Everyday is like Sunday

I had myself a cultural Sunday, after waffles for breakfast then waving my weekend visitor (and postal correspondent!) off on a train to the Highlands. I had decided to go to the Inky Fingers ReadEasy – without really knowing what it was. It started at 3 and with a couple of hours to kill, decided to spend some time in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. What a place. Beautiful portraits and sculptures, so many interesting new people and stories to discover. The Great War exhibition featured lots of principled and characterful people, and the John Byrne exhibition was remarkable – what a talent! Very impressive, and to think I’d not seen his work before. Entry to everything is free. Free! We are so lucky to have access to these things.

As a result of all of the interesting, the 2 hours I had to kill disappeared fast and I ended up running up to the Forest Café on Lothian Road to the ReadEasy. I needn’t have rushed, it’s not that kind of place. The Forest Café has a community centre feel; ramshackle and mismatched tables and chairs, posters everywhere, communal knitting and good strong tea in a mug for only £1. I had submitted a poem beforehand, and the ReadEasy is about having your poem read by others, anonymously, and getting some feedback. It looked for a while like either it wasn’t happening, or there were two of us, but eventually there became a small gathering.

If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be sitting in a hippy café reading and analysing poetry, I’d have pushed you off your chair. But that’s what I did. I read someone else’s poem, which I really liked – lots of strong imagery and a strong sense of nostalgia. Then someone read mine…it was interesting as they’d interpreted different emotions than I’d intended and it was fun to hear how that made a difference. It was also really nice to get feedback. It was largely positive; in fact, too positive – the “this is a fantastic piece” made me blush. Why is it that compliments make feel like a fraud? I have to deprogram myself of that, I think. The main bit of more constructive feedback was pretty much ‘have you ever heard of punctuation?’ I have, of course, but we aren’t good friends. And I notice in poetry, sometimes it’s used a lot and sometimes hardly at all. I’ll have to give that some thought.

Your recommendations have been really useful in my cultural education. Some of my favourites include Philip Larkin’s Aubade (I was told how to pronounce this but instantly forgot!) and WH Auden’s ‘O Tell Me The Truth About Love’. I love how fun that one is. Something I discovered in my investigations was ‘The Memory of Elena’ by Caroline Forché – quite unexpectedly touching, it gave me goosebumps.

Please keep recommendations coming, and if you'd like to read anything & give me your view - let me know!