Stubbing Warf, Hebden Bridge July 2008
Wow! What a fantastic first night with over 50 people attending and around 26 readers. Well done to organiser Sean Kavanagh and thanks to the regular WOLers who came to support the night. It was also nice to meet people from the web site in the flesh!
Oh yes and some great and diverse poetry too - I can't wait for next month it promises to be a good one.
And even though i hate slams I'll be at the Hebden one on Monday as I'm curious as to how it will go - there are a couple of places left if you fancy a punt, see our news section for details of how to enter.
Oh yes and some great and diverse poetry too - I can't wait for next month it promises to be a good one.
And even though i hate slams I'll be at the Hebden one on Monday as I'm curious as to how it will go - there are a couple of places left if you fancy a punt, see our news section for details of how to enter.
Fri, 4 Jul 2008 09:48 am
darren thomas
Under normal circumstances, there is a mosh pit of my intoxication that separates me from a subjective audience. This artificial buffet zone can work both for and against, in much the same way as sobriety does in all its manifestations. What sobriety takes with one imaginary hand, it gives with another, and in this instance it allowed me to make a mental note of my unfamiliar surroundings and observe with a clear water perception at how an inaugural poetry night unfolded and so it’s through these eyes, bathed in the soothing milk of temperance, that I make the following observations.
Hebden Bridge is geographically challenging. Without the aid of satellite savigational aids or an old fashioned road atlas or, at the very least, one person who has a vague idea where the place is, don’t rely on fingerposts to knowingly show you the way. Don’t rely on the indigenous population of West Yorkshire to indicate the way, and definitely, if you manage to bumble your way within a two mile radius of the village, don’t rely on a local pedestrian public, simply because there doesn’t appear to be such a thing as ’local’.
Hebden, with all its yesteryear tales of hippy hedonism, is now more cosmopolitan than Paris, I’m sure. Which is not good when you’re asking directions to the whereabouts of a pub whose name, at that moment of asking, simply escapes you. Yet we managed - between the three of us, to finally facilitate our safe arrival at the Stubbing wotsitsname. Much to the relief of both ourselves and our frantic bladders.
The pub itself is exactly what you’d expect if you were the type who allows the damaging seeds of prejudice to germinate - which of course, we all do. Low ceilings, rustic beams, ‘authentic’ pub food (has anybody ever had ‘unauthentic’ pub food?) and a minestrone soup of cliental, ranging from ladies who sport beards, to men reading broadsheet newspapers at the bar chewing noisily on pork scratchings. Sitting, obstructing that same bar. In front of me. Queuing. Forever. For the pleasure of a soft drink. The price of which, I imagined, would entail the bar staff walking to my side of the bar and unbuckling my trousers before pulling my pants down with one firm but determined tug leaving them in a pathetic pile around my ankles. I had a cursory look around just to see if anybody else was in this same state of undress and walking like arctic penguins but I presumed that it was only me who was foolish enough to pay £2.40 for a pint of lemonade - but I digress.
The poetry - ah yes, the poetry. Like Paul has already mentioned, there was a significant turnout. He says fifty, so who am I to argue with the man who once dined with Ken Dodd’s accountant, so fifty it was. In fact, it probably was fifty, there or there about.
Fifty people inside a room which, for a moment at least, allowed you to appreciate the conditions in which Anne Frank subjected herself during a well documented war. ‘Intimate’ I think would be an appropriate adjective. Dimly lit - perhaps another way of describing the mood, unless anything more than the seeping light from a 5 watt light bulb is your idea of dazzling? No? but that’s the beauty of this type of poetry night. It doesn’t matter where, it doesn’t matter when, it doesn’t matter why - it simply matters who? So, who did we have last night?
Far too many to mention. Some performed better than others and others had far more substance than some. It was, as Paul said, a mix of spoken word with a range in poetic diversity as you could hope to wish for. Ranging from the ridiculous to the sublime and back again through the sincerity mountains and the lowlands of farce. Old and young alike spat their words, sucked their stanzas and blew their way through an evening of what was, or could have been, a war of the poetic roses. Yorkshire men and women against the bitter foe from over t’hill. Them proper chaps, also known as Lanky-sher men (and wimmen) but there was to be no divide, of course there wasn’t. Just a sense that something like poetry can bring people together, to share their intimate and personal thoughts, no matter how they choose to verbalize them. Complete strangers with one common bond. A passion for poetry and, to a similar extent, its performance.
From a personal level, I felt that many performers left me in their verbal wakes. Some less experienced than myself, but these moments allow you to reflect and think what could be better? How could it be better? Does anyone really care better? Of course we all care, that’s why we do it. Right?
Anyway, if you have computer driven navigational aids, the time to spare and heaps of inclination, then why not try Hebden for yourself. Last night was the first night for a Write Out Loud event held in Hebden and, it was well supported, especially, I thought , by those of us who live a considerable distance away. It would be nice to see this level of support work both ways over the coming months. Maybe, in the not too distant future, we could have a real battle of the poetic roses - a poetry slam. The white rose of Yorkshire - The red rose of Lancashire pitted against each other. Toe to toe. Nose to nose - or, we could just fuse the two and have ‘The Pink Rose of Poetry’ - a celebration of poetry. We could have it at the Tudor! (I know my way there). Let them buggers come over t'hill…!
Overall, on reflection, I enjoyed it. There were one or two things that I didn’t enjoy - but that’s always going to be the case with me, miserable twot that I am. In fact, I’ll set off now for the next one, I should just about arrive there on time. Maybe?
Hebden Bridge is geographically challenging. Without the aid of satellite savigational aids or an old fashioned road atlas or, at the very least, one person who has a vague idea where the place is, don’t rely on fingerposts to knowingly show you the way. Don’t rely on the indigenous population of West Yorkshire to indicate the way, and definitely, if you manage to bumble your way within a two mile radius of the village, don’t rely on a local pedestrian public, simply because there doesn’t appear to be such a thing as ’local’.
Hebden, with all its yesteryear tales of hippy hedonism, is now more cosmopolitan than Paris, I’m sure. Which is not good when you’re asking directions to the whereabouts of a pub whose name, at that moment of asking, simply escapes you. Yet we managed - between the three of us, to finally facilitate our safe arrival at the Stubbing wotsitsname. Much to the relief of both ourselves and our frantic bladders.
The pub itself is exactly what you’d expect if you were the type who allows the damaging seeds of prejudice to germinate - which of course, we all do. Low ceilings, rustic beams, ‘authentic’ pub food (has anybody ever had ‘unauthentic’ pub food?) and a minestrone soup of cliental, ranging from ladies who sport beards, to men reading broadsheet newspapers at the bar chewing noisily on pork scratchings. Sitting, obstructing that same bar. In front of me. Queuing. Forever. For the pleasure of a soft drink. The price of which, I imagined, would entail the bar staff walking to my side of the bar and unbuckling my trousers before pulling my pants down with one firm but determined tug leaving them in a pathetic pile around my ankles. I had a cursory look around just to see if anybody else was in this same state of undress and walking like arctic penguins but I presumed that it was only me who was foolish enough to pay £2.40 for a pint of lemonade - but I digress.
The poetry - ah yes, the poetry. Like Paul has already mentioned, there was a significant turnout. He says fifty, so who am I to argue with the man who once dined with Ken Dodd’s accountant, so fifty it was. In fact, it probably was fifty, there or there about.
Fifty people inside a room which, for a moment at least, allowed you to appreciate the conditions in which Anne Frank subjected herself during a well documented war. ‘Intimate’ I think would be an appropriate adjective. Dimly lit - perhaps another way of describing the mood, unless anything more than the seeping light from a 5 watt light bulb is your idea of dazzling? No? but that’s the beauty of this type of poetry night. It doesn’t matter where, it doesn’t matter when, it doesn’t matter why - it simply matters who? So, who did we have last night?
Far too many to mention. Some performed better than others and others had far more substance than some. It was, as Paul said, a mix of spoken word with a range in poetic diversity as you could hope to wish for. Ranging from the ridiculous to the sublime and back again through the sincerity mountains and the lowlands of farce. Old and young alike spat their words, sucked their stanzas and blew their way through an evening of what was, or could have been, a war of the poetic roses. Yorkshire men and women against the bitter foe from over t’hill. Them proper chaps, also known as Lanky-sher men (and wimmen) but there was to be no divide, of course there wasn’t. Just a sense that something like poetry can bring people together, to share their intimate and personal thoughts, no matter how they choose to verbalize them. Complete strangers with one common bond. A passion for poetry and, to a similar extent, its performance.
From a personal level, I felt that many performers left me in their verbal wakes. Some less experienced than myself, but these moments allow you to reflect and think what could be better? How could it be better? Does anyone really care better? Of course we all care, that’s why we do it. Right?
Anyway, if you have computer driven navigational aids, the time to spare and heaps of inclination, then why not try Hebden for yourself. Last night was the first night for a Write Out Loud event held in Hebden and, it was well supported, especially, I thought , by those of us who live a considerable distance away. It would be nice to see this level of support work both ways over the coming months. Maybe, in the not too distant future, we could have a real battle of the poetic roses - a poetry slam. The white rose of Yorkshire - The red rose of Lancashire pitted against each other. Toe to toe. Nose to nose - or, we could just fuse the two and have ‘The Pink Rose of Poetry’ - a celebration of poetry. We could have it at the Tudor! (I know my way there). Let them buggers come over t'hill…!
Overall, on reflection, I enjoyed it. There were one or two things that I didn’t enjoy - but that’s always going to be the case with me, miserable twot that I am. In fact, I’ll set off now for the next one, I should just about arrive there on time. Maybe?
Fri, 4 Jul 2008 12:46 pm
<Deleted User> (5984)
A fantastic evening. I thought the standard of the poetry was incredible and a lovely atmosphere.
Fri, 4 Jul 2008 01:26 pm
Was fun. Unfortunately, I performed my best poem there, so I can't now do it at the slam because everyone'll just go "heard it before, get off, you're rubbish." So, looks like I won't be winning the slam. But, at least I got my excuse in before anyone else.
Fri, 4 Jul 2008 07:22 pm