T.S.Eliot Prize, 2012

Yup I was there. One of the 1,600 members of the audience at the Festival Hall for the T.S. Eliot prize readings. First time I've made it to the South Bank for the event of the poetry year- all the way down from sunny Edinburgh.

But first, London by night was very twinkly - especially as the sister I was staying with lives in the East End and we took a bus past the floodlit , white 'bloody' Tower, with the lit-up glass Shard appearing to rise out of it (do sky-lines matter?), past the glass Cheese-grater and the lit-up glass Gerkhin and finally to a flood-lit St Paul's. We then walked over the Millenium Bridge,- over the Thames, with more buildings illuminated: Tower Bridge, the Globe, the various South Bank halls, lots of blue and white strings of light in the trees as if it was still Christmas and of course, the colourful Wheel and Westminster across the water. So we were pretty excited by the time we reached the Festival Hall.

The only twinkly things about the poetry readings, however, were the specks on the poets' glasses- some who shall be nameless, fumbled around, swopping long- distance glasses for reading glasses, and also perhaps lights reflected on the bottle of water. I'm being unfair. The atmosphere in the (hideous) hall was electric. It was reminiscent, for a moment, of the Last Night of the Proms - only no streamers, flags, hooters or silly hats. Cheers met the M.C. , Ian MacMillan, whose repartee sparkled, with just the right balance between humourous, warm-ups to get the already excited audience notched up a level and then serious intros to each poet - omitting the tedious list of prizes/awards which are usually offered (important as they may be) but little vignettes evoking the particular poet. The most memorable was of John Burnside, whose poems, MacMillan described as constructed like intricate, tiny fishing flies which then, when cast into the water, glint enticingly below the surface.

The audience calmed down and were attentive. It became more like a serious poetry reading and like most readings ranged from the dire to the sublime. I'm talking about performance here. All the poems were stunning. I would not have liked to be a judge. All were breath-taking. But...I'm afraid, as a non-poet friend of mine once said to me 'you're not assured of a good night out at a poetry reading'- some of the poets, who shall be nameless, mumbled, dropped their voices at the last line of each poem, some poets read too quickly so that one couldn't catch what they were saying, one read on a monotone...Am I being cruel? It must have been a terrifying experience for the poets themselves. I mean, even though most of them are academics used to lecturing students, there's a difference between 40 or so students, or the usual small gathering at a poetry reading, and standing as a lone spot-lit waif on a vast, lonely stage in front of 1,6000 people. Yeah, maybe I should take it back? I would probably be a trembling wreck (this is fantasizing that my own poetry readings would ever attract more than 25 people!) But I really do wish poets would take lessons in performance skills. Is it really more authentic to mutter than to give a mesmerizing performance? (I was about to say 'dramatic' but there's lies a controversial pit-fall I shall avoid for now.)

Moan over. The majority of the poets performed well. Dalgit Nagra was brilliant - a lively rendering of his very funny poem about Indian girls' names which all seem to rhyme started the evening with a bang. He then followed this with a more serious poem, with biting humour, about the colonial history of Britain in India- a good idea to read only two poems, the latter very, very long. As my sister said, with shorter poems, you've hardly got into them and they're over. Leontia Flynn also read a very, very long poem, 'Letter to Friends' which again was humourous, with precise, contemporary, urban detail which leant itself perfectly to public performance. I loved the line: 'Man can't bear too much Reality (TV)'.

The most brilliant, consummately professional performance was by Carol Ann Duffy. Each time I hear her, she is more assured - not a Grand Dame - there is no pretension, but she seemingly effortlessly controls her performance- funny, ironic, biting (the poem banned from the school curriculum) and then intensely moving -a poem going backwards in time, starting at the moment of her mother's death, then remembering her alive. A poem which went straight to the heart.

Talking of which, Bernard O'Donghue's elegy on a friend was intense and moving. Esther Morgan's poems were all elegant, lyrical and beautifully wrought, John Burnside's ranged from his mastery of the fragmentary, elusive evocations of a spiritual or maybe just ghostly world just out of reach to a voodo-inspired series, which are more accessible, (a pleasant change) but for my taste, verging on the melodramatic. David Harsent's spooky garden was definitely melodramatic, sending shivers down your spine, and shockingly taboo mentions of an old lady (the spirit of the garden, maybe) flashing her widget-like arse-hole. He also read with actorly flourish and a mellow, melodious voice which I thoroughly enjoyed. Sean O'Brien read two jokey poems as well as more serious poems so that was a clever way of breaking up what might have been a long haul of an evening. The evening as as a whole proved to be mainly enthralling (the performance flaws only minor irritating blips).

It was also fun to 'spot the poet/publisher' in the audience: I saw Mathew Hollis, Editor of Faber, Robin Robinson, Editor of Cape, I'm told Neil Astley, Bloodaxe's supremo, was there and many other well-known poets. Fun to also bump into a handful of other fellow poet/friends, but the majority of the huge audience were members of the public/poetry lovers. Perhaps the BBC should take note.

Amazing to see how varied and lively poetry is today. All that tired old stuff about Traditional Forms v Modernist/Post-Modernist seems to be irrelevant. Poets and audiences far more accepting of difference, all given equal validity. Poetry is alive and well.
***
OK, there's 5 mins to go before the announcement of the winner tonight at 7.45pm (ish) - so my bet is on Carol Ann Duffy. She's won the TSE before, she's had endless honours and she is the Poet Laureate so perhaps a newcomer should be given a chance - like Dalgit Nagra - who of the younger poets on the shortlist would be my choice, if not for Carol Ann. Dalgit plays with language inventively - especially his Punglish, which unfortunately was not much in evidence in the two poems he read last night - and I haven't read the rest of his short-listed book yet 'Tippo Sultan's Incredible White Man Eating Tiger Toy.'.. to check if it's as exciting as its title and as his first book...

but perhaps it should go to a poet at the height of their career, Sean O'Brien (who has already won the TSE before), Bernard O'Donoghue, David Harsent or John Burnside...any of these would be be worthy winners...but Carol Ann has it, whatever it is. She is the real thing.
So now to telly (Channel 4 I'm told are covering the bash) at the Haberdasher's Hall where they are quaffing and hobnobbing, to see who did win.

8pm...

It's John Burnside's 'Black Cat Bone'. A wonderful, enigmatic collection. Congratulations.
See:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/jan/16/john-burnside-wins-ts-eliot-prize?newsfeed=true