Day Six will be along shortly. We interrupt scheduled publication for a brief indulgence.
There’s a song by The The which I’ve sung to myself, off and on, since the mid 1980’s. It is the reminder that, at certain points in your life, it does all work out. Do the hours, put in the legwork and yup, you get the reward. Of course, it doesn’t come from the applause or the performance. It’s the moment when a random woman you never met who turns out to be an impressively well published and quoted author puts an arm around you after your performance and then hands you a glass of wine.
It’s the American woman you meet at the bookstall afterwards who is impressive and flattering in her praise. It’s the laugh you’ll take when admitting in public you’ll be (and are) a wreck after you’ve performed. It’s being able to stop a tremor in your leg as you do what you know is right out of love and respect for the words that came along, formed the poem, before granting a chance to walk into a larger room than the one previously your home.
I read my poem from a book of failures: it remains the place where submitted work is placed once entered, whilst waiting for (inevitable) summary rejection. It means that, from now on, all the poems continue to be recorded (and that I’ve got a few that need to be added after the last couple of weeks) and if they succeed, the first reading will be from here. I’ll write more about this in the appropriate blog, of course, but on five hours sleep and after a (absolutely brilliant) 8.15 am PT session, brain’s kinda lost the plot.
It was fucking awesome, though.
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