I’ve been a naughty boy. I failed to post my final work when my residency ended. Actually, this has been quite useful because after a mild prod from Our Superiors, I went back to the poems and re-read them. I think I was quite harsh when I initially wrote them, but some aren’t bad. What I’d give for another six months to spend more time digging and weeding, and to appreciate the digging and weeding, as opposed to studying euphuistic renaissance novels. It’s also been interesting keeping up with the rest da crew, and seeing the project expand. Anyway, below are the poems, and above is a visual accompaniment – crucial, I find, when reading poetry.

Before my gig at the Soho Theatre on June 24th I worked with director Thierry Lawson at the Albany in London. Now. My ’style’, which is another way of saying ‘comfort zone’, is to stand in front of the microphone and read from the page. I haven’t learned one of my own poems since 2005. When I first started out I believed I had to write something new for every gig and learn it by heart. Needless to say I was a disaster – disorganised, under-rehearsed and lacking confidence – because I did not (and still do not) understand how to achieve things PRIOR to the night before they’re due. So I turned up and read my poems one after the other in front of Thierry who shook his head and proceeded to show me how I might make my reading more engaging. He was careful to point out that if I depended on the page then I couldn’t fill the space with my body and would have to do it using my voice. So I read things loudly, in monotone, to get used to spitting words as far across the room as possible; wandered around sighing to get used to making noises freer than the ones I make with words; I pretended to be submerged in a tank; I stood and read on a chair; jumped down… And whilst none of the physical exercises were transferable to the Soho Theatre, two things happened.

So, tomorrow is my first gig as poet in residence at Barracks Lane.  I feel I’ve not been as open about the process of writing as I could have been, being very happy to show the initial free-writes, but less willing to show the awkward slog of getting the stuff down, editing it, cutting out the horrific lines… So, here are some of the outtakes – the god awful bits that compromise my dignity and self-respect.

Do you smoke, he asked, running a hand through his hair
And his dogs cantered about his legs sniffing and yelping
In the simple joy that only dogs have.

At some point you must look up away
from the book lying fascinating on your lap
And notice, just notice, the profound
surface of your eye, the surface of your
skin, the surface of your lips
And the vacuity of solar light.

Oh it’s important
But I wish it were less so.

The water runs off the leaves
That hang over the balcony.
And drip!
Drip drip.
Drop!

I really liked the smell.

So I lied.

I have another poem which I wrote straight in to Word and haven’t touched it since. When I was at the Garden there was a brief conversation about how potatoes condition the soil so that it’s not too crumbly and not too sticky. Two things entered my mind. First, a reading by Julia Copus at this year’s Stanza Festival in Scotland. She talked about how ‘falling in love’ was an inaccurate phrase, since it implies that love is outside of us. Better to think of love as something involuntary that rises up through you. Second, I thought of some graffiti on the toilet wall in the English Faculty: ‘LOVE IS NOT A POTATO’ is written in sprawling letters and beneath it there’s some wise-crack response that I can’t remember. I was taken by the idea of conditioning – of love being something that makes you fertile ground for all the growths that accompany it – purpose, jealousy, satisfaction, self-worth, libido.

It’s been suggested that I do some kind of workshop with kids who are out of education. Perhaps the local school, which is literally ten seconds away from the allotment might consider this scheme. There were two girls in the garden yesterday when I visited and their presence really changed the atmosphere. I think adults go on their best behaviour when kids are around.

(This is the last post for a few days, I swear!)

Not that I am doing my mentor’s job, but I couldn’t resist marking out the bits I’m dissatisfied with. I’ve noticed that a lot of my rough pieces sound good, but are shoddily constructed. Look at the shoddy structure of this poem. Shoddy, shoddy. Anyway, this is more about the Cowley Road. It really happened: I was standing there minding my own business and a boy stuck his finger up at me. Well, I didn’t take it seriously and we had a right joke flipping each other off – him on the bus, me on the street. I might have taken it as a death threat in London. For whatever reason, our contempt for each other was humorous, silly but strange enough for me to remember. Not sure it warrants a full poem, though…

Last week I met Annie who is one of the trustees at Barracks Lane, and her husband John. They live right beside the site and were involved in the process of turning the place from a derelict concrete patch in to a community garden. Alan, who helped me move from London to Oxford, took me for a mini tour that was impeded by a brief thunderstorm.

So! Work in progress. What has Jay been writing?

So. My time in London has come to an end and I’m starting up again in Oxford. This happens to be where I live at the moment because I’m a student. The weather was so amazing today that I couldn’t resist cycling up to the community garden to take a look. I’m meeting with the people who work there on April 17th and will probably spend a good few days there generating new material. I’ve got the winter part down – snow, sludge etc – but I’m wondering what I’ll write about for summer. I think of it as a black month. Things getting too ripe and fat. I seem to associate warm weather with scenes from Walkabout (Nicolas Roeg, 1971).