I body-languaged a drunken man

How risky!

A man with a very red face was shouting at his woman in the street right outside the bookshop. After a bit he seemed to be showing no sign of stopping or of going somewhere else.

I stormed out, shutting the door behind me to let the reading continue. Without saying a word or making a sound I gave a massively threatening 'get out of it' whole body gesture at him in particular and the two of them in general.

I glared at them and watched him shift some yards to the side of the railings, where the row was still just as annoying to everyone.

I watched furiously for a while longer, still holding onto the door handle, then they went off.

It could have turned into a brawl, but I think he knew I just wanted him to shift his noisy awfulness somewhere else. The woman had a blank look to her face. She did look up at me, but was taking all this yelling as if it were a daily event in Walton Street.

I don't know whether to be shocked at myself for getting so angry or pleased that I sorted it out without any blood or 999 calls. Both. A doctor waiting to read his poetry got up to help me, but my friend said I'd be ok. Nice to know someone with plenty of Saturday nights on A & E was at hand if necessary to sit on the guy.

London - Anselm Keifer - Albion

Leaving before dawn for London

I was a satisfying feeling to be up and off so early. Breakfast at home, plus greeting my mother in French. She jumped and squeaked, fearing I was a well-dressed French relative who'd just turned up out of the blue, knocking on their bedroom door. I never realised saying 'bonjour' could be so alarming.

Then I had an argument with my father about love and relationships before finishing breakfast, that's a first. We didn't argue after that.

While my parents had a normal Saturday morning I buzzed off to see an exhibition I'd read about in a blog. Striking and bold. There were 2 references to Celan poems, so I'll look at those one day. The best part was looking closely at the surfaces of the paintings, the golden layers were so rough and perfect at the same time.

One room just contained a heap of massive book things plus sunflower heads. Being so big and spread out we could walk under it and look right at it. I don't think in words, just enjoy it all uncritically, like feeling the wind or rain.

There was a tea in the afternoon, I helped with laundry and felt I hadn't done much to benefit the household. It is confusing to come, then go away again. I try to read between the lines, but get nowhere, just get used to the buttons on their washing machine and dryer.

I even managed to lose my mother. She said she was going to get some cash as we walked out of the cafe, she walked off, so I thought, towards the cash point by the market and I did something back at the house then tried to catch up with her. No luck at all, so walked all the way back wondering how she'd gone so far so fast. There is a machine at the corner of the street...

In a way I cause more trouble than help coming to visit. Maybe that is always the way, simply a way of passing the time together and doing more mixed up living. I get to see the workings of the household, not just the elegant surface.

Jo Bell/Will Burns/George Chopping

The drive back went straight to Oxford. It was a surprise to be so suddenly back in my familiar parking place and walking down Observatory Street to get to the Albion Bookstore. Very good to meet some familiar faces again. I suggested I'd do a short review of Life on Easy Street by George Roberts. So my reading is focused on that now.

2 new to me poets read out their work and we all had time to talk in the interval. Hearing Jo Bell is good. I know her stance and delivery so well now. If I read a poem of hers on the page/screen I can hear her consonants and accent.

I wonder whether at a certain point I don't listen to the words' meanings at all, just watch and listen to the voices. I watch sheep and cattle, observe, no more. I don't want to interpret any more, just see each person's ways. Since I don't have to reply or discuss, I can switch off and bathe in their music. So I was starting to learn Will Burns and George Chopping.

Once I am used to that I am able to sense a difference when another emotion kicks in. Watching David Morley change profoundly as he shifted from non-Romany to Romany poems. I could see him become more himself. I wondered why he bothered doing anything apart from the work on his Romany side. The rest seemed so at odds with his deep self. This was on stage at the Swindon Poetry Festival this October.

Storytelling Republic - Palestine - Chris Smith

On Monday evening I got out to Oxford and bumped into 2 people I know. We were at the first Story Telling evening for adults at the Albion Beatnik Bookstore.

There are photos already up to show what it was like. They can't show that there was a still silence every so often as we listened extra attentively.

I wondered what Chris Smith had been doing for the 15 years he spent out there. Does he know Jackie Lubeck of Theatre Day Productions who I met online on ModPo?

Yes, I do have some poetry events in my diary

1. Pity of War, St Michael Northgate, Oxford, Sat 13th Sept, 5.30 - 6.30pm

2. Poetry Weekend/Festival, Lower Shaw Farm, Swindon, 2nd to 5th Oct

3. Fiona Sampson reading, Albion Beatnik Bookstore, Walton Street, Oxford, Fri 17th Oct, 7.30pm

For a moment I had thought there was nothing on my horizon, but then I looked more closely and hit gold.

My French grandmother put dates of fascinating museum talks in her diary so that she had things to look forward to and could invite friends to. My brother follows this rule now.

Instant poetry party: El Habib Louai at the Albion Beatnik

I am so lucky. I got an email, had a free evening, jumped in my car, took off.

This Moroccan guy spent last summer? travelling across America from poet to poet in all sorts of great cities, Boulder, Colorado etc. And there he was reading out his translations into Arabic just for us, a bunch of Oxford poetry floozies, enticed by no entry fee and even free tea/coffee. He loves chatting and meeting people, reading out his work and hanging around with anyone who is into poetry.

We asked questions and talked politics, interrupted what he was saying, let him tell us about his night not on the tiles at some grey hound bus station. We had to be told to wind it up because we were settling in for the night, and the shop does need to shut!

To finish 2 brave souls did an open mic, someone else and me. We all had photos taken of each other and swapped various facebook and email details.

Now I need his translation of something to work on. It's on YouTube. I put Arabic on hold temporarily, needing to reclaim my mind, but that's been reversed again. Nothing like being read to by a real live person.

100,000 Poets for Change

First public reading

Do you remember that first reading? Remembering carefully who I am meant to follow. Making slashes to the text. Noticing that one has no title. Climbing out from my place so I don't trip over my own rucksack. Standing on the little carpet in the lights. Speaking to the people at the back. Waving my free arm around. Swapping my papers from one hand to the other. Enjoying the sudden laughter and the applause. Getting back to my stool and whispering praise to the others who'd been up before me.

I couldn't sleep

Last night I couldn't fall sleep until some time after 3am.
Due to my active mind responding to the Poetry Readings.

Last autumn I kept on having to sleep in the day.
Due to the intensity of my online Poetry course.