Bilston Bloopers and Fluffypunk

'They' say practice, practice practice until it becomes embedded in your brain. So I did. Reciting all three poems I planned to read today over the last three weeks in the bath, in bed while nodding off to sleep or waking in the small hours, on the field or along the river while walking the dog - who was my best critic and indicator of when I'd gone on too long! I even took to writing the words out (and included little illustrations) in a new specially selected notebook in an endeavour to rely on the visual layout to remember the sequence of sounds. I was ready. I knew my lines, even Flynn the dog knew my lines but still I doubted my memory and so practised again using the notebook as reference.

And so it came to pass that I stood in front of a warm encouraging audience of fellow poets of varied experience and their supporters in Bilston Library at 1.40pm today to be the first to show how hard I'd worked at all the things we had been discussing over three sessions of performance workshops. The sessions had been organised by 'Poetry on Loan' and kindly organised by Jane Seabourne with workshop leaders Brenda Read-Brown, Steve Pottinger and the wonderful Jonny Fluffypunk sharing their phenomenal experience and skills. I read Jon's two books while on holiday in Brighton and in one of those random co-incidences of life, I mentioned this to him a few weeks ago only to discover he knew Brighton well having lived there for some time. Makes me wonder if Brighton has a creative gravitational pull? Pity it is now becoming impossible for the very people who make the city what it is to live there through the London spillover, but that's another rant for another time...

Which brings me back to the moment Jon finally read my intro line out..."Dawn Jutton, who comes from a world where ranting along the river is acceptable behaviour". Audience claps as promised and I feel remarkably more in control than I'd thought I would be walking into position and then reading this 'out there' poem for the first time, and to a mixed audience...

Pride (but no prejudice)

Here it comes!

A carnival of camp

drumming flamboyance,

freedom and golden muscled skin

through smiling streets

high on expectation, rainbows and pride,

(but no prejudice)

See those banners!

A riot of colour

marching diversity, defiance

and solidarity

between staccato waves

of throbbing anthems.

Oppression, hatred and fears

whistled away through tears of pride,

(but no prejudice)

There they go!

A wake of dreams

littering memories, lost loves

and corporate lies

onto hate-stained streets

filled with fight and macho pride

(but no prejudice)

Drop your flag!

Silence the whistles.

Return to reality, revolving closets

and eyes wide open.

Hope yet for carefree acceptance

and playground pride

(but no prejudice)


All the practice had definitely made a difference to how confident I was in the reading but I referred to my notes for security. A pause...and into 'The Treat'. This one is a little ditty I wrote years ago and I have used it before to preface a rant about fast food and litter. It went down well last time I read it out and even my eldest granddaughter has written it down and learnt it so no need to put my thumb in the right page then...oops! First mistake! For some reason the nerves got to me just at that moment of full engagement with the smiling audience and the words went out of my head. Second mistake...not noticing earlier that I had failed to write the complete poem out in my notebook! The pregnant pause felt like the full nine months, but if you missed it, here is the full poem.

The Treat

She dragged me screaming into McDonalds
Where for years I'd refused to eat
She made me order a burger
stuffed into a soggy bun
And then called it a treat.

It fell apart while I was eating
The lettuce sagged back to earth
And when the coleslaw
fell into my lap she could
barely hide her mirth.

I returned to the security of the typed pages stuck in my notebook to finish my turn with a recent minor re-edit of  'River Rage' and sure enough my minimum confidence returned to end on a positive note.

River rage

Was your fast food so finger-licking good

you had to share the rest with me?

Did you post about pizzas, Maccy ds, Kentucky cs

then twitter about your litter

-and how I soaked it up

Were you half cut when your trolley landed,

stranded, like an upturned animal

fresh frozen in Asda green algae,

or were you re-uniting crisscrossed lovers

-across a concrete divide

Could you not meet those sad orange eyes,

beacons of hope, stretched white necks

searching for sight of light in those who walk past,

run past, cycle past, ignoring their past,

-timing their future not yours

It’s game over too for the floating balls

you kicked out to score own goals,

swollen with infla­ted pride, to fall

in a defensive wall of reed, passed from side to side

-until full time scores a full tide.

I was followed over the next hour by an inspirational set of poets with themes ranging from the difficulty of cycling to lovely descriptive anecdotes of interactions with questionable neighbours and haikus with puns! A welcome soft end to the event over tea and chocolate biscuits gave everyone the opportunity to share our experience and me the chance to spend more time getting to know the sustainable nihilist.

Well done everyone and here's to a future of performing with more confidence...or maybe deciding that writing for the page is safer!

Boundaries? What boundaries?

From 'Walks Interrupted: Trentham Lake Series' by Dawn Jutton

 Exhibited at 'Dust' earlier this year as part of the City of Culture bid.

It seems that poetry and spoken word are dominating my life again. Not that I am complaining. Its been an interesting few months navigating the boundaries of my practice and discovering that the only boundaries there are the ones you place on yourself. I've met poets who make films and create theatre, poets who collaborate with artists from all disciplines and poets who share their thoughts and world views through highly entertaining and skilful performance and learnt much from them all. It quickly becomes clear however that many of their audiences are mainly poets and writers who appreciate others' writing and possibly, like me, want to learn from them and gain confidence. There is a spirit of generosity and comradeship in this arena that I have yet to experience amongst artists of other disciplines and I have had the privilege of the advice and support from some of the best over the last twelve months or so.

It all started with meeting the amazing, funny and very talented Emma Purshouse whose infectious enthusiasm for all things written and visual has been a guiding light. I blame her continued support and friendship for unleashing my current creative stream on the world! Emma has recently teamed up with two other brilliant performers Steve Pottinger and Dave Pitt to form Poets, Prattlers and Pandemonialists who, following their huge success at the Arena Theatre in Wolverhampton are about to hit the Edinburgh Free Fringe Festival, but have also formed a new night at the Pretty Bricks in Walsall. It was here that I made what I felt to be my 'debut' this month with a 5 minute open mic slot reading two new poems and a very old ditty. I enjoyed the experience immenseley and discovered a little nugget of confidence that has since spurred me on to revisit older poems and rework them.

The seemingly endless willingness of poets and small publishers to put on affordable, and often free  or 'pay as you feel' gigs like this is another indication of the underlying 'we are in this together' feeling you get. This is certainly my experience so far in the Midlands and specifically the Back Country, where poets of all abilities, reputations and confidence levels get to meet up and try out favourite and new words on appreciative audiences. One man who has done a huge amount to bring poetry to the consciousness of new audiences in this area is Bert Flitcroft. Bert is the current Staffordshire Poet Laureate and his patience and commitment to the role has been another factor in my increasing confidence. His quiet Northern accent and friendly inclusive delivery often hints at his previous profession and many of his semi-autobiographical poems comment affectionately on his life experiences and acute observations of relationships.


And so back to those boundaries and the generosity of spirit...

When I first met writer and film-maker Mal Dewhirst (an ex Staffordshire Poet Laureate) I had the immediate impression of another artist willing to share his skills with anyone who might appreciate them. We have since worked together for several weeks on a project for South Staffordshire and Shropshire Health Trust involving a series of walks around the county with people who  have varying levels of experiences with their mental health. 'A Place of Safety' has introduced me to truly collaborative working with another artist with whom I share both similar and different skills, yet fundamentally we shared the same ethos of trying to bring a sense of confidence and pride in others of their abilities to create images and words that could express many of their emotions.

'Older Women Rock the Potteries' by Leah Thorn
High Street, Newcastle-under-Lyme, Staffordshire

And finally, but not so final...

I continue to collaborate with the wonderful Leah Thorn on her project 'Poetry [e]motion' and Older Women Rock the Potteries. Leah is a current Fellow at Keele University and has set up shop in Newcastle-under-Lyme where her fabulous collection of poetry emblazoned on retro clothing is on display, and from where she is currently running a peer listening project for women over 55years old. So far it has been a welcome return to consider the feminist and ageing themes I explored during my MA course and the tireless activism and support that Leah brings to the project is a true inspiration. I am sure the experience will spark off a whole new body of work for me. The project ends on 29th July and the shop will form part of the attractions in the Newcastle Midsummer Wakes Carnival and celebrations on Saturday 22nd July. You may even catch another little outing for my performing self- something of a privilege for me alongside such an established and wonderful performer.

Colouring Sunday

Colouring Sunday.

“I’ll fetch Mac,” she says

“He doesn’t want to join in but he’ll watch.”

I ask if he’s new.

“He’s 99,” she says.

The door swings softly shut

And I’m left to bring colour and activity

into the impersonal institutional room.

We cover the bright splashes of garish

Pretend paint on plastic

with blue paper to protect

Delicate eyes and fragile minds.

She returns without Mac but with Constance

who stares at me with a half smile of recognition,

and sits with practised complicity

on the chair nearest me,

accepting my offer of colouring book and crayons.

Mac arrives.

A tall lath of smiling energy,

he shakes my hand and aims for the

Blue vinyl sofa, a safe distance from where

We work on the small table.

Constance is lost in the concentration

Of colouring petals first red then green.

Unable to resist the empty chair at the table,

Mac joins us. 

“I’m 99” he says in the way that commands

respect for the numeric milestone.

He gets it.

 “I’ve been wearing glasses since I was 4yrs old.

They’re no good for playing rough games.”

It sounds like an apology.

“I was Cumberland and Westmorland Swimming Champion.”

It’s not. It’s an explanation.

“I played tennis” shares Constance without looking up.

This is the first personal thing I know about her.

“It’s how I met my husband. He asked if he could play with me.

I had to laugh but he didn’t mean it in that way!”

She looks up. Her open mischevious grin completes a shared circle.

“We got married in Cannock at the big church.”

“I met my wife when we started cycling club the same night.

We cycled 100 miles on a Sunday.

We got married in 1939 in Kendal. Three days later war broke out.

I was conscripted. I wouldn’t have joined up.”

“As you know, I was a shorthand typist. I was in the WAAFs.

I wasn’t really in the war but I did climb on a tank once.”

I didn’t know. Constance puts down her crayons.

“I started at English Electric then a solicitors then BRC.”

We compliment Constance on her delicately shaded flowers

“I’m not much for flowers or gardening,” says Mac,

but a glimpse of an empty sunflower brightens

a shared memory of French fields.

“Yes, I’ve seen those. I’ve travelled all over.

I was an engineer stationed in Italy. We went to Naples, Rome all over.

Then I fixed anti-aircraft guns along the South Coast from Dover…

To I don’t remember where.”

“I loved being a shorthand typist.

I wrote a play. It didn’t go anywhere.

It was set on the South Coast.

It was a romance.

I like to explore people, you know;

Think about their character.”

Dawn Jutton, Feb 2016

Why do we name a hurricane?

I initially got involved in 'There is No Planet B' , Stafford Green Arts Festival 2016  to help organise the Art competition, believing I could support the hard-working volunteers to achieve their ambition to increase and improve the quality of submissions. As the week long event looms I realise that I have probably gained as much as I have given. I have been welcomed into a new network of people who are passionate about the issues that affect our very existence on the planet, I have been appreciated for my personal efforts and professional expertise, and I have 

ensured that Gainsborough [art]works can be a worthwhile 

partner in events planned and run by others.

If I'm honest however, I have been most excited by the opportunity to immerse a little more of myself into the poetry world. Since my 'Doxey Marshes' poem has been published in 'The Poetry of Staffordshire' by Offa's Press, I have a new-found confidence in putting my random efforts out there. I have attended a few more events recently and remain in admiration of the wit and skill of performance poets. Their ability to not only weave words that make you think, read them out in a rhythm that draws you in, but 

to have enough confidence to share them is also enviable. 

So, back to the Green Arts, and this time the poetry competition. As we have Bert Flitcroft- the current Staffordshire Poet Laureate- hosting our Life of Riley [word] Cafe at Gainsborough [art]works on Thursday 3rd March, I thought it would be appropriate to have written at least one poem myself on the Festival theme. As is often the case, I awoke with a phrase in my head, "why do we name a hurricane?" and an attempt at writing a poem that 

concentrates on internal rhymes and a rhythm that might suit 

performing it has therefore occupied me this morning. 

Off to send it to Carol Kirkwood now at the BBC!

Why do we name a Hurricane?

Why do we name a hurricane?

To comprehend it, befriend it,

and send it calmer on its way

‘cause we listened to its’ moans?

Why does Carol need to warn me

She’s left Henry and Imogen’s

On her way? She won’t stay.

Like all the rest, at best,

She’ll slap your face

Cause floods of tears,

pass through, forget you,

and leave you to pick up her mess,

and deny you should address

your fears for why she visited.

Like Abigail, Barney, Desmond

Frank and Eva before her,

she’ll be the stranger at your door

you try to ignore.

You won’t listen,

or see her eye glisten

when she tells you there’ll be more.

That you called them all

with your wanting to progress,

to fill the plains with concrete plans

instead of wilderness.