The poetry club that I started with Line Thomsen and with help from John Hassell is 10 years old today.

What's been said about Y Tuesday

Y Tuesday March 2012, reviewed by Paul Tims.

Y Tuesday Reviewed.

By Paul Tims.

“Number three: Poseidon is Morrissey,” said Kevin Rienhardt, before launching into his poem about travelling into Cornwall on a ferry and facing the fury of a stormy sea, offering up sacrifices of lamb kebabs to modern-day musical idols as Odysseus once had offered up true sacrifices to appease the forces that governed the ancient Grecian  world. An explanation is in order: this is Y Tuesday, an open mic poetry event held on the first Tuesday of every month in the Three Kings pub in Clerkenwell, London.

For me, the evening began at a bus stop, in the company of poets Fran Lock and Steev Burgess (respectively the furious voice of the Irish and Gypsy-Poet Diaspora and a ‘prose poem pessimist’ with a rather good line in woolly vests and internal rhyme schemes). Leaning by some bins were two old-fashioned travel-cases someone had disowned. Fran Lock and I took it up on ourselves to investigate their contents on the off chance their might be money/body parts/a live snake therein. It was that sort of evening. After that the bus came and took us into Clerkenwell proper, an area steeped in mysticism and medieval political intrigue in the same way that Whitechapel is somehow laced with an element of gothic horror.

 

In the reserved room in the upper storey of the Three Kings, incense and candles burned, cakes were brought out courtesy of Ceri May (who, along with Steev, is responsible for running the evening), and poets in various stages of artistic fulfilment drifted in, coming by their ones and twos. The overall effect created was a mixture of cosiness and excitement- an atmosphere somewhere between a séance and a sewing circle, with a dash of high-brow book or chess-club, thrown in for good measure.

 

In the comfortable gloaming of the room, the brightest stars of the evening had a chance to shine with greater intensity and, in some cases, outright artistic ferocity. It would be futile to list all the poets attending the evening by name, but amongst those who lent greatest flavour to the event were Robert Yates, who specialises in blackly comic translations of Nietzschian German poetry; the afore-mentioned Fran Lock, author of Flatrock, who is still angry about The Enclosures Act that saw the common land ripped from the nation’s peasants (now several hundred years ago), and whose brilliant poem Ghost contains the line “It is in the pale, pubescent glow of early evening that the human resources begin their vindictive ministry”, demonstrating both a talent for the acerbic and a deep understanding of the flaws in human modernity;  the (also afore-mentioned) Steev Burgess- or Burgess the Rhymer as he’s commonly identified- whose unique, fast-paced patter is a joy to hear and who’s capable of combining this with serious content (a fine example of which is The Sleeping Lands, where he uses the Vladirmirka road as a metaphor for the human experience and the voyage between birth and death: “Everybody heading to the harsh lands/ Everybody wrapped against the cold/ Taking little photos of their journey/ Looking for another hand to hold) and the man known only as “Jazzman John”, who proves that even on the bleeding edge of the poetic scene, age sometimes just means having a lifetime of experience and craftsmanship to draw on. The icing on the cake came from host Ceri May and her poem, light and clever in tone, about the sheer biological wonder that is sea-life. Specifically squid.

 

Music (albeit in acapella form) also got a look in, thanks to the hilarious and talented Fran Isherwood and her song “about a surgeon who likes to take his work home with him” (sample lyric: “so I have to tell you laddie/ Though I know your scalpel is swell,/ That it ALL belongs to Daddy/ Because my Daddy dissects me so well!”). Even the pub is to be praised, not just for hosting the monthly event, but also for laying on good meals at a surprisingly reasonable price for the attendant wordsmiths and for their consistently friendly service. 

 

A review, by rights, should contain some criticism, but it’s honestly hard to find a bad word to say about Y Tuesday. I’ve attended the event before, and so I am forced to admit that not every performance on every Y Tuesday is a true spectacular. Even the best writers and performers occasionally hit a bum note. That said, this evening typifies the event: even the poets who I have not been able to mention by name in this review display both friendliness, competence at their craft and, for the most part, a consummate professionalism that is clearly born of a genuine, and thoroughly deserved pride in their work. For an open-mic evening, the level of potentially publishable material and talent on display here is impressive... I say impressive, but I honestly just had to force myself to delete the phrase “breathtaking” because I’d gushed too much already, and if that’s not a seal of approval, I don’t know what is. Once again, Y Tuesday is the first Tuesday of every month, 8:00 P.M, at the Three Kings pub in Clerkenwell, London, and if you’ve got something to read, it’s never hostile to new talent. Consider this a whole-hearted recommendation.

r chairs and the doo-wop jukebox where those gathered would play Fairport Convention tracks before the serious business of words and art kicked off.

The lynchpin, the foundation, the rock of Y Tuesday is Mr Steev Burgess, a great artist, a fine poet, who uses rhyme and rhythm and insight to produce gems which reflect on relationships our business of living in this disappointing and mixed-up world. His co-host, Ms Ceri May arrived with a recycled bag full of jammie dodgers and chocolate cake, looking divine in bottle green dress and yellow flower clip. In bare feet, painted toenails twinkling, she welcomed the motley crew of poets to share their work with fellow listeners.

Ceri and Steev read a couple of 'tango poems' together that Steev had written for two voices. This self-devised series were very effective. Not only did they have a rather musical dramatic presentation but Steev has, I think, a winning way with form, which enables his reflective subject matter to be digested with ease. This means that the content, which slides through emotional difficulties, encounter, challenge and changes, slips down. His bitter poison is sweetened with sugar, and the audience drink it in their ears. 

Alec Bell, who read a few of his darker mediations with his rogue expression looked totally dashing with new beard and hat. He seems twenty years younger. He's running a new performance night in Richmond and I think poetry has made him a new man. I approve.

Poets who read one, two or three pieces included Cathy Flower, who gave a sinewy and forthright delivery of some fine narrative work, the talented and humorous Fran Isherwood (who I missed as I had to go catch my train) and the dedicated wordsmith Michael Wyndham, whose sister sat close by sipping a nice big glass of water. 

Posted by Jude Cowan 


You have no idea of how thrilled I was by last night. 

It represented to me exactly the way things need to be done to raise the standard of spoken word poetry. Everyone who participated was empowered by this and were giving of their absolute best. It was a rare experience and I left astonished.

To create that kind of atmosphere takes genius and sensitivity and I think that everyone in the room recognised that fact.

Last night was magnificent!" 

Ron (Twin poetry)

A few weeks ago we were informed that we were listed in the top 1,000 things to do in London by Time Out. On browsing through the 2007 copy of the same book, I was suprised to see we were already in this "league" at number 67.
Out of interest, the first thing was to look at the view from Waterloo Bridge and the second to swim outdoors in the centre of London at the Oasis.
I won't list the whole book, but ahead of us at 66 was Bookslam and behind us at 68, poejazz. 
Steev Burgess

What is your favourite poetry night in town at the moment?
"That's a difficult one really as there are so many decent ones to choose from. But, if pushed, I think I would have to nominate an intimate, relaxed and friendly (and well-run) poetry night (with some acoustic music thrown in) called: 'Y TUESDAY POETRY CLUB' and is run by lyric poet and musician Steve Burgess (aka 'Burgess The Rhymer') and the delightful Ceri May (originally, Line Thomsen). It is held upstairs (in The Red Room) at a great boozer, The Three Kings, 7, Clerkenwell Close, EC1 (just opposite the church) and happens every 1st and 3rd Tuesday – the next event's on Tues 4 Nov and Tues 18 Nov (arrive from 7.30pm-8pm to sign up for the floor spot) and usually has 2/3 features - 'FREE ADMISSION' and Charles Mingus on the jukebox!" 

(Farringdon Tube: buses 55, 63 and 243) 

JAZZMAN JOHN CLARKE in the Londonist. 

"I had a bloody great night!...you've got a really good thing going there...but I'm sure you know that!" 

Bernadette Cremin


Upstairs at the Three Kings in Clerkenwell there is a teeny room stuffed with comfortable chairs, coffee tables and a juke box, with hardly any room for people. There are fairy lights, funky pictures and double windows opening onto a balcony, also with hardly any room for people. The Y tuesday Poetry club happens on the first Tuesday of every month.
My companion and myself walked up the stairs and settled down to watch; a music stand stood ready; the tables held clusters of fairy cakes with candles and strips of paper with quotations; interesting looking people squashed together on the chairs, some scribbling on sheets of paper, others just smiling comfortably.
Burgess the Rhymer has had his hair cut. His accomplice was a comely lass from Durham, sporting bright ginger hair, a huge wide-brimmed hat and a low cut chiffon top, all held together by a wide and happy grin.
She was the mistress of ceremonies, and told us she'd divided the evening into three halves.
First up, a solid little chap with half-moon glasses settled himself behind the music stand; he bore the air of a character from The Wind in the Willows. Most of his poetry involved blood; the last one concerned birth, the theme of the evening. He looked at us over his spectacles to make sure we were paying attention. We were.
Next, a serious man with an Eastern-European accent got up. He was tall and like a diplomat. His voice was husky and dramatic, and a tiny trickle of perspiration gradually made its way down his face as he spoke. His poems were dark and eloquent, describing complex relationships. The last one had a little bit of humour, and he declaimed it with a wry smile from time to time. You could close your eyes and just enjoy the words without even thinking of the meaning.
Next, a bright woman from Lancashire got up. Her words were sharp and colourful, and her birth poem had been written on the bus on the way there. 'I wiped it off afterwards', she laughed. Her partner and herself had thought about having a baby, tried and failed. So they planned a World Trip. At that moment, 'These old blocks produced a chip!'.
A sleek dark-haired and dimpled woman was next. She had never read her poetry live before. She had a strong, clear English voice and her imagery was similarly clear and defined; she seemed confident and delicate at the same time.
How interesting it was! Each poet only read a few poems but the entire atmosphere of the room changed with each voice and vocabulary!
A young man in a stylish charity shop shirt was next: in his best poem, a letter writer went from signing off with one ambiguous little kiss to a whole tangle 'like barbed wire' in the space of a few weeks. He seemed to have been pursued rather a lot by charming and persistent young women, one of whom managed to break into his flat in order to kiss him.
The it was my turn: I sang Two Little Girls and Me as my birth song, then Three Maple Men and Little England. It was so nice to play to such a compact and quiet audience who were listening instead of guzzling booze at the bar and whispering more and more loudly as their idea of what constituted a whisper became distorted by the alcohol!
There were more... a man told us about his grandfather, more, more.
We came away awed at the power of words

Helen McCookerybook (June 2009)