Every once in a while the Howcroft is the setting for middle age men and women to have a drink and meet their better halves - leaving their husbands and wives at home. These surreptitious shenanigans have little to do with Write Out Loud or its Sunday night extravaganza of intimate and confessional poetry, but I couldn’t help but think how long it would be before either one of a tryst’s participants would be, before joining the rest of us tortured souls that were gathering inside the steamy bowels of the Howcroft? Your secret is safe with me.
That’s the beauty of the Howcroft, you never know what you’re going to get as far as the poetry is concerned and with Mr Gordon Zola in charge, cheesy puns and one liners were not only anticipated. They were demanded.
And so it began. (As usual this is in no particular order).

Paul Blackburn was first away with a poem about getting old or becoming ‘a geriatric’. Paul won’t mind me saying this - it’s fair to say that he’s at an age that can be described as ’the old age of youth’ or ‘the youth of old age’ and with this level of empathy his poem was very, very precise.

Melanie Rees read a poem that is featured on the WOL web site titled ‘Epitaph in Green’. This intimate and emotionally charged piece was read with feeling and the sorrow felt by Melanie was palpable. A Beautiful poem.

Speaking of which - Simon Lewis, I hope that’s your name Simon? - read two pieces that were well crafted, superbly written and delivered with intonation and pace that were really quite remarkable for a ’first timer’. I’m sure that we’d all like to hear and read a lot more of Simon’s work.

Jeff and Darren Whitehead haven’t featured for a while and last night was a chance to become fully appraised - as they say in some legal circles. Darren has been busy writing song lyrics and all his energies have been invested into the richer and more contemporary sibling of poetry. He read some recent song lyrics that he had written and I take my hat off to any man that reads lyrics without a melody for accompaniment. Jeff, by far the best dressed poet, read some tried and tested lines that he delivers in his inimitable assured style.

John Mather read for us in a fine Wigan/Bolton dialect about his cherished memories regarding his Grandmother who lived in Wigan at the turn of the 20th century. It may have been the 21st century, you can never tell where these things and Wigan are concerned.

There were lots, lots more poets. James Hartnell ever assured and meticulous in every poetic sense. Stevie Turner. (Sorry Stevie I was bursting) Seamus, he’s a regular at Bolton now, as he is too at Middleton. David (I’ll just read you the first six chapters of prose), were all inspiring in their unique but equally methodical styles. And to my shame I cannot remember the fellow’s name who carried the cane and performed superbly without the aid of either a safety net or notes for at least one of his performances. For me, this chap was my joint favourite running neck and neck with Simon Lewis.
A monologue about the Battle of Hastings always goes down well in this part of the world and tonight was no exception but I’m sorry I can’t remember his name either!
I know that I have missed some poets off and I apologise. But everybody that performed did so admirably and in the rising heat of the Howcroft that was no mean feat. By the end of the night most of the men were all sitting in just their underpants, it really was that warm. It’s amazing how poetry can do this. And oblivious to all this in the far reaches of the pub was a couple and their infidelity, another good half an hour before one of them would be sitting in their underpants with a face as red and blotchy as mine but that type of review belongs in an magazine covered in cellophane.
A great evening of diverse poetry from a very talented *rhyme of poets.

*Believed that this word is a collective noun for a group of poets, but I think that we could come up with something better…

Another great review Darren and now you can see the photos in Galleries.
Your aged chum