The Outside Of Everything

Chapter 20
The Poetry Wars

There was a song we used to like which spoke about bringing back the days when you bought me books for my birthday. Great song. Great sentiments. And I’m pleased to say it’s a tradition we’ve haphazardly kept up. Only recently The Redhead gave me a lovely little paperback about Haydee Santamaria, the Cuban guerrilla fighter who was as equally successful in and passionate about the cultural renaissance she later championed long and lovingly in Latin America. I did feel horribly guilty reading the book though, realising how much she had achieved in her lifetime, bringing people together while we had been incredibly petty and divisive.

Petty and divisive? Well, yes. That came back to me when I saw something in the paper about Billy Childish the other day. You got the impression that the writer had decided by dint of sheer determination on Billy’s part that he must be a force for good. That wasn’t the way everyone always thought. We were his detractors, for a time, rightly or wrongly. It all came about when our Redhead started dabbling in the poetry scene. There was a girl he was terribly sweet on, and she had poetic pretensions. She would drag our man along to strange spoken word events in the West End. Something like Snakes and Ladders. That was the umbrella organisation for all sorts of strange bods turning up and reading their verse in dusty pub back rooms. And most of it was pretty terrible stuff it’s got to be said.

Anyway, to that crowd Billy Childish was an out-and-out hero. And it’s true that in terms of persistence and output he was particularly impressive. He was a one-man cottage industry. Diligently churning out garage punk records, primitive poetry, art of all sorts, woodcuts and what not. A veritable renaissance man or some savage soul stuck in a rut? The jury was out. Perhaps our problem was all to do with us being in love with the idea of doing things, savouring the idea of sitting around talking about it, rather than the actually getting on and doing something. Perhaps our problem was that we were Kentish Men, and he was a Man of Kent, born the wrong side of the river. Terrible snobs we were in our way.

Our Redhead, being well and truly love struck, went willingly along to various Snakes and Ladders soirees in central London. And no matter how much in love he was he found it pretty painful. Sloppy solipsism was one of the politer phrases he used about the poets participating. But our Redhead’s ravishing beauty thought it the bee’s knees or cat’s pyjamas, or something. And our Redhead hardly had the heart to contradict the light of his life. So week after week he went along and endured the absurd. It’s all so serious, he moaned, to us. It’s erm a little bit safe, he said unguardedly to his lovely lady. She was shocked. She asked what on earth do you mean my precious? Well, said our Redhead, they’re always amongst friends. Adding hastily he was proud to be counted as one of their friends, but even so were they not preaching to the converted? There’s a whole world out there waiting to hear this poetry, he said, while silently wondering why the whole world shouldn’t suffer too.

Tell me more, said the light of his life. Well, said our Redhead. And, well indeed, for the sum total of the lad’s knowledge about the world of poetry extended little further than being able to recite a bit of Blake and the whole of Abou Ben Adhem, which was his ma’s favourite poem. Well, said our Redhead, one of my favourite poet’s a chap called Leigh Hunt. An old radical. Hung out with Shelley, Keats and Hazlitt. Well, people like him. They took poetry to the people. Let words loose on the world. Needed to be heard. That sort of thing. Actually he had no idea if Leigh Hunt ever uttered a word to the world at large, but it was worth a punt. And the rose our Redhead wanted to live for liked the idea very much. So much so that she took it to the central committee of the Snakes and Ladders collective, and urged them all to get out there and act like a bunch of Leigh Hunts. And the great and the good, the worthy and worthwhile liked the idea very much, and made plans to get out there and be heard.

So Snakes and Ladders went out on the road. Our Redhead smiled, smug and knowing. First stop was somewhere in the Medway delta. An upturned box from the market positioned on Rochester high street, and before you knew it the pennies were pouring in to the punk poet’s fedora as he gabbled out his garbled beat verse. Oh well, no accounting for taste, grumbled our Redhead to himself when he heard the euphoric account of this first outing. Don’t you think it’s great, he was asked? His response? He said, well, yes, of course I do, but erm wasn’t that a little bit safe? Rochester High Street is a bit of a haven for the arts isn’t it? Our local shopping centre would be a bit more of a challenge, and the poets would be a little less likely to be amongst friends. It’s got to be done. Yes, said the central committee of the Snakes and Ladders collective, it’s got to be done.

And so it was done. Same upturned wooden crate. Same old lines. But quite a different response. The local yobs lobbed a selection of fruit and veg. The local old dears hurried past, heads down. The local down and outs put their caps down on the ground, and tried a sort of soft shoe shuffle, hoping for a few pennies from heaven. We were there too, sitting on a bench, watching from a respectful distance, as our Redhead and his fragrant rose handed out flyers, explaining to no one in particular what was going on, and who was who. The recitations did attract some interest though. Peeking out from behind our papers we watched as the local constabulary wandered up to ascertain what the disturbance was all about. They at least were interested in the poets’ particulars, what was going on, and who was who.

From where we were sitting only snippets of dialogue could be heard. What’s all this about then? Have you got permission to carry on like that sir? It’s a funny place for a bit of poetry isn’t it gents? What do you think this is, Speakers Corner? Name sir? I wouldn’t accuse me of being childish sir if I were you? Let’s try again shall we? No I don’t think it would be becoming for me to be childish sir. Let’s try this a different way shall we? First names first. Billy eh? Well, Billy, don’t be a hero, don’t be a fool all your life. Ah like that did you sir? Bit of culture eh? Well, I tell you what. You make yourself scarce, and I won’t book you for disturbing the peace. That way, all’s well that ends well.

Well, we thought this was priceless, and we saw the local police in a whole new light. These punk poets should be banged to rights, or whatever it was The Sweeney used to say. But we did realise our Redhead was going to get an earful of it, and we did our best to look sympathetic when we heard he was going along to a special evening called by the central committee of the Snakes and Ladders collective. One dedicated to poems about the heathen brethren crushing free spirits and free speech. Painful, was our Redhead’s verdict. So painful in fact that he snapped. Ah, we said. Ah indeed, said our Redhead, and woe is me for my great love affair is over. Over what? Apparently our Redhead’s beloved overheard him muttering under his breath about a pox on poxy poets who couldn’t even get themselves arrested. Oh well, said our lad, the path of true love never did run smooth, and now I’m truly on the outside.