A brief history of how I feel about reading my own poetry

My background is in theatre. I came to the UK as a teenager because of theatre, and while I eventually chose to pursue poetry over theatre, it is part of my make-up. I’ve been on a stage since I was 2. If someone needs to do a reading at a wedding or funeral, I am always game. I’m a clear introvert, but reading text in front of a crowd doesn’t faze me, I even love it a lot of the time. This is why it is easy to assume that reading my poetry must have been straightforward, simple, easy. Oh no.

I first read my poems whilst I was an undergraduate and, to put it bluntly, it was a bit of a disaster. I read super fast, giggled, curtseyed, and didn’t project. A friend told me off afterwards, asking me what was the point of reading my poem if I was going to make it impossible for people to listen to.

A friend told me off afterwards, asking me what was the point of reading my poem if I was going to make it impossible for people to listen to. Click To Tweet

And the thing is, I don’t think I wanted people to hear them – I wasn’t really ready. I’d hidden that I was a poet for a few years and had only been brave enough that year to sign up for a module called Practice of Poetry. While this gave me a boost of confidence, thanks to the support of my tutors and peers, I knew deep down that I was a fraud, whose thoughts weren’t worth sharing with anyone.

Things changed when I moved to Paris a few years later. I became a regular at Spoken Word in Paris, an anglophone spoken word night that was then based at Culture Rapide in Belleville. The rules there were simple: 5 minutes to share whatever you want, and then you must get off the stage or face the wrath of a bell being shaken. The audience was made up of regulars and people passing through Paris from all over the world. It was always jam-packed so that even in the winter we would all be listening sweatily to whoever was on that tiny stage.

5 minutes every week is a great way to get over yourself.

I didn’t magically transform into a confident reader of my poetry, but those Monday nights certainly improved me. Slowing down, breathing, giving yourself permission to be on the stage: these are not easy things to do. I didn’t excel at them, but it was definite progress, and I was happy to be seen as a ‘page’ poet who can read her stuff ok.

The next few years involved many readings – from spoken word nights to more formal events. Or, as I like to categorize them: readings where you clap after every poem, and readings where you only clap at the end of the set. There was also a one-woman show in there, The Shipwrecked House, which gave me the opportunity to revive my theatre background.

It was a fantastic experience, but it kind of ruined me for poetry readings. How do you go back to holding a book, when you’ve known what it’s like to yell your poetry as you hoist a sail? I felt a traitor to read. I felt that anyone who had heard of the show would be disappointed to see me read so untheatrically.

How do you go back to holding a book, when you’ve known what it’s like to yell your poetry as you hoist a sail? Click To Tweet

And so, in parallel with my disappointment, I found that my writing became harder to read. I love and am proud of Astéronymes, but there’s only a handful of performable poems in it. I was no longer attending spoken word nights, I was no longer writing with an audience in mind.

Outwardly I still seemed confident when giving readings, but I found myself missing the laughter and trying too hard in my introductions to gather them. As my material became more obviously dark, I decided to apologize for it; to compensate for the discomfort I was creating. I was fretting about this at a reading in Bournemouth, when a fellow poet, the very talented Birdspeed, told me to just speak my truth. I do not know if I succeeded in doing that that night, but I have let it gnaw at my brain ever since – and remembered the huge number of poets I admire who share traumatising work. Why wasn’t I allowing myself to?

And so we come to my latest pamphlet Brain Fugue. When I knew the date of my launch I thought I’d try to organise a few readings around it, and so tweeted about it asking if anyone fancied hosting me. I was overwhelmed by the offers and quickly put together an intense week’s worth of readings.

I’m over half-way through the tour, and it’s been a personal revelation for me. I’m still finding my way, my balance, but I have found that allowing myself to be vulnerable on stage as me, not a character, is incredibly empowering. It goes against every one of my instincts. I still have to suppress the urge to people please, to apologise, to joke. Yet, it turns out that when you unpeal yourself, so do other people.

I still have to suppress the urge to people please, to apologise, to joke. Yet, it turns out that when you unpeal yourself, so do other people. Click To Tweet