Simon Armitage @ PAVE 22/03/04 Continued by Elsie Creek

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Descriptions included . . . physical reluctance, beginning in his ankles . . . and . . . only the enforcement of a marriage vow could bring a man here against his will . . .

The rest of the evening was poetry, interspersed with explanations and comments. The material was mainly taken from his more recent works, The Universal Home Doctor, a slim volume, and Travelling Songs, which is more of a booklet.

Although the standard was high, I was puzzled as to what made Simon's work stand out from that of so many talented and unsuccessful poets. From the public's reaction I would have expected something markedly special.

Poem on his Birthday was a passage associated with each year from 1974, in summary of a particular man's life. I could identify with the qualifying comment about being unable to feel close to people until their problems become obvious. The piece inspired by the National Trust colour card made me think of art, in the way that it seems obvious once it has been done, and one may have had similar ideas in the past, but it is the motivation or ability to make something tangible of it which merits the appellation of artist.

One of Simon's techniques, when he is feeling uninspired, is to rewrite the lyrics of a pop song. In such a way he produced Killing Time #2, based on Bob Dylan's Subterranean Homesick Blues. For example: four-minute warning: boil yourself an egg, babe - this was fast-paced, and had perfect scansion.

He almost always reads The Shout, feeling it to be the piece which best summarises his work. When asked how, he suggested the themes of friendship and violence, and the retrospect to childhood. It does not, however, contain feelings of inadequacy in the face of women, which I thought was another common theme to his work.

Other poems he read out included: The Strid; a commemorative piece for newly-weds and lovers, dying together in the river which is wider than a stride. Salvador; about the . . . English paranoia of travelling . . . and the many immunising jabs needed before going anywhere interesting. All for One; describing the . . . fake anxiety that poets suffer about what constitutes a day's work . . . In other words, the level of self-discipline required not to sack it all in and go to the pub.

There was a book-signing after the event, with a Waterstones stall selling his latest work. I must confess to finding the prices something of a shock, but poetry is supposedly more quality than quantity and tends to be reread more often. There were certainly plenty of people queuing to get their copies.

I suspected that Simon's poise in the limelight was a better indication of his personality than his words, but after so many years he must have had plenty of practice at live readings. Anyhow, I reckon that anyone who manages to make a decent living through writing poetry is entitled to be a bit smug.

In the brief conversation I managed with the man, he did nothing to dispel the self-deprecating aura - . . . self-loathing . . . he corrected me. Though he claimed to be flattered by the success, as fans kept coming over with praises he appeared more bored.

Ah, the trials of celebrity. I picked at his fruit platter, and tried not to look too drunk, as he mused about his relationship with women. He theorised that scars had been left by the girls at school maturing faster than the boys. A lot of his writing is based on the emotions from childhood.

I wondered at the jump from poetry to novels, and if he also wrote short stories. Simon has had only one published in a magazine, but he thought there might be more to come - though he doesn't particularly like them, being so close to poetry. His published prose currently amounts to two novels and a memoir.

My overall thoughts on the night: in comparison with other public house literary readings, I found the audience remarkably attentive; slavishly hanging on Simon's every word. There was no noise to compete with his voice, despite the extra alcohol consumed during the initial wait. Laughter was frequent, but not sniggers or guffaws of merriment; rather, ostentatious titters where he appeared to have made a joke. People wanted to clap loudly after every piece, but Simon managed to put them off their stride by not stopping talking in between. The ensuing confusion was rather more amusing than the literary material.

I may be too harsh on guy, however, as I did thoroughly enjoy the evening. His poetry is observations on life, sometimes humorous, sometimes sad, but woven from emotion.

And that, as they say, is what it's all about. Maybe I'm just jealous.

Travelling Songs 4.99 The Universal Home Doctor 6.99 The White Stuff 12.99 (hardback) Hear more about him at: http://www.contemporarywriters.com/authors/?p=auth165

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