Tag: poetry

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Timing is Everything

Regular readers will know it’s no secret that I don’t make a full-time living from writing. I have an office job as my main income.

When I moved to my current job, I found out there was someone who knows me through one of my writing groups, so we always chat in the canteen. After a while, I realised I only ever saw him in the canteen and never the wider office. I jokingly asked him last week, ‘Do you actually have a desk, or do you just work in here?’

He explained that he uses the Pomodoro method, which involves working on an activity for 25 minutes, then taking a five-minute break. It was developed by Francesco Cirillo, who named it after the Italian word for ‘tomato’ because that was the shape of his timer.

In the case of my colleague, he goes for a cup of tea during each break. It might work well in his role, but I don’t know how I would adapt it to mine.

Outside of the office, though, it’s a technique I use when I want to focus on a piece of writing. It must be stated that 25 minutes isn’t quite long enough for me, so I prefer the double Pomodoro method: 50 minutes of activity and a 10-minute break.

There are also plenty of alternatives to using a kitchen timer, such as a background noise generator that can simulate rainfall for as long as you like.

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Writing Outdoors

I’ve always regarded writing as a strictly indoor activity. On account of the unusually warm weather over the weekend, however, I decided to try it outside again. It did not go well.

Despite being in the shade and having my computer screen brightness set to 100%, it was difficult to see what was on the screen as I finished off a project. When the battery ran low and the screen automatically dimmed, it then became near-impossible to see the mouse and cursor.

At that point, I decided to switch to writing a letter by hand. There have been times when the wind has blown my papers all over the place, rainwater has ruined them, or it was simply been too cold to hold a pen. That said, I had more success there. The only real obstacle was the sun glaring on the white paper, so I had to wear shades.

I don’t foresee too many more sunny days over the coming weeks, but if there is, I think a better solution would be to sit inside, open the door, and let the outdoors come in.

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Being a Judge

On Saturday, my open-mic night Hotchpotch jointly hosted a poetry slam with the Edinburgh-based I Am Loud.

A slam is a form of performance poetry that heavily emphasises performance and audience reaction as well as the actual writing. It’s also competitive, with a panel of judges awarding points based on pre-agreed criteria.

In all my years of attending slams, I’d never been asked to act as a judge before. By all accounts, it was the least-envied job in the room. We would be marking each of the performers on a scale of 1 to 10.

I didn’t see the other judges’ papers, but I found the standard of performance was so high that it generally came down to how much I enjoyed the poem. There were some tough calls, but I don’t think I’d make any amendments in hindsight.

It really did help to have been to so many slams and other poetry events, so as to build up a frame of reference about what I enjoy and dislike. It was also useful to pay attention to the reactions from the audience. I’d be happy to do this again in the future.

It’s safe to say it now, but I was privately rather worried about whether our members would attend a ticketed slam in place of their usual free-of-charce open-mic. However, I’d failed to take into account that the I Am Loud name has some clout with local poets, and they sold out all 12 performer slots – even if two of them withdrew.

The winner in the end was Tom Bird, who goes on to compete in the final competition later this year.

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How to Collect Secondary Royalties

Even in the writing community, it’s not widely known that published writers might be entitled to secondary royalties. These are generated when a work is lent, copied, rebroadcast, &c. Not only that, it’s simple to register for collection.

Firstly, you’ll need the ISBN and/or other details of the publications where your work appears. Then sign up for the Authors’ Licensing and Collecting Society (ALCS) and follow the instructions. Lifetime membership is £36, which is deducted from your first royalties payment so you pay nothing upfront.

There are two payouts per year: in March and September. Writers might be paid in one or both of these, depending on what types of payments have been received. The amounts you receive are never a fortune, but just enough to acknowledge the use of your work.

When I received my payment last week, it was £93.88, with most of that coming from UK fees, but some from EU and non-EU sources. I currently have six works registered, dating back to 2016.

I can’t find a breakdown of the exact amount contributed by each work, but judging by the pattern of payments, it’s a safe bet to assume the more recent ones are higher earners, and I’m quite happy about that.

That latest work was an anthology that took more than two years from the first meeting to the final publication, featuring a number of local poets and photographers. We knew from the start there would be no payment because it was for charity, but we had been promised a complimentary contributor’s copy.

It then emerged that the committee had decided not to offer this. I still have the chain of angry and disappointed emails. Some of the writers offered potential compromises or solutions, but the issue was never resolved and most of us refused to buy a copy.

So although the amount isn’t great, I’ve earned enough from my contribution to buy several copies, even though I still wouldn’t.

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A Little Poetry

Every year, I take time to visit StAnza, the poetry event in St Andrews. The festival is typically spread over the course of around a week, so I normally book a few events on the same day. This year took a significantly different form but it was no less literary.

I booked just two events: the breakfast poetry in the morning plus the slam competition on Saturday evening. I’d planned to use the middle of the day to visit a pal I haven’t seen for around three years.

He introduced me to a game called Bananagrams. It’s easier to demonstrate than explain, but fans of Scrabble will likely enjoy it. We played four games and discussed a few of the books on his shelf.

By the end of the afternoon, I’d decided to skip the slam. It goes on late into the evening and I was too tired to stay up. Instead, I used the time to compose an overdue card to a pal in Dublin, complete with a handwritten letter that ended up being four A5 pages long.

If I were one of these people who posted these vapid inspirational quotes, I’d end with something like ‘The serves as a reminder that even when plans change, there are always opportunities to connect and create meaningful moments.’ And yet that very much expresses how I feel. Just this once, let’s lean into this sentiment.

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Exploring the Collaborative World of Renga

About three years ago, I had the privilege of becoming one of the first people to sign up for a collaborative poetry project spearheaded by W N Herbert.

Each month, he sends regular emails to a group of fellow poets, inviting us to contribute new verses to a renga poem. One suggestion is chosen every day and added to the email chain, so it builds up as the weeks go on.

A renga is a form of Japanese linked verse alternating haikus with pairs of seven-syllable lines. Each stanza has its own distinct direction, not necessarily responding directly to the previous one, but the end result is a collaborative work that showcases the individual voices and perspectives that make up a cohesive whole.

As W N Herbert receives quite enough suggestions from our small group, the mailing list is not open to the public. However, you can read the finished rengas and other pieces on the Gude and Godlie website.

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Uninspiring Prompts

I’m in a monthly poetry circle where we write a new poem each month. There is always a prompt to help with inspiration, but there’s no obligation to follow it.

For this month, it was suggested we write about public art. I thought this would be a simple task, as I live five minutes away from three separate sculptures on the same piece of land: one is a spiral, another is a vertical zig-zag, and the third is in the shape of a large egg.

I instead spent days trying to be inspired by one or more of these pieces. I tried rhyming poetry, free verse, a self-referential style, and a critical style, yet nothing was working. I eventually figured out the problem. I needed context for these sculptures, but there is absolutely none, not even a sign with a title or something about the artist. Without this background information, I found myself unable to engage.

Instead, I walked a few minutes up the road to a mural painted last year. It spans the height of a six-storey building, is attributed to a particular artist and there is background information available online. That poem took less than an hour to write and I’m more satisfied with it than any of my previous drafts.

There is no telling what’s going to be a prompt for your next poem, but if something isn’t working for you, there’s no shame in moving on to something else that does inspire you.

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Marching into March

Around a week ago, tickets for the StAnza poetry festival went on sale. For around a week, there are poetry events all over St Andrews, particularly in the Byre Theatre and Parliament Hall, but also taking advantage of smaller rooms and venues across town.

I’d normally be at the front of the queue for events, but I’ve held off booking them this year. I have other commitments that potentially clash, plus I was waiting to receive this month’s wages.

It’s likely I’ll go to the breakfast event on Saturday, with a pie or a pastry served before it. I’m then going to visit a pal I haven’t seen for two years who lives in the area. At night, I need to decide whether to enter the slam competition, as the late finish means staying overnight or catching one of the last buses home. I’m then playing Dungeons & Dragons the next day.

So as soon as I publish this, I’ll be looking through the festival programme and working out a plan. I can already see some of the staple events, like poetry in translation, round table discussions and music recitals; I just need to work out how to fit them into my schedule.

I have

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Collaboration Nation

If you’re a creative sort in Dundee, you’ll probably have some involvement with Creative Dundee. This is an organisation with a mission to connect the city’s art projects with one another.

Earlier this week, I received an email asking whether I’d be open to an interview with them, covering the writing groups I run. The offer couldn’t come at a better time, considering I’ve just brought aboard a co-host for my open-mic group and we’re looking to plug an upcoming collaboration in April.

The interview takes place next week, and I hope to bring you the published piece in a few weeks’ time.

Separately from this, I’d offered to lend equipment to a guerilla film project who were awarded funding through Creative Dundee last month. I’ve now been called into action, as they need to borrow a projector and a camcorder.

It’s unlikely I’ll be able to attend the event on Saturday because of a prior commitment, but I look forward to hearing the report.

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Public Poetry

Regular readers of this blog will know I normally write about writing rather than posting the writing itself. This is because publishers won’t normally accept writing that’s available online, especially free of charge.

But on my tour of the Millennium bridges, discussed last week, I took a little time to write clerihews at each stop. They were so situation-specific that there wasn’t any point in keeping them for a publisher, so here they are in full.

Gateshead,
I visited you instead
of fussing
over your green-arched cousin.
Stockton-on-Tees:
your pointed geometry
pointed the way
to a new century.
York
had the longest walk,
and some robust
gusts.
London,
there are none
who match the sheer span
that you can.
Salford
you rise like a bird,
free
from the quay.
Lancaster
there’s no faster,
way to cross the Lune
on a January afternoon.
Glasgow:
I’m sure the traffic will still flow
over and under, come
the next millennium.

Separately, here’s one I wrote at a popular chain restaurant yesternight.

Monday at the Beefeater
Half-past five, half-past January,
in a half-full restaurant,
kids eat half-portions
as dads drink half-pints.
I half-think I see someone
half-inching a glass.