Ye Olde Shippe

Sweet Thursday at The Old Ship in Richmond. Didn't turn out to so hard to get to, neither. I had a bit of a thrill as the District Line crossed the shiney Thames in the early evening, and it was a mere short trot to the very comfy room above a woody panelled ye olde Englishe pub.

Alec looks great in his pointy beard and trilby. And we had a very festive time indeed with our array of performers. We were chosen at random up to the stage although Alec very kindly called me his 'secret weapon' and let me perform last so I kind of knew when I was up.

Guy Padfield kicked us off with his autoharp, playing an enchanting little piece. I had to restrain myself from joining in on improvised vocals. What a lovely light, ringing, open sound it has.

http://www.myspace.com/guypadfield

Then Mr Michael Wyndham served up some bonnes mots about his nan, who was very popular with the GIs during the war, and a version of Francois Villon's hanging ballad. How strange. These are exactly the two themes of the first two songs on my album, 'Doodlebug Alley'.

I loved it when my friend Maria Slovakova got up and treated us to her unique vocal renditions - especially I loved 'Poison Berries' because of the strange and compelling way she offers us the words. And a lovely long love piece about living in New York. She lived there before during and after 9/11, and that experience ran through the story.

Sally Smithson, now I hadn't seen her before, and what a comic genius and stupendous wordlady that woman is. So funny. So true. So apt. So ingenious. Loved her! From the very first, when she told us of the Aardvark curled up on its private bits as a pillow, that fart in its face when it's asleep .... I wanted to hear the rest of that children's alphabet.

I played some new material, which was fun for me, and always a good thing to do. That was the first airing in public that Tram 41 has got. I must work on it a little, especially the clicking, because that is a fun bit live. I should make it a little more like the Addam's Family, very Morticia!

My god I adored Morticia as a teenager ... now where is my hobble skirt ... Thing?!

Y Tuesday - summer evening above the bar

Another evening of poetry and a little light music above the Three Kings in Clerkenwell. For many years this was my local, and it's an amazing pub with cool, quirky decor. The rhino head glared at me as if I had cut it off as I stepped up the wooden staircase to the little front room with the comfy leather chairs and the doo-wop jukebox where those gathered would play Fairport Convention tracks before the serious business of words and art kicked off.

The lynchpin, the foundation, the rock of Y Tuesday is Mr Steev Burgess, a great artist, a fine poet, who uses rhyme and rhythm and insight to produce gems which reflect on relationships our business of living in this disappointing and mixed-up world. His co-host, Ms Ceri May arrived with a recycled bag full of jammie dodgers and chocolate cake, looking divine in bottle green dress and yellow flower clip. In bare feet, painted toenails twinkling, she welcomed the motley crew of poets to share their work with fellow listeners.

Ceri and Steev read a couple of 'tango poems' together that Steev had written for two voices. This self-devised series were very effective. Not only did they have a rather musical dramatic presentation but Steev has, I think, a winning way with form, which enables his reflective subject matter to be digested with ease. This means that the content, which slides through emotional difficulties, encounter, challenge and changes, slips down. His bitter poison is sweetened with sugar, and the audience drink it in their ears.

Alec Bell, who read a few of his darker mediations with his rogue expression looked totally dashing with new beard and hat. He seems twenty years younger. He's running a new performance night in Richmond and I think poetry has made him a new man. I approve.

Poets who read one, two or three pieces included Cathy Flower, who gave a sinewy and forthright delivery of some fine narrative work, the talented and humorous Fran Isherwood (who I missed as I had to go catch my train) and the dedicated wordsmith Michael Wyndham, whose sister sat close by sipping a nice big glass of water.