This is my first poetry festival proper and I can smell the brimstone of imposter syndrome. Since May, I have written between one and 10 poems every day. They arrive manically and I hastily scribble in my exercise book. It is an exciting new turn of events. Every morning I wake up and think, “Will there be a poem in me today and what will it be about?”
It is perfect for my frame of mind, one that is after endless dopamine hits. The idea comes, you find the words and unsteady rhythms and, often, when you have finished you start to understand some thought or experience anew. At my gig, the punk-poet legend Attila the Stockbroker is in the front row. To see him nod and smile is a delight.
One important lesson learned when performing as a poet is “check the stage light beforehand”. For much of the gig, I think I looked like Donald Pleasance pretending he could see a pin. I chat to many afterwards and, much like that first comedy gig where everything clicked three decades ago, I have an excited feeling of a new road built to different possibilities. If more excitingly, I am given my poetic licence which entitles me to “unlimited acts of poetry, spoken word and song”.
On the seafront on Sunday, I sit and stare at the empty ice cream van and gulls arguing over rotten bacon. The day before, I visited Carnforth, the station location of the classic film Brief Encounter. It was my mother’s birthday yesterday too. She was a fan of that film and these thoughts combine. In later days, her dementia that was only diagnosed on death certificate made films too hard, but instead, there was one sitcom she adored. And this was my scribble as the gulls squabbled.
Rising Damp still does it
She laughs like a drain
Same episodes
Over and over again
Not enough recall for detectives now
But Rossiter’s Rigsby brings her close
to asthma
Oddly, as she increasingly forgets
Her breathing difficulties slip her mind
Barely able to walk by day
At night, in the mental dusk between
sleep and wake
She takes herself to the bathroom
With fully functioning joints
Though consciousness will stiffen
her again
Knees disappoint, resolve resigns
And then another darkness falls
Like a child, emotions are binary
Joy or despair
Until we press play again
And Rossiter’s Rigsby is there
Robin Ince is a comedian, broadcaster and poet. His book Bibliomaniac (Atlantic Books, £10.99) is out now. You can buy it from The Big Issue shop on Bookshop.org, which helps to support The Big Issue and independent bookshops.
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