‘Clicking in the Rain’

Sunday and the twenty-third COVID blog.

Well, what a week!

If I had told my seventeen year old self that the awesome performance poet I was watching on stage would one day introduce ‘me’ on stage to perform ‘my’ poetry, I would never have believed me.

Yet there I was, on Tuesday Evening in Battersea Park, standing on the same stage as my poetry hero Benjamin Zephaniah, I am still pinching myself!

In last week’s blog, I had dared to dream and while a part of me was ever hopeful I really had resigned myself to the fact that it probably wasn’t going to happen.

As with all stories, I really should start at the beginning:

On Tuesday morning I did my first ever podcast, this was for Essex Libraries and their podcast series “The Only Way is Reading.”

This podcast is about my poetry and my poetic involvement in the ‘Essexism’ project which aims to break the stereotype of ‘Essex Girls.” Being a proud Essex Girl it is something close to my heart. My interviewer and a fellow Essex Girl was lovely and it really felt like I was having a chat with a friend.

Once the interview had concluded the afternoon was then spent driving to London’s Battersea Park.

Due to Covid and the uncertainty of trains, if they were all running on time or indeed running at all, it felt pertinent to drive. I picked up my friend and we set off.

I had booked a parking space online and we found this relatively easy. Finding Battersea Park though, not so much.
My friend and I have a history of google map reading, a history that tells us, we can’t.

So, after walking in the wrong direction for a silly amount of time we gave up and called an Uber. My daughter who we were meeting at a cafe in the park text me to see if we were lost. Of course, we well and truly were and not for the first time.

A new ‘Sky Arts’ programme was being filmed in the park with a array of wonderful poets and Benjamin Zephaniah was the host. This also included a one minute open mic spot which I intended to add my name to. A random chance literally pulled out of a hat, Benjamin Zephaniah’s rasta hat.

A red, gold, and green bag of dreams.

The weather was to begin with quite glorious, full of warm sunshine and despite the warning of rain I was beginning to regret my decision of wearing black winter boots.

Do not be fooled by this gentle image of the evening bandstand. The weather had rapidly changed and around the time they were due to start filming. The heavens had opened and the tail end of hurricane Dorian arrived in all it’s splendour.

I had already signed up for the open mic but during a run through Zephaniah announced that there would be one open mic poet, chosen from the forty poets who had signed up.

My heart sank and I pretty much resigned myself to the fact that it wasn’t meant to be except, when they eventually started filming (after several stops due to rain) Zephaniah then pulled out ‘three’ names instead of one but not mine.

One of the names (stage name) was very different and not a poet I had ever come across before. I think perhaps this conjured up a little concern with the programme makers and so a voice in Zephaniah’s ear must have told him to pick another and to my absolute delight my name was chosen.

I will be forever grateful to this lady and so my many thanks go to the poet named “My Hairy Vag!”

All the established poets were wonderful, but for me the poet Molly Case an NHS nurse and her emotive language was a real highlight and her words stayed with me.
The rain and wind continued to batter and eventually when it was finally my turn I was bedraggled and wet and looked quite ridiculous. My hair and make up that I taken such care with was a hopeless cause.
However, being introduced by Benjamin Zephaniah was incredible and the fact he had to say my name several times due to stoppages caused by the rain, the wind and even overhead planes, all made me feel quite delirious.

I was really pleased with my performance and I had kind feedback from the audience. What I didn’t expect was ‘clicking.’ I have been going to poetry readings and performances for sometime but I had never heard the ‘clicking’ of fingers to show appreciation from an audience.

Apparently it’s a thing, it started in Greenwich Village in New York so as not to disturb the poets flow.
It is now a common feature in poetry slams, I just don’t think I have been anywhere cool enough to have encountered it.

During my performance and at the beginning of my second stanza came the unexpected clicks. Added to by an immense gust of wind from Dorian, blowing my hair and causing the lights to sway frantically on the stage as I recited the words “She is a warrior” and just for a moment, this epic example of pathetic fallacy, made me feel like one of the coolest people on the planet.

I have no idea if I will end up on the cutting room floor, I really am hoping not and keeping both fingers and toes crossed but to stand on the same stage as this ‘great’ will always be enough.

Life constantly sends us on unexpected paths and one such path culminated in a small special Covid friendly gathering to celebrate the life of someone wonderful yesterday, someone who was so very much loved, through spoken word and music, to raise much needed funds for Cancer Research.
This charity has lost so much revenue due to cancelled events and over 1.7 million alone as a result of the loss of The London Marathon this year.

I have no idea of the final total as money pledged is still being added. I do know that I felt her presence and I know she would be so very proud.

A week of poetry, friendship, love and memories. The weather being both friend and foe but a week full of life.

Next week begins a new and different academic year one that brings with it new challenges.

For now, before the uncertainty and my new normal, I will bask in the glow that next time I teach a Zephaniah poem, I can tell my students that he introduced me on stage as a fellow poet, safe in the knowledge that no cutting room floor can ever take that away from me.

Stay Safe,

Joy xxx