StAnza: Flight and Finesse

My first event on the Saturday at StAnza was Bill Manhire's masterclass: a one-off workshop with six writers selected from among a batch of submissions plus an audience. I was in the audience, not having submitted anything.

Manhire was warm and engaging while still being quite thorough. As he pointed out, there was no time to build up the trust that would be established in a long-running workshop group. Perhaps he'd be a tougher critic in that setting, but I get the sense he wouldn't have the bluntness of some well-known poets. Whether you think that's good or bad depends on what you look for in a critic of your poetry, I guess, but it suited the set-up.

We were all give copies of the poems, chosen by Manhire mid air over Singapo. The poet would read their piece, then Manhire would ask them about it and comment on it himself before opening the discussion to comments, suggestions and questions from the audience and the other selected participants. The atmosphere was friendly, the selection varied and the discussion intelligent.

For me, the best poem of the session was Matthew Hotham's "Forms of Flight". It was the most interesting formally and possessed a distinctive beauty. It had mystery, imagination and a quiet but insistent power. It simply said to me that Matthew had real talent, underpinned by skill and intelligence. Several people in the room obviously just didn't quite get what he was up to, and made suggestions that would have robbed the poem of mystery and richness. That's what you might expect of such an event, I suppose; I couldn't help but defend his piece.

After the masterclass, Rob Mackenzie, Ross Wilson and I had a brief chat with Matthew and Cynthia Chin, who also had a poem in the masterclass. They'd come over from the States specially for StAnza. So we're not just talking talent and skill here, but ocean-crossing commitment! Later, at the poets' market, Matthew bought The Ambulance Box and The Opposite of Cabbage and gave Rob and me each a copy of his chapbook, Early Art, published by Turtle Ink Press in 2006.

Having had a quick read through Early Art, I'm really looking forward to going back and savouring it. Everything I saw in "Forms of Flight" seems to be there in the pamphlet, though perhaps not quite as developed, given that it was published three years ago. Still, the talent is obvious. It's exciting to find a good writer at an early stage in his career, and I'm looking forward even more to seeing where Matthew takes his poetry in the future.

StAnza: Repetition, Surrealism and Hestiation

St Andrews was bathed in glorious sunshine this weekend past for StAnza, even if there was a bit of a chill to the wind. It certainly brought to mind Alastair Reid's "Scotland", famously burnt by the man himself two years ago. Reid was there in spirit, as you can hear in the podcast exerpt of Jay Parini's lecture (recommended). However, this year, Rabbie was doing the burning, what with it being the year of homecoming. Now that inevitably brings to mind Bill Herbert's "Rabbie, Rabbie Burning Bright". But I digress.

Anyway, I had a fantastic time at StAnza, despite the stressful lead-up on Friday trying to get my books to arrive at a time and place convenient for Saturday's poets' market. Somebody at the distributors -- not at Salt, I stress -- had cocked up, and the books I'd ordered in ample time had spent the whole week sitting in a warehouse in Eaglesham, I believe. Frantic Facebooking and phoning eventually sorted it out. Suffice to say that my box of The Ambulance Box made it to the Byre Theatre on Saturday morning after a Herculean effort of persuasion and, I imagine, plenty choice words from Tom and Jen at Salt. A huge thank you to them both.

As if that wasn't enough, when I got home from work I had no wallet. I was pushed for time as it was, but I had to phone up and cancel my cards and report it missing to the police. (I discover now that was in my desk at work. Numptie!) Still, without being a danger to myself or other drivers, I managed to check in to my B&B on the extreme southern edge of St Andrews and make it to the Byre with only moments to spare before Eleanor Livingstone walked onstage to introduce Bill Manhire and Simon Armitage.

I'd never heard Manhire before and the last time I'd heard Armitage was way back when I was a student. I particularly liked Manhire's "Hotel Emergencies" and "The Oral Tradition", which seemed to me to go places the other poems he read didn't touch. With Armitage, nothing stood out quite so strongly. The narrative poems he read sounded quite prosy, but I'd like to see how they read on the page. The more formal pieces came over better for me, though his use of repetition in some of them got too much. Sally Evans lampooned it quite sharply in the open mike. Armitage certainly overdid it, and I say that in full consciousness of how often I use repetition as a structural device.

There was quite a crowd in the Byre bar for the open mike, which followed the Manhire/Armitage event. As is often the case at these things, the bulk of the writing was comic verse, but there was plenty more serious stuff too. The standout readers for me were Allan Gillis, Rob A Mackenzie (whose choice of "Scotlands" was perfect on a number of levels), Kevin Cadwallader (whose line about the surrealist coppers I loved, though every time I saw him the rest of the weekend I forgot to tell him) and Judith Taylor. It was also good to hear Sorlil, who read much better than she seems to think, and Ross Wilson in particular. I read "Pedestrian", which went down well.

After the open mike, Rob, Ross and I headed pubward with Roddy Lumsden, Adam O'Riordan and a friend of Roddy's whose name, shamefully, continues to escape me. I fell into discussion with Adam and Ross about the SNP, devolution, independence, the West Lothian question and the lack of brilliant young left-wing politicians. That among other, more literary things, like. There were dark mutterings from StAnza student volunteers about a party of the fun kind, but the less said about that the better. Not that there is anything to say about it, because it didn't happen, due to misunderstandings, miscommunications and somebody deciding to stay in the student union. Just as well, really: it meant I could roll into bed by 2 am and be relatively compus mentus the next day.