A Thought Occured

The lock-down has a lot to answer for. I have, as you will soon see, too much time on my hands. This is the latest scheme I dreamt up during the time spent doing little apart from reading and meditating.

A book of poems is purchased from a Charity/Thrift shop and then mailed to one of the team to review. The ideal team would include Roger Stevens, Michael Leigh, Sue Hardy Dawson, Terresa Martin and Charlotte Rogers. That list is by no means extensive and could be, might be, probably would be enlarged. The written review is then posted onto ‘Something for The Weekend, Sir?’  Sort of a poetry mail art. Poetry recycled. 

It's an idea.

The other idea, less new than the above, and one you all know about is the one this site is now based on - spoken word. I have contacted both The Poetry Book Society and The Poetry Society in the hope they may share my thoughts on having a spoken word blog. Here is the body of text I sent - 

I had a notion that spoken word, as Sara Kay so beautifully put it, had legs. Sara didn't mention legs or any other appendage but said this...

"Spoken word poetry is the art of performance poetry. I tell people it involves creating poetry that doesn't just want to sit on paper, that something about it demands it be heard out loud or witnessed in person."  

Up until 50, I was much like Winnie the Pooh, a bear of little brain. Since then I started to write. Sadly, I have little talent in composing poetry however, I am rapidly growing passionate about poetry. So how about a blog featuring oral poetry thought I? Why we have poetry recitals don't we?

Great an idea that I thought it was, I don't have enough contacts in the poetry world. I know, some published poets like Roger Stevens and some others who helped the blog by supplying their talents. It worked too, at least for a year. So, then I lifted spoken word pieces from YouTube. As good as that has been it is not what this site is all about. The original idea was simple, the rules few and easy.

1. The first poet records his words via YouTube then posts them on the site having been given access via my sending them an invite. They leave it a week then invite another poet to do the same. In effect a spoken word relay that will encompass the globe. The idea is to spread poetry in the spoken form. 

2. As this site is called "Something For the Weekend, Sir?" all posts have to be on a Friday. If the name is unsuitable for The Poetry Society it can be changed to whatever you feel suitable.

That's it. Simple. I get nothing for doing it and don’t want anything apart from (get the bucket ready as you may want to vomit here) the sheer pleasure of both hearing and being part of the process.

If this is of interest, then please let me know. I would act as curator. My only influence on the blog would be to ensure that a post is available for the Friday and if not, get another poet, from anywhere I can find them, to post something of theirs.

At the foot of each post is this caveat… All poems are copyright of the poet. Permission for this poet to post their work here has been granted by blog owner. All rights remain with the individual poet and their respective publisher.

If not too presumptuous of me, I would gladly share the site to promote The Poetry Society in an oral fashion. In fact effectively make Something For The Weekend, Sir?  The Poetry Society's blog.

So, what do you think?

This is the response I received from Alice Mullen of The Poetry Book Society - 

Hi Russell, 

Thanks for your emails to myself and Sophie. Apologies for the delayed reply but I thought this was intended for the Poetry Society. It's great to hear you're planning to celebrate spoken word with a new recording project. We'd be very happy to help to spread the word about it on social media. Best of luck with the project and do keep us posted!

All the best, 

Alice 

Poetry Book Society

The following is courtesy of The Poetry Book Society.  Written by Seán Hewitt a rising star of poetry

TA PROHM

A stifling  heat –  the air  heavy –
and all around the loud, wet forest
knotting the gaps in its own sound.

A peace long- earned, then broken;
and you, far off in the hospice bed.
Silk- cotton, strangler- fig

fastened here on the temple
as though it grew down from heaven,
was sent to hold in place

all this human work. And later,
through the house of fire, the fallen
galleries, I climbed in blue smoke

to where the god sat
ringed with incense. And yes,
I knelt to her. And yes, I prayed

through unbelief. Perhaps now,
father, only something old
and impossible can save us.

.
.
All poems are copyright of the poet. Permission for this poet to post their work here has been granted by blog owner. All rights remain with the individual poet and their respective publisher.