21. I Nicked one of Your Poems, Mate

... being the result of a crisis in my faith in poetry, during which I came to the conclusion that poetry is shit

A year or so back, I was on a bit of a downer. One of those periods where I was suffering from what might be described as writer’s block, a lack of self confidence, or a diminished appetite for creative activity in general. Actually it was probably a mixture of all three, but whilst I was in the midst of it, I knew that even though I couldn’t do it, I really wanted to write or create something. I missed the buzz of getting my thoughts out there, enjoying people’s response to them, making connections and having my say.

And then I struck upon an idea of how I might take the negative feelings that I was having regarding self expression and use them to express myself.

Like I often do in a difficult situations, I felt that the obvious way to vent my frustration would be with an angry howl of indignation. Like someone who has difficulty mastering the skills to hit a ball straight down the fairway might loudly berate golf as a worthless activity, or someone who has difficulty forming relationships might bitterly complain that other people are unworthy of his company, I decided that poetry just isn’t worth the effort. And as soon as I came to that devastating realisation, I immediately wanted to share it with others, and knew that the best way of sharing it would be to write some sort of angry poetry.

My brain then went into overdrive, cataloguing of all the reasons why I feel that poetry is a tedious and unsatisfactory pursuit. In doing so, it became clear to me that one angry poem would not suffice. I would have to write a whole collection of furious poems, to publish them, to read them to as many audiences as I could and let as many people as possible share in the wonder of my insight.

And the title of this earth shattering collection would be “Poetry is Shit”

It always amuses me when people dismiss something as being “shit”. I still laugh at the childhood memory of being with a bunch of mates, all sat astride bicycles in front of an art shop window featuring a display of paintings by L.S.Lowry. We stood there in silence for what seemed like a whole minute, probably longer. I was thinking of the way the artist saw his world, and how his style made the Northern industrial landscapes the painted something bigger and more dramatic than the tiny people he portrayed within them, with their tiny lives, full of tiny hopes and fears. I imagined that all the lads that I was with were engaged in similar reveries. Then one of them broke the silence by exclaiming in a matter of fact tone, “Lowry was a shit-arse”.¹ and we all instantly turned and cycled off together, quick as a flock of starlings.

Observant followers of these articles will recall that the first poem in this series is entitled East Yorkshire Stinks of Shit. It might be the remnants of my adolescent punk nihilism calling out from deep within me, but I love examining the shit qualities of stuff.

Despite all that, the Poetry is Shit collection has never seen the light of day. Not yet, anyway. The idea of it was enough to smash through my writer’s block, heralding the return of the arrogant self confidence that I needed, and restoring my ability to create, whilst simultaneously persuading me that poetry isn’t shit at all, but a noble and worthy pursuit. I could enjoy poetry again, and no longer felt the need to highlight its shortcomings.

In the end, all that I created from my meditation on the unsatisfactory elements of poetry was two short poems, about jealousy and pettiness in the world of open mic performances. These were designed specifically to be read at such events, in the hope of needling the other participants. One of them was Sit Down, Man which dealt with the meanest of my feelings towards other poets, and this one. I hoped that I Nicked one of Your Poems Mate would get people wondering if I had at some point actually committed the crime of passing off their work as my own.

Obviously I would never do such a thing. It would be wicked and immoral. Still, I have to admit that the thought often occurs to me. Just as I want the poet that I don’t appreciate to sit down and shut up, I am prone to imagining myself in the place of the poet that I admire. I find myself wishing that I could write like that. Wanting to show the audience that I am capable of expressing such feelings, sharing such emotion, drawing such admiration.

Fellow poets, I am honour bound never to divulge the full extent of my true thoughts when listening to or reading your work. But, try as I might to avoid it, a touch of jealousy along with a touch of hatred born of jealousy - will probably be in there somewhere. I hope that there is a little bit of it in you too when you respond to me, or to other poets, I hope that it is there in us all, because I believe that it is a part of the creative urge. The belief that that Lowry was a shit-arse is a short step from the belief that you can do better than him. And if you can’t, you can create something, just through the effort of trying. Shit-arses can be inspirational.

Forgive me, but…

I Nicked one of Your Poems, Mate

I nicked one of your poems mate
I read it aloud at an open Mic night
I didn’t say that it was one of my own
But said nothing at all to suggest it was not
And If anyone knew it, they didn’t let on
They listened, or seemed to, as audiences do
And it was well received, I enjoyed the applause
Like a cake that I’d stolen and eaten alone

I nicked one of your poems mate
The words felt awkward as they left my lips
Not my thoughts or emotions, nothing of mine
But I made a good fist of performing the piece.
And if anyone knew, well, they didn’t let on
I could see understanding in some people’s eyes
I enjoyed the connections your words let me make
Like kisses I’d stolen by claiming false love

I nicked one of your poems mate
And sometimes I dream that you read it to me
And the message is lost, and it’s not like before
When, the first time I heard it, it thrilled me inside
But you never knew that. I never let on
I applauded enough, A measured response
And my features arranged themselves into a smile
Like the smile of a salesman who wants you onside.

Like the smile of a tiger that wants you inside

1. When I wrote this L.S. Lowry anecdote, I was in no way referring to the Yorkshire born Poet Geoff Lowery, who is featured in this weeks Sixty Odd Poets, and is not (as far as I know) a shit-arse. If I have inadvertently made a connection between Geoff and L.S, it must have been done deep in my subconscious mind. I would like to apologise to Geoff and his family for any confusion caused.