The monthly Open Mic. sessions (on the posters 'Open Mike') at The Imp in Merthyr have been going for over three years. We began with Patrick Jones before his launch was controversially cancelled by Waterstone's and next month welcome David Greenslade ( on March 11th), who I recall doing an amazing performance once with the aid of some unlikely fruit.
Audiences have varied considerably from a disastrous three (including author) when most thought it had been cancelled, to packed evenings for Rachel Tresize, just after she'd won the £60,000 Dylan Thomas Prize and the launch of the 'Merthyr Writing' anthology when Merthyr's writers actually appeared out of their attics in support.
Everyone who regularly attends has their favourites and , on a popular vote, Jerry Hooker must be Number One, with his subtle and evocative poetry. For me (apart from Mike Church's hilarious stand-up) the finest evenings have been where content and performance have been successfully united, from local boy Des Barry's stories, to the marvellous Herb Williams reading from his latest book 'Wrestling in Mud', one of the best books I've read in a long time.
Some writers, so powerful in print, cannot communicate when it comes to readings. R.S. Thomas never failed to disappoint, with his drab and passionless manner. But enough of the negative, when I went to Aberystwyth Uni. so long ago, I was inspired by many readings. Tony Harrison, a regular visitor, combined the erudite and earthy like no other. I got to meet the Scots poet Norman MacCaig, who read with great verve and character and bought me a whisky after ( that's the way to make fans for life).
One of the most revelatory performances was on a course I attended at Gregynog. Four poets lead the course : Harrison, Roy Fisher, Glyn Hughes and Edwin Morgan, but it was the latter's reading which made the most impact. I couldn't believe the audacious variety of his work, from concrete and sound poetry, to the mean streets of his native Glasgow. It altered completely the way I was to write and also think of readings.
The most incomprehensibly moving of poetry readings was one by the renowned Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko. Though some poems were read by his translator, most were read by him in Russian. The dramatic sound carried the audience along; it was like giving yourself to the sea, floating with your face to the moon. After, I spoke to one of my English lecturers, full of enthusiasm - 'It was a circus and he was the clown', he replied and I wondered how two such contrasting versions could co-exist.
When I was teaching in Merthyr we had many visiting poets. Two of the most memorable were Welsh writers Ifor Thomas and John Tripp, but up there with them were Benjamin Zephaniah and Adrian Mitchell. Both read to halls packed with pupils and wowed them totally.
When Zephaniah was walking the school corridors he was mistaken for Marley's ghost (Bob, that is) and after reading, one little girl approached him asking if she could pull his dreadlocks; he politely obliged. Mitchell was magic : such proof of his own dictum that 'Most people ignore most poetry, because most poetry ignores most people'.......he never ignored the people.
When He Read He Sang
i.m. Adrian Mitchell
It is Christmas
and I still remember
his card a decade previous :
his cartoon elephant
carrying love and peace.
Jazz and blues,
rock and rhyme –
when he read he sang.
He visited my school
took them in his hands,
a whole restless Year 9,
pointing to the playground
and torturers with foaming fangs.
He became like a blackbird
or one of Blake’s angels,
common and extraordinary,
with a song like Brecht’s
to ring the world.
Rhythm and breathing,
roll and scan –
when he read he sang.
His gentle spoken voice
like Victor Jara’s hands,
light as single feathers
strong as they are joined :
rising and beating with us,
taking hopes to their highest.
Saxophone and pen,
blue notes opening –
when he read he sang.
Audiences have varied considerably from a disastrous three (including author) when most thought it had been cancelled, to packed evenings for Rachel Tresize, just after she'd won the £60,000 Dylan Thomas Prize and the launch of the 'Merthyr Writing' anthology when Merthyr's writers actually appeared out of their attics in support.
Everyone who regularly attends has their favourites and , on a popular vote, Jerry Hooker must be Number One, with his subtle and evocative poetry. For me (apart from Mike Church's hilarious stand-up) the finest evenings have been where content and performance have been successfully united, from local boy Des Barry's stories, to the marvellous Herb Williams reading from his latest book 'Wrestling in Mud', one of the best books I've read in a long time.
Some writers, so powerful in print, cannot communicate when it comes to readings. R.S. Thomas never failed to disappoint, with his drab and passionless manner. But enough of the negative, when I went to Aberystwyth Uni. so long ago, I was inspired by many readings. Tony Harrison, a regular visitor, combined the erudite and earthy like no other. I got to meet the Scots poet Norman MacCaig, who read with great verve and character and bought me a whisky after ( that's the way to make fans for life).
One of the most revelatory performances was on a course I attended at Gregynog. Four poets lead the course : Harrison, Roy Fisher, Glyn Hughes and Edwin Morgan, but it was the latter's reading which made the most impact. I couldn't believe the audacious variety of his work, from concrete and sound poetry, to the mean streets of his native Glasgow. It altered completely the way I was to write and also think of readings.
The most incomprehensibly moving of poetry readings was one by the renowned Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko. Though some poems were read by his translator, most were read by him in Russian. The dramatic sound carried the audience along; it was like giving yourself to the sea, floating with your face to the moon. After, I spoke to one of my English lecturers, full of enthusiasm - 'It was a circus and he was the clown', he replied and I wondered how two such contrasting versions could co-exist.
When I was teaching in Merthyr we had many visiting poets. Two of the most memorable were Welsh writers Ifor Thomas and John Tripp, but up there with them were Benjamin Zephaniah and Adrian Mitchell. Both read to halls packed with pupils and wowed them totally.
When Zephaniah was walking the school corridors he was mistaken for Marley's ghost (Bob, that is) and after reading, one little girl approached him asking if she could pull his dreadlocks; he politely obliged. Mitchell was magic : such proof of his own dictum that 'Most people ignore most poetry, because most poetry ignores most people'.......he never ignored the people.
When He Read He Sang
i.m. Adrian Mitchell
It is Christmas
and I still remember
his card a decade previous :
his cartoon elephant
carrying love and peace.
Jazz and blues,
rock and rhyme –
when he read he sang.
He visited my school
took them in his hands,
a whole restless Year 9,
pointing to the playground
and torturers with foaming fangs.
He became like a blackbird
or one of Blake’s angels,
common and extraordinary,
with a song like Brecht’s
to ring the world.
Rhythm and breathing,
roll and scan –
when he read he sang.
His gentle spoken voice
like Victor Jara’s hands,
light as single feathers
strong as they are joined :
rising and beating with us,
taking hopes to their highest.
Saxophone and pen,
blue notes opening –
when he read he sang.
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