‘oh, no, I’m quite fine, really,’ to all solicitous enquiries from the leader, despite being bent into a hunch Quasimodo would have paid good money for. At some point, the workshop leader will insist on moving all the tables about. It won’t help. And there will be no coffee. Or, if there is coffee, it’ll be undrinkably cold and sour. But, bizarrely, the biscuits will be nice, even luxurious, so much so that they may even metamorphose into pastries. There will be a pile of paper and biros, because exactly one quarter of the participants will not have brought their own. One biro will get trodden underfoot and make a damn nuisance of itself by ruining the carpet and/or leaving brittle shards about for the play-group that uses the space on weekdays.
The basic set of participants is as follows:
- The Workshop Leader – this is usually a genuine real-live published poet. They are also generally enthusiastic, warm-hearted, even-handed and rather attractive, and half the workshop will have a little crush on them by the first lunch-break. I have heard rumours that such a species as a sod of a leader exists, who is grumpy, or plays favourites, or is overly critical. Never met one. The exercises set by the leader will involve, at various stages, some kind of exploration of childhood memories, a timed burst of ‘free-writing’, an attempt to write a poem based on the various sensory perceptions said memories bring with them, and a great deal of reading aloud and mutual back-slapping and encouragement. This last would have been more satisfying if one was not so aware of how hard it is to think of something positive to say about at least one piece, and nevertheless how gamely one struggled to say something anyway, because the thought of leaving one writer unpraised when everyone else is getting a share of the jollies is unspeakable. Paranoia inevitably follows.
- The Pam Ayres – a sensibly shod middle-aged woman with a genuine talent for light verse. As she has had both some experience, and some success among her friends, she votes herself the Leader’s second-in-command and also prevents anyone else getting a word in edge-ways during breaks. It would probably be counterproductive to suggest she edit out any repetitive bits or forced rhymes – she’s here for the exposure, not the instruction.
- The Penis – invariably good-looking and affable. He has written a lot of poetry and throws himself fearlessly into readings, which he has also done a lot of. The poems are highly rhythmic and highly coloured descriptions of fast cars, fast living, expensive and exotic locations, with himself spread out in the middle of it all. He makes sure he says ‘fuck’ at least once per poem. Reed regards this sort of thing as banging one’s willy on a tree and has rather took agin’ it.
- The Serious One Рwho is, in fact, so serious about doing it all properly and exactly as the Leader says to do it that he or she gets in a bit of a tiz about not having enough time, or having misinterpreted an instruction (one or both of these is unavoidable for the Serious One), and utterly fails to enjoy any of it at all. Ends up writing a rather peculiar set of poems with no coherent structure and slightly too much clich̩d metaphor. Is either scowling with concentration or on the verge of tears throughout.
- The Soulful One Рwrites rather good poetry, but tends to get rather carries away and either produce a very long rant about some political b̻te noir complete with disturbing sections about blood or corpses or female genital mutilation, or introspects at length about gender identity. The rest of the group are torn between admiration at the prolixity and nerve, and desire to eat their pastry in peace/ get on with reading their own bit.
- The Anal Retentive – faintly disapproving of all this ‘winging it’. Would prefer to be ordered to write a pantoum or some such control-freak exotica. Realises half-way through her first reading that no one else at all gives a toss about anapaestic tetrameter. Role usually played by yours truly [Just fancy - Ed].
- The Nonplus – This participant is, just… I… what? Despite an unprepossessing tendency to rattle on about how exciting it is to meet some creative people at last, during the warm-up exercises he or she happily shares details of childhood bonkerness that dazzle the mind. Such memories are to be used as the basis of a few informal poems. We expect great things. The Nonplus proceeds to erect an asbestos flame-wall of banality. In prose. About being excited at getting to meet some creative people at last, like as not. There is a terrible silence in which we can all see the Leader wondering if this person actually heard the instructions, or is actually channelling two personalities. Occasionally the Nonplus omits the exciting revelations and degenerates into a mere What Are You Doing Here?
Of course, sometimes you attend a workshop constructed from a deluxe set, and find several novelty collectors pieces such as The Bloke (somewhat obsessed with cars or football, nice line in self-deprecation), The Squeak (who is having such a marvellous time and isn’t it all exciting and isn’t everyone wonderful - distressing tendency to write about lonely seagulls), The Earth Mother (has Breasts, which get into everything), The Interesting Person (there to meet other Interesting People and, with any luck, get a date. Inevitably disappointed), and the I’m Only Here Because He/She Is (either sulks for the entire thing and produces nothing much, or suddenly catches afire and becomes star pupil. This probably causes bickering on the way home).
There will, of course, be a handful of unclassifiably diverse and reasonably normal people who are simply interested in poetry and want to write more of it. God bless their little hides, I say, and if only there were rather more of them.
And then, there is the Poetry Reading…
