How Do I Be A Success Like You?

Outside the classroom, the other day,

a little boy came up to me, and tugging

at the hem of my garment, asked

How do I be a success like you?

And I didn’t know what to say.

You see, I’ve never thought of myself that way.

Because after private school and two degrees

society does not tend to see reading poetry

to kids as a natural progression.

And sometimes it feels like I’m not listening in the lesson;

like this isn’t ‘real work’ or the kind of thing

a man should do.

My parents tell me that I’m better than that,

that this isn’t a real job,

that of course giving kids the joy of words

is no bad thing, but to leave it to someone else

and to go out there and be someone.

Wear a suit, son.

Commute, son.

Be what we expect of you, son.

And of course we read poems and books to you, son,

but this wasn’t an end in itself.

At no point did we dream that one day

you’d be doing such a thing for anyone

other than your own kids.

What are you, a glorified bloody babysitter?

And so the bitter taste at the back of my throat

when the boy asked

How do I be a success like you?

arose from not believing it to be true.

It arose from skulking in the shadows

of people my age already on 50k a year,

of people my age with their own flats and cars,

and even of the bloke at the bar who,

upon being told that I work with children,

drunkenly snorts paedophile, as though that

could be the only explanation for a man

wanting to do such a thing.

It arose from having memorised

the lines of a play

in which I play no part.

But no: through that boy’s eyes
I saw myself anew.

So to the boy who asked me

How do I be a success like you?

I say this:

Believe that what you’re doing is worthwhile.

Believe that anyone who doubts you is mistaken.

Tell yourself every day that you can be what you want to be.

Tell yourself that success is not just reading

from someone else’s script,

but believing what you say,

or, even better, writing the words yourself.

And know that what counts is not whether

you’ve spelt them correctly, or whether

they’re in the right order,

but that they. Are. Yours.

Success does not come in manuals.

Success is not flat-pack furniture,

and – you know what?

Success certainly doesn’t come from listening to poems

about what success is.

So, son, do it your way.

Don’t listen to what I say.  

A Poem By Ruby, From Heathside School

I have had a very busy week, visiting lots of schools for National Poetry Day. On Tuesday I visited Parkgate House School in Clapham; on Wednesday I visited Mandeville Primary School in Hackney, and on Thursday I visited Heathside School in Hampstead. I had a wonderful time at each of these schools, and was delighted to be made to feel so welcome.

I am especially delighted to say that my visit to Heathside inspired Ruby Kingsley Jones to write a great poem, which she sent me yesterday. I especially like this poem because it speaks to my slightly silly sense of humour. It is a poem which I would have been proud to call my own! Here is Ruby's poem:

I Think My Cat's A Dog

I think my  cats a dog,

I really,really do,

He's eaten up a catalog,

And attacked my mums best shoes!

I think my cats a dog,

I promise you i do!

He tried to chew a log,

And licked a bowl clean of stew,

I think my cats a dog,

This is completely true,

He followed my friend to synagogue

Wait..my cat is jumping up and down.....is he a kangaroo

Losing Words

I was honoured to be chosen, along with two other poets, to be part of the Catching Words project at the Discover Children's Story Centre in Stratford. This is a literacy project focusing on using poetry to engage 'underperforming' Year 2 children, which is a challenge on two levels: they are 'underperforming', and they are Year 2! I was very grateful to be accepted onto the project, as the other poets are Joseph Coelho, Paul Lyalls and Adisa, each of whom has many, many years of experience. It would have been easy for Discover to turn me away on the basis of my relative lack of it, but what can I say: they couldn't say no!

But this blog post isn't really about the Catching Words project. Hopefully when I embark upon it I will have a lot to say and to reflect on, but what concerns me now is losing words. For the other week I had an experience which, thankfully, is rare, but is no less uncomfortable for that when it happens - I forgot the lines to a poem. And I didn't just momentarily lose them, I had a total blank. Luckily there was an audience of precisely three people, so news of my gaffe didn't exactly spread far and wide, but it was very unpleasant.

Perhaps, however, losing words is not such a bad thing. Obviously if it happens all the time one needs to develop strategies to combat it (such as, well, reading the words from a piece of paper), but the occasional forgetting of a line simply shows that a poet is also a human. This can be important with an audience of children, and on the couple of occasions when it has happened in school I have used it as an occasion to demystify the reality of what it is to be a performer, and to demonstrate that making a mistake is OK. Hopefully after having seen me fumble with words, the children will feel less inhibited when it comes to writing and performing their own. And the same goes for other ostensibly undesirable traits in a performer, such as 'the shakes'.

I'd still rather simply never forget words though. That would be better.

Datchworth Boy

Last term I ran poetry workshops at a lovely school in a village called Watton-at-Stone in Hertfordshire. On my way to the school I drove through an equally lovely village called Datchworth, and was reminded of a newspaper article I'd read some years previously.

The article told of the village's recent commemoration of a family who starved to death there in 1796. James Eaves, his wife and two children were, apparently, ostracised and left to die by member of the community. Eaves' 11-year-old son survived, and went insane following his ordeal. Here is a contemporary illustration of the Eaves family:

When I read the article, and when I saw the picture, I was highly disturbed. I told the children during the school assembly that I knew a 'scary' story connected with Datchworth, but that it was genuinely not nice, and I'd leave it up to them to do their own research. Perhaps predictably, however, they clamoured to hear it, and did not seem to be overly disturbed by it. (Let it be known that I did not show them the horrible picture above.)

I am hopefully going back to visit the school some time in the next school year. When I visit schools I often try to write a bespoke poem for them, so I wrote a poem entitled 'Datchworth Boy', about James Eaves' 11-year-old son. The poem is the first villanelle I've ever tried to write. I chose the form because I think its repetitive, cyclical nature would be good at conveying the insanity into which Eaves Jr. irrecoverably fell. I will hopefully read it out to the older children during my visit:

Datchworth Boy

His mother gathered water from the lake.

They found him dressed in rags, decayed and pale.

A madness grew from which he couldn’t wake.

His baby sister’s body couldn’t take

The strain, his dad too weak to wail.

His mother gathered water from the lake.

The door was bolted shut, as though to make

That house on Datchworth Green into a jail.

A madness grew from which he couldn’t wake.

And some say Datchworth’s haunted by the ache

Of wounds left by the family it failed.

His mother gathered water from the lake.

The village voice lies silent now. Let’s stake

A claim to history unveiled:

His mother gathered water from the lake.

A madness grew from which he couldn’t wake. 

The Real Richard Bennett

Anyone who has ever seen me perform my poetry for children will know that I often open my performance with Richard Bennett, a poem about a bully. The punchline of the poem is that Richard Bennett is revealed to be my own brother (sorry for giving that away!). I ask the children for a vote on whether they think the poem is true or false, and use this as a springboard to discuss the fact that poetry is one of the only places in our lives when we are actually allowed to make things up: of course, it is not true that Richard Bennett is my brother.

What is true, however, is that when I was at secondary school there really was a bully, called Richard Bennett (albeit not my brother). I think the story of the real-life Richard Bennett raises some interesting issues to do with bullying and self-reflection, and I'd like briefly to share the story. I may be flattering myself with the presumption that people will actually bother to read this, but I'm going to err on the side of caution and change some people's names. 'Richard Bennett', I think, is a common enough name that I am not risking anyone's reputation by using it.

I went to secondary school right in the heart of London, which necessitated a lengthy commute. At that age, such a thing was a big deal, and inevitably provoked a bit of anxiety in my parents. They thus arranged for me to get the train with a boy called Adam who lived on my road and went to the same school, and who subsequently became my best friend. There were a few other boys from the school who took the same route, one of whom was Richard Bennett.

I had read about bullies in books, and watched depictions of them on television, but thankfully up until that point I was lucky enough not to have encountered one. Richard Bennett looked pretty much like the archetype of a bully: very solidly built, very short hair and perpetual scowl. He was in the year above us (Year 8), and took immediate delight in intimidating us younger children.. He boasted that his key-ring could cause internal bleeding, and once knocked my classmate Steven's head against the train window, for very little apparent reason. At that age it was fashionable to insult people by proxy by insulting their mothers, and I once wrote 'Richard Bennett's mum is a cow' on my hand, as a kind of cowardly act of revenge. Someone told him, and I came in for some flack after that (thankfully none of it physical).

The next year, however, Adam and I, and the rest of the younger children who took that train, ceased to be the target of Richard Bennett's intimidation. That role was transferred to a boy called T, who had just joined the school. We all used to sit together in one big group, and Richard Bennett tried to impress the rest of us with how mean and spiteful he could be to T. I am ashamed to admit that I laughed along with Richard Bennett, and I now realise that the reason I did this was because I was relieved that I was not the recipient of his barbs. I think at that age I had a mean streak - never physically threatening but more than willing to delight in others' misfortune - and it manifested itself in the fact that I went along with Richard Bennett's teasing of T, and even strangely enjoyed it. T - if you are reading this and recognise yourself from the description, I apologise.

Eventually, Richard Bennett got expelled (or 'asked to leave', as was the appropriate locution). T's parents contacted the school, and all the children who took our train were called into the Deputy's office to give their account of events. I was honest about what I perceived to be Richard Bennett's bullying, and for the rest of his short time at the school Richard Bennett derided me as a 'grass', with the implication that I had at one point been something of an ally. Which, sadly, I guess I had.

Why am I recounting these events? Part of it may be a kind of selfish need to unburden myself, but I don't really think this is the case. I think it is more the simple desire to recount the true story behind one of my poems, for anyone who may be interested. It is also an opportunity to reflect on bullying, and how we can unwittingly get caught up in it. I've heard it said that Richard Bennett was in fact bullied by his brother, and thus may have been a victim as well as a perpetrator. Attempts to track the real Richard Bennett down on social media have proved unfruitful, due to the ubiquity of the name. I wonder whether he'd be interested to know that he's inspired a poem. Hopefully he wouldn't bash my face in..

Reflections On Edinburgh 2013

A couple of nights ago (after what I can only describe as a 'pig' of a journey home, which involved schlepping a £60 flipchart stand and a changeover at Birmingham) I returned home from the 2013 Edinburgh Festival Fringe. I had been up there for the second year in a row, with my children's poetry show. The Fringe is quite an experience, and I thought I'd share here some of my reflections on this year's run.

First, Edinburgh generally. The city is an intense place to be during the Fringe. Apparently its population doubles, and at times one can barely move for posses of undergraduate interpretive dancers shoving flyers for 'Josef Fritzl: The Musical' in your face. One has two options here (aside from incredulity at such a stupid production being brought to the Fringe; believe me there are worse): one can get angry, or one can simply accept that by entering this environment one has thereby entered into a kind of tacit contract, and tolerate it. Stewart Lee - the overrated comedian - seems to opt for the former: I tried, not unreasonably I think, to give him and his children a flyer for my children's show, and he was less than gracious to say the least. In my munificence I did my best to take the latter road. (Although that didn't stretch as far as actually going to see any interpretive dance.)

Probably my favourite thing about the Fringe was simply being in an environment where, pretty much any time of the day or night, one can rock up to watch a show, often for free. One begins to take this for granted in Edinburgh, but upon returning to reality one realises quite how cool it is. Another great thing about the Fringe is seeing stuff that one would otherwise never have seen. The Free Fringe (of which my own show was a part) removes a great deal of the risk inherent in taking a punt on some pretty wacky stuff. A lot of my choices were based simply on discovering a wonderfully bizarre name in the programme, and one of the highlights of my Fringe ended up being Professor Dr Neal Portenza's Interactive Goat Hour.

Now it must be said that a few reviewers disagreed with my immensely favourable opinion regarding the aforementioned Goat Hour. Which brings me onto my next topic. One quickly learns at the Fringe that, just as performers are there to hone their craft, reviewers are there to hone theirs. Thus, the influence of the reviews is usually out of all proportion with their quality. It sounds impressive to say that Three Weeks gave one's show 5 stars; it becomes less so when one notes that Three Weeks seems exclusively to employ unpaid, inexperienced undergraduate interns to do their bidding. And the same goes for most of the other Fringe publications. Again, one has (at least) two options here: one can simply accept that this is how it is, and thus take all reviews with a pinch of salt, or one can get angry that these ignorant foetuses dare pontificate on one's work. Which option one chooses will inevitably be in large part determined by whether one's reviews have been favourable.

Fear of having my work appraised, and distrust of those doing the appraising, meant that I didn't send out any press releases this year. As it happened a couple of reviewers did come to see the show, although only one review ever saw the light of day (it was 4 stars from Broadway Baby, since you asked). The other reviewer, from Three Weeks, came to see the show at the worst possible time: there were only two children in the audience, both of whom were unusually shy and unresponsive. In the event I was proud of how I handled the situation, and would have been interested to know what the reviewer made of it. But nothing has been published. I suppose that, with the sheer amount of shows being reviewed, bits and pieces will inevitably get lost in the system.

And so to my own show. I was for the most part very pleased with how it went. Apart from the aforementioned Day Of Only Two Children, audiences were mostly numerous and appreciative. I think the mean average was something like twenty-five people per day, with a satisfaction rating of roughly 7/10. (This is real science!) I sold at least one book every single day, usually much more. There were audience members who saw the show more than once; one girl told me she had seen the show four times, although I think this says more about her propensities than the quality of the show. On once occasion I got an entire class of nursery children watching the show. I was slightly perturbed by this, as the show was aimed at 5-11 year-olds (already a massive age-range), and on the day when the nursery children were there there were also some much older children. However, I think I worked the room well, and the nursery children seemed focused, even though they obviously didn't understand everything I said.

In 2012 I performed what I very proudly declared was the only children's poetry show at the entire Fringe. This year I was one of two, the other being Dommy B's The Dragon Who Hates Poetry. This occurred in the same venue as my show, although I think it was on at a better time, as Dommy B seemed to pack in bigger audiences! (Or it could simply be that his show was better?...) Despite both ostensibly being 'children's poetry', the shows were in fact very different: mine was more like a gig, with a selection of poems baring only tenuous connections to each other, and no overarching narrative to the show as a whole. Dommy's show was a single story, told in rhyme. He very kindly offered me several guest slots, which I used as an opportunity to promote my own show. I think this kind of cross-marketing worked well, and helped forge a kind of children's version of the Free Fringe. Maybe that is an idea for future years: a quasi-autonomous Children's Free Fringe. I think this would help drive a lot of audiences to free children's shows. I am not really one of life's great organisers, unlike people like Fay Roberts, Dan Simpson and Richard Tyrone Jones, but it could be worth my time investigating this.

And it wasn't only about the children. I also performed a one-off ADULT poetry show, entitled 'Things I Couldn't Tell The Children'. I performed a show of the same name last year, although this year's version was far superior I think. For one thing, my parents were not there this year to witness me making several foul jokes at their expense. Also, my venue this year was the Banshee Labyrinth, which was the hub of spoken word on The Fringe. A decent-sized audience thus got to experience the fact that I don't only perform to the little ones. The theme of the show was basically childhood, both my own and that of the children with whom I work. Special mention goes to Gary From Leeds, who did a slot in my show, and whose poem 'Freud's Only Knock Knock Joke' is definitely not for kids.

All in all, then, The Fringe was a positive experience for me this year, and I hope to return in years to come. I hope I do not sound obsequious when I say a massive thanks to all those who made it worth being at.

New Edinburgh Show - First Performance Tomorrow!

I started this blog with the intention of updating it fairly regularly. Sadly, this has not come to pass. The main reason for this, I must confess, is general laziness. A significant subsidiary reason, however, is that I have been working on my new children's poetry show, snappily titled 'Joshua Seigal Presents The Legend Of Ooshus Magooshus (And Lots Of Other Poems'. The title piece of the show is one of my most popular poems, and one of only a handful that seem to work well with children of all ages. (You can watch a video of it here should you so choose.) The show is basically what I consider to be a Best Of Joshua Seigal, as of August 2013.

I have performed each piece numerous times in schools. I tend nowadays not to get particularly nervous when performing in schools, apart from the standard excited butterflies and rush of adrenalin. Edinburgh, however, is different. One of the reasons for this is that it is a family show, and as such will have a number of grown ups in the audience. This means that I will need to cater to their needs as well (something which I was rebuked for not doing in a review last year). It also means that the children in the audience are not likely to know each other, which can make for a tougher show from a performer's perspective. In schools the kids are all familiar with each other, and are thus relaxed in each other's presence and can feed off each other's energy. There is a ready-made community spirit which a performer in a family show needs to build from scratch. I've often found that poems and jokes which get a big laugh in schools get a much more muted reception at family shows. I think I will need to learn to see this as part of the nature of the show, rather than as a failing on my part.

Another reason for heightened nerves in Edinburgh was alluded to in the previous paragraph: the presence of reviewers. Last year I sent out a large number of press releases prior to the run, and subsequently spent a great deal of time inordinately anxious, lest a reviewer come and scrutinize me. Partly as a result of this I have not done any press releases this year. I'm all about the audience; all about the art, baby. OK, the main reason for this is that I am fairly near the beginning of what I hope will become a decent career, and I don't want a poor review showing up in a Google search when teachers are considering booking me for their school. Not that I for one minute expect to receive a poor review, or think that I deserve to do so. The point, rather, is that I simply don't trust the reviewers. I have read an awful lot of nonsense on Edinburgh review websites, often by people with questionable experience or knowledge of the relevant artform.

Having said all that, I often come away from a good performance wishing there had been a reviewer in the audience. I hope the forthcoming fortnight is full of such performances. ONWARDS!

(PS see my show!)