knives forks and spoons office opening 23 april review
The Knives Forks and Spoons Office opening was almost two weeks ago and feels a lot further away. Consequently what I'd planned to be detailed recollections of the day are kind of smudgy now.
It was the first time I'd been to Newton-le-Willows and it was a bit of a shocker - possibly more so because I was so disorganised. Inevitably I'd been out partying the night before - this time seeing Womb at Okasional Cafe (see previous review) - which meant I was a bit knackered.
The last few days had been beautiful so I wore a T-shirt and took a light pullover in case it got cool. I packed the Indian bell, my still incomplete visual score, my Zoom digital recorder with very nearly flat batteries, and wandered out of the house for the train.
It wasn't until I was on the train outside Manchester that I realised I hadn't brought the address or map. I wasn't especially worried. Not because I had a plan or knew what I was doing, but because I was sure I'd meet someone or figure something out.
In the meantime I took the opportunity to finish what in retrospect could have been a much longer visual score. The spectacle of someone using a brush pen to vandalise a poetry pamphlet with incoherent scribbles seemed to unsettle the man who'd sat next to me. Although to be fair his boring shirt unsettled me.
I was in a big city frame of mind and thought that when I arrived I could go to the toilet and pick up some drinks, some breakfast and a map at a local supermarket or the station and then find my way to the house. I had a vague memory of what the route map had looked like so I thought it couldn't be too hard to get there. I also realised that I had the address in the front of my poetry book.
I got off the train into a place seemingly made entirely from trees, parks and tiny little closes. I set off in the direction of the shops, which I thought would also be on the way to the house. The shops were a lot smaller than I'd expected. There was also no sign of the street I was looking for. Nonetheless I bought some juice and wine, got something to eat for breakfast, and set off to wander blindly again.
I was impressed by the unwieldy and very nearly meaningless name for one of the takeaways I passed - Fishician.
When wandering about was obviously going to make me late I realised that I could use my phone's internet to search for directions. So I did. Luckily as I was walking along a street en-route to my destination I bumped into Tom Jenks and family who actually knew where they were going.
The address in my book was a previous address in Newton-le-Willows, and not the current address of the press. Fortunately for me the current address was on the way to the old address.
The morning was warm, but as the day wore on and the garden got sheltered it was clear my pullover wasn't going to keep me warm. I ended up visibly shivering.
Everyone was really nice, and the Presses dog Zoe was very friendly, although she did appear to get agitated by flying things. Birds, insects, aeroplanes.
As I may have mentioned when I wrote about the score and my performance I like events where there are children, animals, noise, distractions. To me they're preferrable to sitting around in respectful silence. They also test how good a performer you are and stop you getting too precious.
I've forgotten the details of the majority of readings, but a handful stood out:
I very much enjoyed Rhys Trimble's delivery and his bilingual poetry. There was alo a faint reminder of my time in Cardiff - although back then I had no inkling of the diversity of innovative/experimental practices. Rhys is also the editor of fascinating zine ctrl+alt+del which you print and fold yourself from a single sheet of A4.
Robert Sheppard's experiment in autobiography was interesting - especially as it didn't appear to be prose. Or at least not conventionally recognisable as prose to someone listening to it read aloud. I'd like to hear it again, and to see more of what he's written in the same vein.
Patricia Farrell's work also stood out although embarrassingly I can't remember any details.
Richard Barrett's recent piece created from MIA's twitter feed was great. I can't remember the title of it, but it's one of a few pieces either out now or imminent from him that are well worth checking out.
James Davies read work from the latest Sunfish (which I'd promise to review were I not so bloody lazy and up to my neck in other things). It was interesting to that the asides which add so much texture and interest to the poem are not part of the published text. Whether they're extemporised, part of the script James reads from, or simply happen spontaneously I couldn't say.
The readings that impressed most were Richard Barrett as already mentioned, Alex Davies and Ryan Ormonde. As with Patricia Farrell I'm afraid the details of Alex's reading have just gone. Ryan's work from his most recent collection with Knives Forks and Spoons was tremendous.
At the beginning it seemed to be simple permutations of words and phrases. But as it progressed other variations crept in. The poem explored the rhythms, sounds and meanings of words. It's a piece I very much want to read but haven't got round to buying yet - although I certainly will.
And that was it. Alec Newman as well as being a brilliant editor is a charming host, a very funny compere, and clearly knows his poetry. He and his press deserve a lot of success - and if they continue to attract poets of the calibre of those who were there on 23 April that shouldn't be a problem.
It was the first time I'd been to Newton-le-Willows and it was a bit of a shocker - possibly more so because I was so disorganised. Inevitably I'd been out partying the night before - this time seeing Womb at Okasional Cafe (see previous review) - which meant I was a bit knackered.
The last few days had been beautiful so I wore a T-shirt and took a light pullover in case it got cool. I packed the Indian bell, my still incomplete visual score, my Zoom digital recorder with very nearly flat batteries, and wandered out of the house for the train.
It wasn't until I was on the train outside Manchester that I realised I hadn't brought the address or map. I wasn't especially worried. Not because I had a plan or knew what I was doing, but because I was sure I'd meet someone or figure something out.
In the meantime I took the opportunity to finish what in retrospect could have been a much longer visual score. The spectacle of someone using a brush pen to vandalise a poetry pamphlet with incoherent scribbles seemed to unsettle the man who'd sat next to me. Although to be fair his boring shirt unsettled me.
I was in a big city frame of mind and thought that when I arrived I could go to the toilet and pick up some drinks, some breakfast and a map at a local supermarket or the station and then find my way to the house. I had a vague memory of what the route map had looked like so I thought it couldn't be too hard to get there. I also realised that I had the address in the front of my poetry book.
I got off the train into a place seemingly made entirely from trees, parks and tiny little closes. I set off in the direction of the shops, which I thought would also be on the way to the house. The shops were a lot smaller than I'd expected. There was also no sign of the street I was looking for. Nonetheless I bought some juice and wine, got something to eat for breakfast, and set off to wander blindly again.
I was impressed by the unwieldy and very nearly meaningless name for one of the takeaways I passed - Fishician.
When wandering about was obviously going to make me late I realised that I could use my phone's internet to search for directions. So I did. Luckily as I was walking along a street en-route to my destination I bumped into Tom Jenks and family who actually knew where they were going.
The address in my book was a previous address in Newton-le-Willows, and not the current address of the press. Fortunately for me the current address was on the way to the old address.
The morning was warm, but as the day wore on and the garden got sheltered it was clear my pullover wasn't going to keep me warm. I ended up visibly shivering.
Everyone was really nice, and the Presses dog Zoe was very friendly, although she did appear to get agitated by flying things. Birds, insects, aeroplanes.
As I may have mentioned when I wrote about the score and my performance I like events where there are children, animals, noise, distractions. To me they're preferrable to sitting around in respectful silence. They also test how good a performer you are and stop you getting too precious.
I've forgotten the details of the majority of readings, but a handful stood out:
I very much enjoyed Rhys Trimble's delivery and his bilingual poetry. There was alo a faint reminder of my time in Cardiff - although back then I had no inkling of the diversity of innovative/experimental practices. Rhys is also the editor of fascinating zine ctrl+alt+del which you print and fold yourself from a single sheet of A4.
Robert Sheppard's experiment in autobiography was interesting - especially as it didn't appear to be prose. Or at least not conventionally recognisable as prose to someone listening to it read aloud. I'd like to hear it again, and to see more of what he's written in the same vein.
Patricia Farrell's work also stood out although embarrassingly I can't remember any details.
Richard Barrett's recent piece created from MIA's twitter feed was great. I can't remember the title of it, but it's one of a few pieces either out now or imminent from him that are well worth checking out.
James Davies read work from the latest Sunfish (which I'd promise to review were I not so bloody lazy and up to my neck in other things). It was interesting to that the asides which add so much texture and interest to the poem are not part of the published text. Whether they're extemporised, part of the script James reads from, or simply happen spontaneously I couldn't say.
The readings that impressed most were Richard Barrett as already mentioned, Alex Davies and Ryan Ormonde. As with Patricia Farrell I'm afraid the details of Alex's reading have just gone. Ryan's work from his most recent collection with Knives Forks and Spoons was tremendous.
At the beginning it seemed to be simple permutations of words and phrases. But as it progressed other variations crept in. The poem explored the rhythms, sounds and meanings of words. It's a piece I very much want to read but haven't got round to buying yet - although I certainly will.
And that was it. Alec Newman as well as being a brilliant editor is a charming host, a very funny compere, and clearly knows his poetry. He and his press deserve a lot of success - and if they continue to attract poets of the calibre of those who were there on 23 April that shouldn't be a problem.
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