Nick Field

Biography

'Rising star of the spoken word scene' Time Out 'An intimate tour-de-force of the spoken word. Nick is a passionate, and flexible performer, with a tale to tell and admirable vulnerability.' (Gscene) Nick Field is a Spoken Word Artist and poet with a background in theatre and playwriting. He has performed his work and facilitated workshops internationally at major venues, events and festivals. Nick began writing plays when he moved from a tiny village in rural England to London in pursuit of big city bohemia. He has had plays commissioned and produced by leading theatre companies including The Royal Court, Paines Plough and Theatre Royal, Plymouth. He is also a short film maker, his first film Treehouse has toured with the BBC Big Screen and been screened and exhibited by the Propeller Film channel. Three years ago he became excited about the possibilities of Spoken Word and began to perform his own lyrical, bitter-sweet work, infused with theatricality. He weaves visual, visceral, poetical stories. Nick has been featured at some of the UK's leading venues and poetry nights. These have included Angel Poetry, Book Club Boutique, The Soho Theatre, Cabaret Wotever, The Queens Theatre in Barnstaple and the legendary Shunt Vaults. Nick has also hit the festivals with performances at the Edinburgh Fringe, Green Man Festival, Standon Calling and Brighton Fringe. In 2009 Nick was commissioned by Apples and Snakes to bring together his theatre background with his spoken word art and write and perform a scratch one-man show for their 'The Word's a Stage' project. The result was first performed at the Albany Theatre. Following the success of this initial showing and subsequent performances across the UK, Nick was awarded an Arts Council grant to develop the show into a full length production. It debuted at the Brighton Fringe Festival, with perfomances at the Stockholm Fringe Festival and the Albany Theatre to follow. Nick was Poet in Residence at Keats House in London during the summer of 2010. He was based at the beautiful Hampstead home of John Keats and produced new work for an anthology and gave performances for visitors. He also lead writing workshops for gifted and talented young people drawing on his previous experience as a workshop facilitator and university lecturer.

Samples

Yoga is a competitive sport Outside a gentle breeze Floats in wind-chime trickles. Inside the yogi draws the group together, With elongated vowels. Sitting on crossed legs in rediness I’m centered, I’m relaxed, I’m taking these mofo’s down. As we begin rounds of sun saluts Feel the arched majesty of my cobra. As we move between positions, I’m checking out the competition. Because soon they’re going to be eating my warrier II. And gasping at the endurance of my tree. Why is it that at school, I’d happily trot at the back in races, While the PE facist bellowed ‘Run, come on you’re being beaten by girls’. But in the incensed softly lit yoga studio No-one is coming close to my downward dog. Shout She stands firm at the epicentre of it all, Starched collar turned up, Hair moulded Thatcher style. She stands firm and fronts it out. With the kind of determination that takes down cities, She stands and shouts. Around her the day repeats and unrelents, The grit-rituals of the urban market place, Over and over replayed. ‘No everything is not a fucking pound’ A cross-armed fruit seller shrieks. A man tips mushrooms into a paper bag And spin-seals it with the fluid precision, of a circus magician. A small boy baits a loosely tethered staf terrior, Shoppers rush to the call of Rolex watches for a fiver. The throttled growl of reggae from cheap speakers turned too high Is the tin-can score. But in the midst, Poised and pitched, She does her work. She shouts, because shouting is her art. And shouting is her vocation. Her projection is operatic, Her stamina athletic. But the message is obscured By her shout-damaged vocal chords. And though there clearly is intention. Her intonation and passion is delivered, But her vowels and consonants are encypted And no sense is created. Her devotion to her medium Has consumed all. But spend time listening to her very loud abstractions And they start to take on a majesty, A primordial significance. Though she may well be shouting that carrots want you soul, She seems to be shouting for us all. copyright Nick Field. All rights reserved,

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.