Actually, that’s just reminded me of my friend Julian Jordan, co-founder of Write Out Loud, who has a great comedy poem called “The Way She Rolls Her R’s” (A pun on “arse”) about the French accent. I must see if he will post it here – ideally as audio. http://www.writeoutloud.net/poets/julianjordon

Your latter points – absolutely! Have you seen my first blog thread with the Wordsworth Heineken advert?

Tony x

Nice to see a mention of Martin Espada, a wonderful poet as we discussed at Big Chill. A New Yorker of Puerto-Rican descent, Pulitzer Prize finalist, Neruda scholar and political activist.

Folks – check him out at:

http://www.martinespada.net/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0G0RpIfTeRM&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nsUygq2hDOY

I saw him read in Manchester a year or so ago – a stunning show (if under-attended) that made a lie of the page/stage split with the best page poetry and an evocative reader. Stunning poet, stunning voice, nice guy.

I have a poem I wrote a few months back about my experiences with accent – after discussing the differences with my 11 year old about her Devon accent and slang, and how we both like it; and after arguing with my OU tutor about literary voice.

Finding my voice:

My posh friends round my Thanet vowels by soft osmosis.
Never noticed til my old friend Claire came visiting
and brayed her news until we both
hee-hawed through wine-stained midnight.
Never dropped my aitches, ever.
Somehow lost those fishwife tones, though.
Glad to find them wearing, still,
the sea-salt flavours of my home:
street-cred solid consonants,
half-swallowed, softened glottals,
and my own bare lisping, cockle-shell-shaped, subtle.
Took my accent back since Friday.
East Kent still both fits and suits –
a subtle difference that, perhaps,
some good folk can’t quite fathom,
their Harrod’s undies voices
out of tone now with my own:
reclaimed, reborn, bare-arsed and
triumphant.

* * *
Strangely, when I’m stoned I’m as Thanet as you can get! The ‘proper’ just vanishes! Conversely, explaining word meanings to my Polish daughter in law, or friends in Greece, I go all BBC. They can understand me, though, better than local accents.

I have fallen in love with people’s accents in the past – Irish, both Northern and Southern; Newcastle, Manchester, Yorkshire, Lancashire. Prejudice it may be, but it does make men, in particular, more attractive. I could go off at a passionate tangent here but better not…

Poets whose accents suit: Abby Oliveira and Pamela Brown from the Poetry Chicks; yourself; Dennis Just Dennis, Byron V, Benjamin Z, John Cooper Clarke; when I think about it, I can’t think of anyone whose accents don’t suit EXCEPT that ‘orrible academic bumptious posh like wot they ‘ave on telly, like, on Wordsworth and Keats and whoever else allegedly went to RADA whilst starving in the garret. Richard Burton does Under Milk Wood in his native accent better than drama school poker-up-bum voice, which proves every point I want to make on the subject.

p.s. Elvis Magonagall just wouldn’t be the same in Richard’s natural accent, would he? But would the poems come accross as good?

But if you are publishing poetry in magazines, pamphlets, books then it needs to stand up on its own two legs – entirely separate from your own accent and background. This isn’t a bad thing – after all, not all poets read well. We all know poets whose work actually seems diminished when you hear them reading it, and who are better confined to the page.

But on the side of the angels are Galway Kinnell, Martin Espada (both American), Benjamin Zephaniah and Yorkshire’s own Ian McMillan for the right poetry in the right voice.

“Can you post some audio or video links to current/recent poets whose speaking voice or accent you consider to be intrinsic to their work?”

It’s only fitting to start that off with the legend that is John Cooper Clarke, whose Salford tones have remained untainted despite his years out of town.

Two clips that perhaps many people won’t have seen before would be:

This interview from Tony Wilson’s seminal So It Goes programme from 77-ish when John was still working in the toolshop at Salford Uni.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4nOr25n2TVw

And this, one of two adverts which, bizzarely the great man was asked to do for the Sugar Puffs breakfast cereal in the 80’s prompting more than one wag at gigs to shout “Tell about the money, Johnny!”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2dd6ogISPg&feature=related

I’ve seen JCC perform loads of times since about 79 and been lucky enough to meet him a few times now. He’s a gentleman of the old school, always friendly, dapper and fragrant in even the muddiest of fields and an inspiration to now two generations of wordsmiths. It’s great to see him enjoying something of a rennaisance as discussed here in this week’s Guardian, and long may it continue.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2009/sep/05/john-cooper-clarke-interview .

Thanks also for the prompt into this little scouse accented poetic featurette – featuring two poets who I was lucky enough to see on my first ever open mic night here in Manchester where both remain stalwarts and treasures of our thriving scene. (Clare, you’ll know them both well.)

First up is the phenomenal Gerry Potter, the artist formerly known as Chloe Poems, with his poem about accent called, appropriately enough, “My Scouse Voice.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Grko5JUBoQ4 Gerry is a stunning performer and wordsmith in any accent and has loads of material online to marvel at – be sure to check it out.

And secondly, is the wonderful Jackie Hagan who, despite sounding very Scouse, is actually from the newtown overspill estate of Skelmersdale as she explains in this piece “Skem” which has been known to bring a tear to my eye. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5eAeS6OskDc Jackie has a a unique view of the world, a beautiful turn of phrase and a natural on-stage charm which never fails to win over an audience.

Both poets have new collections out with Manchester’s Flapjack Press (publishers of The – late, lamented – Ugly Tree poetry mag and you should buy both books and programme both poets without delay.

http://www.myspace.com/jackiehagan
http://www.myspace.com/gerrypotterpoet
http://www.flapjackpress.co.uk/

A couple of years ago I wrote my own piece about Liverpool for a project called Liverpool 800 – a (successful) attempt to archive 800 poems about the place to mark the 800th centenary of the city’s royal charter. As a Mancunian sitting down to write about Liverpool, I was taken by how many cultural reference points there are to the place – how many resonances, how much baggage, such history and, yes, so many stereotypes. I wanted to deal with these without compounding them and, ultimately, to celbrate the fighting spirit of the place. Manchester and Liverpool have much more in common than it usually suits these warring neighbours to admit.

I was then pleased when my piece was included in a cool-sounding and cool-looking anthology at the tail end of Liverpool’s 2008 Capital of Culture year.
http://www.artinliverpool.com/blog/2008/12/stories-from-the-city-pick-up-a-copy/

My pleasure waned somewhat when the anthology turned up with my piece handwritten in an arty but largely illegible font and with a crucial (aren’t they all?) four lines missing. Still, I do like this quote from journalist Paul Du Noyer in reviewing the collection: “A great book and a celebration of Liverpool’s greatest natural asset, namely language. This city loves words – we cherish them like connoisseurs and spend them like drunken sailors.”

My piece, formatted into four quarters if I could figure out how to do it, goes something like this:

SKIES FULL OF DIAMONDS AND STREETS PAVED WITH BOLD
(A Poem For Liverpool)

It’s not her standing together
or her walking alone

It’s not the blues of her reds
or the beat of her blues

It’s not her echoes of caverns
or the knots in her ash

It’s not the shout of her twisters
or this port in a storm

It’s not her skies full of diamonds
or her streets paved with bold

It’s not the lives of her birds
or the deaths of her sons

It’s not the flights of her pickets
or her right to be left

It’s not the crush of her people
or her people uncrushed

It’s not the chase of her steeples
or her hedging of bets

It’s not the goals of her strikers
or the holes in her nets

It’s not the mouth of the Mersey
or her permanent waves

It’s not the look of her Irish
or the luck of her slaves

It’s the leaving of Liverpool
thinking of this.

It’s her welcome, her handshake
her V-sign, her kiss.

It’s her climb for the prize
after falling from grace.

It’s the tears in her eyes
and the smile on her face.

© Tony Walsh 2007

Both Messrs Kaye and Vegas feature in this video tribute to the late, great Bolton poet and comedian Hovis Presley who sadly passed away in 2005 in his early 40’s.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BaC98IkHKPo

They were both at his funeral along with dj Mark Radcliffe and a Who’s Who of the northern scene where Hovis, aka Richard McFarlane, was much loved and remains something of a legend. A good idea of why comes from this fitting tribute in The Independent
http://hovispresley.co.uk/indepen.htm

If, dear reader, you don’t know of Hovis then I’d strongly recommend that you spend a happy half hour listening to his rich Bolton tones and words of genius on sites including:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQed0WbGkNc&feature=related

http://www.myspace.com/hovispresley

http://hovispresley.co.uk/

I was lucky enough to perform with Hovis a few times and he was there when http://www.writeoutloud.net//public/index.php was just 5 or 6 of us sat around a pub table. Memorable gigs included when a one-man band was – bang – dismantling his -crash – kit on – parp – stage during my – honk – set and another when poetry terrorists Thick Richard covered the stage in Kellogg’s Frosties – “They’re Grrrrrreat!”. That would have been ok but they were the opening act!

These days his friend and mine, WOL co-founder, Dave Morgan has crafted material from Hovis’s truly hilarious “Poetic Off Licence” collection into a show entitled “Hovis In Wonderland” which featured at Latitude Festival a year or two ago. Meanwhile, performance poet and satirist Elvis McGonagall won a “Dead Poets Slam” a couple of years ago with Hovis material – eclipsing poetic cover versions of people like Auden and Shelley.

But tragically, to paraphrase Hovis himself – “As good things go, he went.” Too soon, mate, too soon.

RIP Richard Henry McFarlane
(Hovis Presley)
Poet, Comedian
3rd August 1960 – 9th June 2005

Both sides of my wife’s family were miners for generations. My father-in-law, Stan passed away a couple of years ago. The very night before he died I performed a new poem called “Another Name For Coal” at a community film premiere for 600 teenagers and their families from a run-down former coalfield in Leigh.
http://www.salfordfilmfestival.org.uk/news/thetallypressrelease

The film was commissioned to help put the kids back in touch with their lost mining heritage. The piece contained lots of things that Stan had told me and I’d have loved him to have heard it but, in the end, I was just pleased to have been able to dedicate it to him on the night.

He was an intelligent bloke, Stan. Given different circumstances maybe he’d have gone to University. The last line of the poem is a reference to both the the photosynthesis that locked the energy into the crushed marine life that became the coal and to the hardships and sacrifices of a life spent underground.

“They have another name for coal
They have another name for coal
They have another name for coal

They call it buried sunshine”