"Out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry"

Well, what an evening I had at Polari "at the Pavilon" last night! We've not only relocated to a swanky new penthouse venue on the roof of the Royal Festival Hall, but also had four readers to boot...

The evening started somewhat bizarrely, as I waited in line at the only kiosk open in the whole complex for a ticket (for a free event, mind you) that wasn't even there (disorganisation is the name of the game on the South Bank, in my experience).

I was entertained by the spectacle of three wonderful fur-clad queens seeking out the venue for Polari, as one of their number was due to be on as the first reader... Hilariously, I kept seeing them pop up like characters in a French & Saunders sketch on every floor of the complex as I made my way up in the glass lift to check with our host Paul Burston whether or not I could gain entry to the event after all. As it happens I was OK, the dishevelled drama queens arrived in a flurry of fake fur, and the show began.

Bewitched, bothered and bewildered, the leader of the erstwhile lost queens Zack Holland led us through a selection of his observational poems - from youthful experiences to Cornish fishing fleets - which were excellent. Considering he is merely a "new starter" at this game (apparently Paul came across his poems on the site that shall never be mentioned, i.e. Facebook), this lad deserves a publisher!

Next up was the the lovely Sophia Blackwell ("performance poet, cabaret vamp, burlesque wannabe, feminist lesbian warrior princess and Italian pasta-momma"), whose poetry is more of the emotional and subtle (at times) bent - her poem Wilderness Years, in which she explains to her Granny about why she is enjoying her life of unconventionality was particularly brilliant. I was so impressed that I did indeed purchase a copy of her new anthology Into Temptation, which she kindly signed.

After the "comfort break" it was time for a change of tempo, with the upbeat style of Mr Dean ("Spirit of London") Atta - whose work was recently featured as part of the Gay Icons season at the the National Portrait Gallery. With his semi-autobiographical, semi-rap tone, he explored family relationships and Morning Sex with consummate ease - brilliant! For a sample of the man's work, visit http://www.mediafire.com/deanatta



Now! How can I possibly put into words the experience that completed the circle of readings on this poetic night? There are very few adjectives I can conjure up that could adequately summarise the singular performance that was Jeremy Reed and The Ginger Light...



Like something from your worst nightmare, the presence that is Mr Reed began by flinging sequins around while he wailed his bizarrely inconsequential verse to a backdrop of thrumming electro-ambient music and what was meant to be a visual montage (which promptly fizzed out and got stuck, so was rather more manqué).

Missing the point of the evening completely, in that he didn't even notice let alone acknowledge that he had an audience (most of whom left not long after his third interminable monotone rendition), he ploughed on and on and on with more and more depressing and self-indulgent monologues about people he had known who had died, or fleeting potential loves lost on the Tube network. Half an hour of my life flitted away.

I was sat at a table with two very lovely, erudite and enthusiastic (straight) people who had never been to Polari before. I tried to assure them that this was not what the evenings were usually like, but I fear we may never see them (nor 90% of the people who were there tonight) again, thanks to this extreme avant-garde performance. Perhaps if the audience had been imbibing as many chemicals as the performer (sorry - he "had the flu"); perhaps if he had been appearing at Duckie or some godawful "alternative experience" it might have been different. Hey ho.

Anyhow, I had a (mostly) interesting, educational and enlightening evening as always, and I look forward to the next "peerless literary salon" on 10th February!

Polari