You could be forgiven for mistaking the Waddington Street Centre in Durham for just another terrace house at first glance, were it not for the Poetry Jam notice on the front door. Inside, the daytime mental health resource centre opens out into a café area, ideal for an open-mic night, hosted by Steve Urwin, pictured, that has been established there for 16 years.

The Poetry Jam venue is close to Durham rail and bus stations, as well as being almost under the magnificent railway viaduct carrying the East Coast Main Line over and across the city.         .

Every poetry night is different, as I always say, and the Poetry Jam’s open-mic format is to allow floor poets to walk up to deliver as and when they choose, as long as someone else hasn’t got there first. You make your mind up, and go for it. It saves time for the host in having to introduce each one, for a start. So the first section included Sharon Milley delivering a teacher’s take on the first day of term – “marking off each day to the next holiday”, the always spectacularly colourful Pip McDonald mixing up her idioms, and a Saturday night in Sunderland, with all that might imply, with Chris Hodgson.

 The opening guest poet of the night is also a regular open-micer at the jam. Rosemary Sladden, pictured, read a series of charming poems about rain (“raindrops building mudflat walls … spitter, spatter, illusions shatter”), a mouse, a spider, butterflies, the simple joys of a cup of coffee while out shopping, and an eco-poem ('They say the world is falling apart'). 

More open-micers followed. Gary The Hat spoke of his difficulties in getting out of the house; Pauline May read a poem called ‘Pinned’, about a rabbit-foot brooch, from her new debut pamphlet Planets, Plants and the Taste of Salt (Mudfog); Christopher Short delivered some impassioned couplets about the recent riots;  and we heard Janiece’s meditations on de-cluttering after a loved one’s death, and whether or not to open a pot of jam.    

The second guest poet, J (Joey) Archer Avary, pictured below, is an American who has found himself on Tyneside after a colourful back-story that includes being a TV weatherman in the Bahamas. He is now a boat captain on the ferry that crosses the Tyne between North and South Shields.

He is quite self-deprecating about his poetry – the title of one of his pamphlets, Total Rhubarb, perhaps gives you a clue – and specialises in observations such as “I took to reading books to inspire poems. I was that desperate.”

His newcomer’s take on such British customs as ‘A game of Scrabble down at The Hostspur’ concluded with the line “Go ahead, punk. Suck my dictionary!”. Another was titled ‘The night the Northern Lights let me down.’ (We’ve all been there). A poem about men who don’t send birthday cards is forthright about their shortcomings: “Being kind doesn’t come natural to men …being mean is what comes natural to men.” Continuing on this theme, he introduced another poem thus: “I’ve got three ex-wives to write poetry about. This one’s about number two.” I found his performance refreshing and often hilarious.  

The final tranche of open-mic poems revealed more riches. There was chimney sweep poet Malcolm Barnes’ Formby-esque take on a woman engaged in a bit of topiary; Lian Maltas’ dream of a kingfisher; Ross Punton on not running 60k in a day; Christine Fowler’s foray into the US presidential election; and Kevin Robson’s moving memory of young love. There was also an unlikely moment of pure synchronicity, where Steve May’s remarkable poem about Lou Reed insisting on undertaking a session of t’ai chi on the morning he died, was followed by Gaeran Southern, who had earlier sung about a ship going down, delivering his version of Reed’s ‘Perfect Day’ on ukulele and harmonica. It was possibly not the most perfect version of the classic song that I’ve ever heard, but still …

The finale of the night was provided by the third guest poet, Elaine Cusack, pictured below, a writer and journalist since her teens, when her first poetry was published by Bloodaxe. She is also halfway through an MA course on writing poetry at Newcastle university (disclosure: I’m on the same course), and told the Durham audience on Thursday night: “The MA has changed the way I write. Everything you’re going to hear has been written since I started the course.”

Now this is more radical than you might think - in my opinion, at least. Our MA poetry tutors are looking for poems that take risks, and leaps of imagination. They also let slip now and again that they like poems that are ‘slant’, and don’t reveal their meaning at first glance.  

How do such poems come across at a performance poetry night, where it’s fair to say meaning has to be quickly grasped, such is the aural nature of the occasion? By not forgetting your performance roots, in Elaine’s case.

Thus in her first poem, ‘The Sea Roars’, she ends it by giving out a huge roar. In another, ‘Not So’, her take on Little Red Riding Hood, she finishes by leaping up and down, even undergoing “a performance poetry injury” into the bargain. And when people clap at the end of each poem – a bit of a no-no in ‘posh’ poetry circles – she says: “You don’t have to clap every poem”, adding: “But I do enjoy a bit of a clap.”

Her leaps of the imagination can be seen in one poem that begins in Llandudno with the lockdown goats that wandered into town, and ends with a paean to Northern Soul music. Another, ‘Being Kevin’, is a love poem for her bloke and bird enthusiast, after Seamus Heaney’s ‘St Kevin and the Blackbird.’  

Being accepted on to the MA degree course mattered to Elaine, despite her poetry track record over decades, she told the audience. What was also important to her in the same year was receiving the autism diagnosis that “I’ve been waiting for, for years”.  

What was clear from last night’s performance was that her poetry is full of warmth and honesty, as well as the craft and skill that gets thumbs-ups from poetry tutors. It was enthusiastically received by her audience.

Mention must also be made – how could it not be? – of Poetry Jam’s host Steve Urwin, who last year made a pamphlet for every month of the year. He read from his September Scrapbook, fragments of which have appeared in the Morning Star. Later in the evening he contributed another poem, ‘Damp Trousers’, itemising a list of complaints.

But Steve really isn’t the complaining sort, presiding over a very popular north-east poetry night that has been going for so long it has become an institution, as well as being an established poet in his own right, and a workshop facilitator. Thanks, Steve, too  for providing the names of last night’s open-mic poets. I couldn’t have done this without you! A shout-out too to Waddington Street Centre staff member Fergus Grant, serving non-alcoholic drinks at the counter. Good on you, sir!