"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
Sex appeal, dear reader, is all very well; but it won’t get you very far in the Peak District in November. The forecast for Saturday was ‘and in the north – rough‘ but as the blessed Wainwright tells us, there is no such thing as inclement weather – only inappropriate clothing. So our Poetry Walkshop was bound to be a success, since we all arrived in stout waterproof togs, woolly hats and boots.
With me as poetry catalyst, and dear Smily Jane as poet-herd and hostess, a group of intelligent, lively women (no blokes this time, where were you?) came on a blustery walk at the extreme western edge of the Peak. Pictures here are by Lindsey Holland, a fantastic new addition to my poetry community. We fed them to the gills and rather hoped they would quietly fall asleep – but no, they were still game enough to do a poetry workshop on landscape, which included a nod to terza rima and asked them to describe ‘intensely physical experiences they’ve had outdoors.’ Cue much knowing laughter.
This week takes me to London for meetings about National Poetry Day and its sister projects; to Chester to meet about a residency and a new collaboration; to Manchester for the first birthday party of Bad Language; back to Macc for this lovely event which I hope you will join us for; and ends in London again for a gig at the magnificent Camden poetry night Rrrants, where I am reading with the splendidly bearded AF Harrold. Deck the halls…. I love my job, me. Don’t let the long nights get you down, dear reader.