DIY Poets

Eagle Spits reports:

After brief introductions from Frank McMahon, founder of DIY poets, Poeticus Autisticus (AKA Trevor Wright) took the stage to deliver a finely tuned set with sharp wordage about subjects as diverse as time travel and drones. Often the political nature of some poets limit their vocabulary which reduces their work to propaganda as opposed to art. This is not the case with Poeticus who speaks the truth articulately and the message is delivered, well crafted and poignant.

Orla Shortall is a fine Irish lass who delivered a set of twisted love poetry in a broad accent. From women who are difficult to love to men who are difficult to love, with Victor Hugo references, golden chalices and magic mushrooms. A woman scorned with cutting wit. As Olga repeated the lines: “if you want to leave then leave”, nobody did because they were mesmerised. One of the poems was even written that afternoon at 2pm whilst in “the office” , ooooppps, never mind anything can be forgiven when poetry is this good.

Next we have the first poetry performance virginity loss of the evening, and how! Claire Louise stammered and stuttered, twitched and rocked as she delivered a poem about mania from a first person perspective. There was nothing wrong with the delivery. It was perfect for the subject matter and her movements were in all the right places. I will probably say awesome more than once in this review but that’s because it was the evening it was. “It will pass, it will pass, it will crash”. Claire Louise was awesome, brave, honest and awesome.

Beer and fag break, quick introduction, then Marty Everett. The smooth operator of the evening. Slick in a Bill Hicks kind of way with clever, truthful verse ,about the education system. About how in real life “failure is an option” and yes our children are being sold out. “don’t build statues of the thinking man, be the thinking man”. Marty’s “dragon dances” and we were moved.

The picture on tonight’s poster was of Dylan Thomas, our next poet’s hero. So John Humphries did a trio of related poems. The first being a rendition of Simply Red’s “Money;s Too Tight to Mention”  (someone had pointed out the picture on the poster actually looked liked Mick Hucknall) in a posh BBC Dylan Thomas voice. Surreal. Next a rendition of a Dylan Thomas poem performed in a posh BBC Dylan Thomas accent. Surreal. Then a sonnet to Dylan Thomas performed in a posh BBC Dylan Thomas accent. Surreal. John Humphries was brilliant in his off kilter genius. Spot on, in a posh BBC Dylan Thomas accent.

Clare Stewart talks about dreams and red shoe minds. Reflections of Splendour at Woolerton Part. Empathic versifications on deafness. Hard metal and cut down trees. Life , death, compassion of an ethereal kind. Clare is in her poetry, invested and absolute. A set of quality verse gently spoken but scary nonetheless.

Frank McMahon donned with smart attire and pork pie hat verbalizes about not being concerned these days that he has lost his Morrisey quiff. Versed about biker friends who were more guardian angels than hell’s angels. Told rhythmic tales about navvies, football, Hurricane Higgins and a heart breaking poem full of Dr Who Imagery which finds Frank as a child hiding behind the sofa but not from Daleks but from his parents’  arguments. Totally eclectic in subject matter. Totally wondrous in verse.

A poet called Julian recited a poem about the loneliness and isolation of being a cyclist. The dangers of bad roads, careless drivers and total lack of respect cyclists receive from other road users, even pedestrians. The feelings of being despised and abused by bus drivers and drunk blokes on a night out. The poem was long but sharp. Attention keeping and angry. The props of bicycle and bell were incorporated. The tale was told, the message given and poetry of a high quality performed. It rang my bell.

Martin Grey was the headline poet of the evening. I first saw Martin several months ago and he was good. A young poet just starting out. Tonight he was fucking brilliant. One of the best poetry performance I have ever seen. Political in “All the bullets and all the bombs” in which shrapnel hits a young man in his head and he wonders if his mother is alive or dead. There was humour in his “Bread” poem, with tacky chat up lines based round puns about bread, I kid you not. His set had everything, heart break, anger, humour, “The Pretty Boys of G town” is a look back at his teenage years in Guilford and how history has a habit of repeating itself. It reminded me of a poetical version of Pete Seegers “Little Boxes” but with alcohol and chavs. Like I say, fucking brilliant.

Pegefo was the musician for the evening. Sweet, sweet music along the lines of Richard Thompson. One man, one acoustic guitar and a handful of beautiful songs. Unhinged love songs, ode to his mother. A lust for life conducted with serenity. “You think your something special do you”, a love song to the latest flame is one of those love songs which makes this old punk unashamed to like love songs. “not my bag” Pegefo introduced as an atheist anthem. I wonder if he felt the supernal nature of the music he plays. There was darkness,  yet hope and encouragement running through his set. He even read a poem he wrote a few years ago. The second poetry virginity to be lost this evening.

Overall a great evening. The kind of evening one expects from DIY Poets. See you next time. (Eagle Spits).