First Birthday of Oliver's Poetry / The Pi House

Tomorrow is the first birthday of Oliver's Poetry Garret - and what a strange 12 months it has been!

Looking back, it is hard for me to get my head around some of the things that have happened. Also, at times, I have to confess it's not easy for me to see why I created this blog.

My interest in poetry started back in December 2004 when, under not entirely happy circumstances, I was leaving a job in London.

I won't go into the details of what happened then, apart from to say that for the first time in my life I turned to poetry.

During my last week in that job, I attended a poetry night in a bar in Brighton. The following day I wrote a poem about my situation at work and my feeling about the previous two-and-half-years working there. From that point I have not stopped writing poetry.

In the meantime, I had moved to a new day-job out in the countryside, and was initially living during the week in a converted woodshed in Cotesbach, Leicestershire (see flashback below). Eventually, I moved to Warwick and then Leamington.

The blog I instantly found addictive. Long before it was even launched, I was 'blogging' every day on a computer I had installed in my bedroom in Leamington.

The idea dawned on me of the blog moving forward and backward in time simultaneously. With regular blogs and flashbacks to my past (called backblogs). It all coincided with strange things happening in my personal life in Leamington, making the blogging all the more compulsive.

And, of course, there was the poetry. I had to write enough poems to put on the site and also to encourage other poets to submit their best work.

It was all most exciting for me. The problem was I soon found myself spending more time blogging, taking images for the site and doing technical stuff, like HTML, than actually writing poetry! This is an issue I have never truly resolved.

However, an anniversary is always a good opportunity to reflect. And for this first one, I decided to return my  focus to poetry - and have re-read and revised all of my poems.

I was amazed to find that I had written 110 poems, although in a way this alarmed me. A poet needs only write a few great poems in a lifetime, and this high production of mediocrity in the first 30 months - while working full-time and doing numerous other tasks - struck me as excessive.

I have also written 48 blogs and, therefore, 48 flashbacks or backblogs and taken many of the images on Oliver's Poetry Garret. (I have picked out some of my favourite photographs from the first year to illustrate this anniversary blog.)

The blogs and flashbacks started out on the same day, of course - 2 June 2006 - but are now some 20 months apart. Writing the backblogs or flashbacks has become more difficult because now I am relying on memory or what few notes I have of my mis-spent history.

The past year has been an interesting ride for Oliver's Poetry Garret which to a large degree reflects my personal journey.







What happens to me in life is my main inspiration for all the poetic writing I have done for this site and elsewhere.



And it has been through promoting the site that I have come to realise the link between the live comedy world, in which I was active for more than a decade performing and running a comedy club, and the burgeoning performance poetry scene.

Indeed I even ended up reading some of my poems at Leamington's uniquely brilliant comedy club, The Reckless Moment, in one of the gigs I have enjoyed most this year.







Sitting here in the Leamington Garret, overlooking the Pump Room Gardens, as the sun sets, I can see what a strange year it has been. In Leamington and Lewes, so many memorable things have happened.

The remarkable boycott of one of my favourite pubs, the Lewes Arms, in Lewes, by its customers - because the brewery removed their favourite ale - was subject of one of my blogs.

After running the famous public house virtually without a clientele for several months, Greene King realised they were never going to win and caved in.

Also in Lewes, being approached at random by a woman who asked me to be Father Christmas at a school fair was another strange occurrence.

Up in the Midlands, the death of my old friend Sam Towers, in Cotesbach, Leicestershire, was profoundly sad.

After the funeral I wrote a poem and blog and thought nothing more of it.

I was surprised to find Sam's relatives from around the world visiting the site to read them, and, touchingly, emailing to thank me.

I even received a missive from a youngster also called Sam Towers who said he was unrelated to the Sam Towers I had written about but 'was proud to share this gentleman's name'.

Also in Cotesbach, the estate dog Bruno died. He had been a great friend during the years I lived there (from 1999-2002 and 2005). Whenever I visit, it seems sadly strange not to have his great hairy, loving bulk jumping up at me, trying to lick my face!

All in all, the past 12 months have been rich in events and experience. I have greatly enjoyed my poetry slots at the tremendous PureandGoodandRight club in Leamington, and my other performances at Six of the Best in Birmingham, Word in Leicester and on the Warwick Words pub tour.


Yet what I am struggling to get my head around is what I really want to do with poetry. Reviewing comedy shows up at the Edinburgh Fringe last summer, I gave it a lot of thought. I saw the buzz around the Pleasance Courtyard of an evening and thought that I wanted to be part of it, but as a poet.

When I see my friends and mates branching out creatively - as comedians, musicians, poets, artists or whatever - I wonder what I am doing artistically.


Even when I get hooked into an art form, I feel myself hopelessly waylayed into a geeky backwater such as web design, digital photography or blogging!





I often wonder why it is I have written 110 poems in 30 poems but only committed three or four of them to memory.

Or why I am currently terrified of standing in front of an audience without a piece of paper in my hand.









The Pi House (Flashback to Saturday, 15 October 2005)

This is my last night in the Pi House - so-called because one of its windows is hewn in the shape of a Greek letter Pi - after almost 10 months. I am sad to be leaving but, with winter round the corner, it is definitely the right time to go.

I have loved living in this converted woodshed from Spring onwards (despite its lack of bathing or showering amenities).

It is a remarkable, ingenious building, with the shelter afforded by the indoors but the feel of the Great Outdoors.

In the winter, however, it is too tough for me. I have never known such cold as I experienced in this sweet little abode in January, February and March this year!

I recall awaking one morning thinking I had been frost-bitten, the ice forming on the inside of the windows.

Tonight I am going to the Sickle & Stick for a valedictory drink and traditional game of Staghorn. I know I shall miss my friends here as I prepare to move to Warwick and who knows what.

I am rather proud to have lived in the Pi House.

Merry Christmas and a Poetic New Year from Lewes and Leamington!

This may be my shortest blog ever:

Merry Christmas and a Poetic New Year to all my friends!

The run-up to Christmas is an incredibly fraught time for me, so I feel I am writing this entry on stolen time.

Please enjoy this gallery of Christmas images, taken in the last week in Lewes and Leamington.

Tomorrow is my 23rd (times two) birthday, and I shall toast you all with a birthday drink.

See you all in the New Year!

Love, Oliver xxx

The Seedy Side of Royal Leamington Spa

For a change I thought I'd show you the real Royal Leamington Spa - the side of this quaint, Regency town in quaint old middle England that visitors don't know exists.

All the decay, tumbleweed and dereliction. The many bits of this tourist town that the council's vast income from tax, parking charges and other sources does not reach.

The flaking paint, crumbling buildings, faded glory.



My good mood continues unabated (I thoroughly enjoyed taking these pictures, although I am deliberately not publishing images of the countless mentalists, vagrants, druggies and alkies who comprise the denizens of the badlands of downtown Leamington).

I am getting into the Christmas spirit and trying to enjoy myself in moderation. Never easy for me!

The Festive Season is always wondrously fun but also hugely dangerous. This point was more than adequately illustrated at a Christmas party in a hotel near Leamington the other Friday when I got trolleyed and, for reasons unknown, started swinging from a thick, wooden beam high above the dance floor.



I was achieving tremendous height with my swings when the inevitable happened - I lost my grip and took off like an Exocet missile some eight foot above the dance floor. When I finally hit ground, it was onto my back with a sickening thud. By God, I felt that. Instant agony.

The people around thought I had broken my back and, indeed, it seemed absolutely miraculous that I got up. The next morning, I found myself wrapped in bruises: back, arms, ribs, wrist, you name it. I was a mess.

Later when I heard accounts of my trajectory and the enormous crack that my bonehouse took as it smashed into the none-too-pliable dance floor, it seemed incredible that I had not ended up in hospital (I like to put it down to the John Paul II rosary beads in my pocket bringing divine intercession, as occurred with him and the swerving bullet).



Why was I so totally out of my head? I had been all right at the same event on two previous years.

Well, I suppose my old mate Mike Knapp's funeral that day had upset me far more than I had expected or would have admitted.

Michael Geoffrey Knapp (10 May 1961 - 29 November 2007) - as writ on the service sheet - was cremated at South West Middlesex Crematorium. The chapel was packed with family, friends and old colleagues from Express Newspapers.

It was an emotional and memorable service, although I'd say not because of the 'humanist celebrant' who was, I felt, as dry as a bone. (Think, ticket collector).

Mike's old friend Dave Paul spoke very movingly, as did Mike's dad and brother. It was very hard not to be tearful.

Like me, Mike was a 1961 baby and, afterwards, at the wake overlooking The Thames at The Bell Inn in Hampton, I pondered how and why he had been taken so young.

When I first knew him in 1988, I would never have imagined he would have died before me.














I liked Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep, the poem read at the funeral (although the humanist did not, in my view, do it justice):

In those quiet moments in the still of the night
Remember to rejoice and celebrate life
Do not think of me gone and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sunlight on the grain
I am the gentle autumn's rain
When you awaken in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in flight
I am the soft stars that shine
You will hear my gentle voice
and remember to rejoice
Never give up your fight
and remember always
to Celebrate Life....



Seemed so apposite. I guess Mike Knapp enjoyed his life and checked out with few regrets.




I have been finding it very hard to make the time to write this journal. In the week since Mike's funeral, life has been a little bit of a social whirl.

With my flatmate Attila, I went to a surprisingly entertaining (and hilarious) gathering of video game makers at the Royal Pump Rooms in Leamington. It was nice to him to get me in and the booze was only a quid a beer.



Also in Leamington, I led a seasonal booze-up of colleagues which turned out great, as more and more youngsters arrived to party. It ran from 5.30pm in the White Horse to past 3am in Kelseys. Wisely, I knocked off at around 1.15am in the Robbins Wells (and for once gave the Big K a miss).

A great craic, and I caught up with my photographer friend Jason Tilley (see Images of India) who dropped by for a chat and ended up crashing on my sofa.



On the Friday night, I met my dear friend Brian in London, which was looking particularly Christmassy and beautiful.

We met at the Coach and Horses in Soho (now rebranded as 'Norman's Coach and Horses' with four to five quid-a-piece sandwiches - what would Jeffrey Barnard have made of it?) Otherwise, it was mercifully similar to its former state.



That night it was the annual party at my club, the Colony Room, which was celebrating its 59th birthday, so we adjourned there.

It seemed even more wild than usual. One member had brought in his hound; another was staggering around, hopelessly drunk (like me in years past).



It was very great to see the gaffer, Michael, who is the life and soul of the Col. I am looking forward to next year's bash, the 60th. I remember the 50th and it was an amazing night.



Brian and I had a nightcap at The French House which is a timeless public house, virtually unchanged since it was home from home to the exiled French in the Second World War.

Knocking back numerous half-pints of Guinness (the French House does not sell pints), the atmosphere of that place was tangible.

I almost could picture the wartime French haunting their old haunt.













I did my last poetry gig of the year, at PureAndGoodAndRight, now in the vaults of the Robbins Well, Leamington.

As often happens with pre-Christmas gigs, there was a poor turn-out, so I took the opportunity to workshop a couple of new poems hot off the press (I'd written one on the train from Lewes to the gig).



They were very much work in progress but listening to the reaction of the small crowd was useful.

The atmosphere was good and the headliner, Ash Dickinson, was excellent. He certainly didn't let the dearth of punters put him off, enthusiastically performing two sets. Another great night!



Now I am gearing up for Christmas. I have two more days in Leamington Spa before heading south for the season.

I am still trying to plough through the New Oxford Book of English Verse, and have just read Andrew Marvell (1621 - 1678), a poet I know and particularly like. So it is definitely looking up.

And I am very pleased that my long article about the poetry scene plus my review of a CD of William Blake poems set to music has been published on the centre pages of The Stage, the ever-interesting actors' and performers' newspaper.



Somehow I don't feel ready for Christmas. This year is not quite complete.

Indeed I do not even like to reflect on the year because I have failed in so much of what I resolved to do in 2007.

Nevertheless, my spirits are high. Even though I still ache all over - nine whole days after my spectacular Christmas party crash!

It is 11.30pm and I am checking this blog before emailing you all about it and an update of Oliver's Poetry.

A crescent, almost UFO-esque moon is to my right. A bit of magic in the night. But bitterly cold on the street.