This isn’t so much a blog post as it is a wee boast…
With everything else DorkyDad had going on last year, he could have been forgiven for not putting pen to paper even once.
But somehow in among it all he found time and energy to pull together a full-length poetry manuscript and – joy of joys – it was accepted for publication.
Slow Walk Home is now available from Red Squirrel Press – a fabulous Scottish publisher. Continue reading
A super quick post just to let you know about a couple of Dorky Family things going on in other places.
My third column is up at The Island Review. It’s all about food in Tasmania and you can read it here.
Far more exciting is that DorkyDad’s first big poetry gig in Tasmania is happening this Thursday night. It’s called Beat Night – Where Jazz Meets Spoken Word and it’s at the Lark Cellar Door at 7pm.
The band is a brilliant group of musicians – Andrew Legg (piano and hammond organ), Nick Haywood (bass), Alf Jackson (drums), Al Dobson (horn), Damien Kingston (guitar), and Frank Bansel.
I always get super nervous watching him at events, but this one should be a lot of fun, and I’m hoping that a dram or two might keep me calm… Please come along if you can!
For the last two years, DorkyDad has hosted the BBC Edinburgh Fringe Poetry Slam. It’s an exciting thing – four nights of heats, with six poets competing in each one, and the winner from each night going on to compete in a grand final.
It has finally cured me of my dislike of poetry slams – I get all the excitement of watching great spoken word, and the pride that comes with watching him on the stage, without the nerves of seeing him compete.
I am super chuffed that he has been asked to host for a third time this year, and looking at the lineup, it looks like the best ever. The Slam features 24 of the best performance poets in the UK – 12 women and 12 men – including UK National Champions, Scottish National Champions, two former BBC Slam Champions and the Scottish Makar.
I used to collect poems, like some people collect postcards or glass paperweights.
I’d keep a notebook, and if I read or heard or found a poem I loved then I’d scribble it down, as though by writing the words out myself I could somehow own them.
Sometimes it wouldn’t be a whole poem, it would just be a phrase.
“a gossiping stream full of blethering pebbles”
“a shotgun sprinkle of freckles”
“I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.”
Good poetry – even a line or two – takes your breath away a little bit. Good poets make you feel like they have peeked inside your memory and plucked out an experience that you have lived, but then gone on to express your feeling or describe your scene better than you ever could yourself.
I love the fact that DorkyDad is a poet. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen him perform – in venues ranging from libraries to Jazz bars – and I always come away feeling proud and happy.
Except when he’s doing a slam. I hate watching him in slams. That competitive element takes all the joy out of it for me, and rather than being able to support and encourage him I turn into a jangling, fidgeting ball of nerves. Slams have always made me feel a bit sick.
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Dorkymum | Stories from Tasmania 