15. Sit Down, Man!

... being a bad tempered and impatient plea to poets who I don't want to listen to in open mic sessions.

There is a seamier side to the world of poetry, much as there is in any other hobby or pastime I suppose, particularly those where lots of men are involved, and particularly those in which people feel that they have been blessed with a special talent, and want to shine their brilliant light on others.

Its pretty easy to see it operating in pursuits such as sport and rock music, where some blokes will use any means possible to muscle themselves to the top of the pile, to draw attention to themselves, to show that they are better than anyone else, to get noticed. Of course, having at least some talent is a necessary part of being successful, but there is no shortage of people who imagine that the small talent that they have is of a much higher magnitude than it actually is. Believe me, I am a case in point.

But surely, I hear you say, in the world of poetry, people are more cultured, more relaxed and polite than they are in other fields, they are less prone to bad behaviour, jealousy, backstabbing, and posturing. They will be generous in their praise of others, and philosophical if others gain more attention and more positive responses than themselves.

Well, they might seem that way from a distance, and you may well turn up as a casual observer at a poetry evening and imagine that everyone loves each other, praising each other’s work, buying each other’s pamphlets, and applauding enthusiastically, but if you were able to look inside their heads I suspect that you would see a different story.

Of course, I love my fellow poets, and am keen to celebrate their achievements on the Sixty Odd Poets Substack, every week, but I have to admit that it is only as I get older, and my bollocks begin to deliver decreasing amounts of testosterone, that I can keep a proper rein on the voice of jealousy which still whispers in my ear from time to time.

The place that it is most difficult to keep that voice silent is at an open mic poetry night. The place where poets congregate to showcase their talents in front of an audience of - well usually other poets.

Charles Bukowski wrote a whole poem, Poetry Reading, giving that voice full reign. Although maybe he is not as much jealous as contemptuous of his fellow poets, who gather together…

...week after week, month after month, year
after year,
getting old together,
reading on to tiny gatherings,
still hoping their genius will be
discovered...

...never daunted,
never considering the possibility that
their talent might be thin, 
almost invisible,
they read on and on
before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,
their wives, their friends, the other poets
and the handful of idiots who have wandered in
from nowhere.

I get the sense that he considers himself to be above each and every one of them. I can sympathise with him even though it makes me shudder a bit. When you have to listen through a number of other poets, and all you want to do is read out your own piece, which you consider to be a work of genius, it is hard to listen in an open and fair state of mind. It is easy to forget that each reader considers their own work to be a fine piece of poetry, one which they have put time and effort into, one which they desire to be heard just as much as you do yours. Even when the quality of their work is difficult to deny to it is still possible for the jealous poet to pick fault in their work, their reading, or their manner.

Of course, you tell yourself, no one would ever consider you in such unfavourable light. You are the one true poet in the room.

Yes, I can sympathise with that. But the fact remains, that we all have these feelings to a greater or a lesser extent, and as you yourself take your turn before the microphone, there will be people there, nodding and smiling and thinking the same sour thoughts about you.

Even if you are published, and selling out in branches of Waterstones up and down the country. Even if you are feted by every single one of the critics in every single one of the Sunday papers. Even if you are the darling of Melvyn Bragg and all his chums on BBC 2 and Radio 4. I still doubt that that voice in your head will be entirely silent. Some self-satisfaction that you have risen above the rest will more than likely poison your thoughts about those less successful than yourself. Rest assured, those that you know will all secretly hate you. You will also be troubled by jealous thoughts regarding the worthiness of those who have attained even greater heights than you. “Why pick Armitage as the Poet Laureate?” you will ask yourself, “He‘s far too clever for his own good. All quips and no insight. And as for that Cate Tempest?” You will spit. “The foul mouthed little tart.”

Stop! Get a grip on yourself before it’s too late. Hush that voice, you can do better than that.

Let me be honest. I can do better than that. I cannot tar you with the same brush as myself. It is me that I am chastising. I have to try harder. I can be generous, thoughtful and tolerant. I really can…

…Until you are the one on before me at an open mic night...

---

Sit Down, Man

His turn has come, he has the floor
It’s all that he’s been waiting for
An audience, a perfect chance
To demonstrate his brilliance
He stands there at the microphone
The room is his and his alone
His printed pages shaking now
With his free hand he mops his brow 
 
He’s reading in his poet’s tone
Interesting him alone
Inflection senseless as the words
That drop down from his lips like turds
Forced rhymes, fake feeling. Flatulence
Is more amusing, makes more sense
He alone thinks this is great
“No one’s listening to you mate
Sit down, man, just sit down”

He’s satisfied, it's going well
He has a feeling, he can tell
They’re stunned to silence, They’re impressed
He’s more perceptive than the rest
A sensitive insightful bard
Thought provoking, avant garde
His words will soon be highly rated
Published, praised and celebrated

“I’m sorry mate but you’re mistaken
No one wants your godforsaken
Doggerel forced upon their ears
Its dull, and boring them to tears
No one wants to hear this
Unending stream of wind and piss
We’re listening to be polite
But franky mate, you’re spouting shite
Sit down, man, just sit down”

He’s sure there’s time to do one more
The rest did two, he knows the score
He’s confident his second verse
Is even better than the first
Surpasses it in craft and guile
And unsurpassable in style
The first one was foreplay, seduction
This one is the full production

“Must I have to suffer so?
Is there nowhere I can go?
The bar? the toilet? Anywhere
Anywhere except this chair
This room, this torture chamber hell
I just can’t breathe I feel unwell
I’m numb, brain dead, I’m desperate but 
Good manners mean I must stay put

Sit down, man, you've had your go
Sit down, man, sit down and know
That you’re not who you think you are
You’re no poet, you’re no star
Sit down, man, give up the floor
Give me what I’m waiting for
MY audience MY perfect chance
To demonstrate MY brilliance