Briggs / Stammers / Caley at the Betsey Trotwood

We were treated last night by three poets reading from their new collections at one of Roddy Lumsden's 'Broadcast' poetry events.

I couldn't miss this excellent selection and trotted on down to the Betsey, a classic pub and a drinking-hole that is unusually hospitable to live poetry and allows the use of the main bar for readings. I guess the landlord knows how well attended Roddy's events are, on top of liking the wordy-stuff.

I sat in the corner with Andy B Jackson and Amy Key, where we chatted and giggled and fidgeted with Amy's fan until Roddy shut us all up, and David Briggs took the microphone to share some of the intricacies of The Method Men (Salt). I like David's poems and have a soft spot for the bee-keeping poem 'In the Senior Common Room', perhaps because it turns on a rule of Roman law that 'a swarm without a hive has no master'. Back in the midst of time I studied Roman law; I remember there was a lot of tort, and I have a clear image of a toga-clad figure running down banks of the Tiber who throws a ring into the river. I can't remember who owned the ring after it was served on a dish at a banquet, but I suspect a rei vindicatio was brought. Crowd pleasers were 'Testicular Torsion' and 'What Happened to Clowns' which both caused the room to strangely shake with quiet excitement.

Next John Stammers read from Interior Night (Picador). Although I have read a good deal of John's work I'd never seen him read before and was rather surprised. I had always thought of 'Anstruthers' as an aspirational poem and hadn't imagined John's actual voice behind the carefully expansive phrases. He spoke in a more down to earth manner than the internal monologue I had assigned to his work. I feel lucky to live in London with its glut of opportunity to hear and appreciate the diverse reading styles of contemporary writers, thanks to organisers like Roddy.

And finally, Matthew Caley took the stage. I reckon Matthew is an absolute total genius. I've been a massive admirer of his work for some time. His new collection Apparently (Bloodaxe) is as fabulous as I expected. I've read 'apparently' poems in his earlier books but now every poem begins or ends with the word 'apparently' to emphasise the unreliability of the narration. The commentaries were as funny and erudite as only Matthew can manufacture; they showcased the connections between diverse cultural icons and facets within the poems which feel cut out and glued together by a man-about-town academic who constructs a specious argument out of thin association.

His poem 'Illinois' had been composed for a previous Broadcast project at which 52 writers each produced a piece about the 52 states of America; except on this occasion Matthew's had been about Utah. The author explained he had been so sure he'd get Illinois, he'd completed it before he was allocated his state. When he got Utah he just changed the name ... what a cheat. But such an elegant one.

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.