Dead Good Poets Society are one of Liverpool's finest poets' collectives. On Tuesday 5th September 2000 they do a reading with members of the Dublin Writers Workshop at the Winding Stair Bookshop and Café, Ormonde Quay, Dublin. The Dead Good Poets feature are Carole Baldock, David Bateman, Mandy Coe, Colin Watts.

As a taster, here's some of their poetry.

Carole Baldock

Carole Baldock lives in West Kirkby, The Wirral. Her poetry has been published in a number of journals and periodicals including Ambit, Envoi, Oribis, Iota, Acumen and Writing Women. and she has published a number of books on writing and education. Her first collection, Bitching, is forthcoming.

Remember, Remember

'Ladies and Gentlemen, the two minute silence was for Remembrance Sunday. Although this was last Sunday, it is the policy of Virgin Railways to hold a two minute silence en route, on the train. Thank you.'

Gazing down at my clasped hands,
I'm aware that the man next to me
(leaning well over the arm-rest)
carries on reading The Telegraph.

The old chap opposite,
has laid down his Len Deighton;
there's a poppy in his lapel, petals slightly bent.
The young lady ... fingers tipped as red,
hover over hard copy,
papers spread across the table.

To look up is to encounter fixed stares,
carefully not regarding anything,
until a woman, a mother, dyed hair
blazing in the sunshine,
ricochets, clutching a thick purse,
down the aisle.

I strain to avoid peering at my watch.
Forgetting, once again,
how two minutes can last an eternity.

Greek Myths and Near Misses

'Anyone as ugly as YOU is fit only to work,'
Said Aphrodite to Psyche,
'YOU'RE no match for MY son,
Sooner betroth him to that grim bitch, Niké.'

'Or Medusa. Well, no, she IS petrifying -
Imagine facing her each day!
And Athene's a pain in the neck,
I've often heard Zeus say.'

'Pandora? Nice girl, multi-talented,
But perhaps a little bit nosy?
Of course, there's always Aurora,
To make sure his prospects dawn rosy.'

'Persephone! That's it, she's ideal, but
Haven't seen her in quite a while,
And though Circe is simply bewitching
(I've always liked her style) ...'

'Oh, stop weeping, girl, for Heaven's sake,
You'll soon find another lover,
Earn a bit on the side, cleaning floors
(Dear me, nearly called you a scrubber!)'

'Let's see now. Echo? Never stops talking
And Europe can be beastly, I've found.
Artemis is out, nearly ever single night,
Though Atalanta's got her feet on the ground.'

'Ariadne, now she's simply amazing
But head over heels with Theseus.
(SO heroic, these men!) Oh. They said Dido's pined away,
Abandoned by Aeneas.'

'What a Herculean task for a mother!
If I searched the entire Cosmos,
Where on earth would I ever find a bride
Suitable for my darling Eros?'

'Now, come along, dear, consider a career,
Stop being quite so silly!
Otherwise, I'm afraid, you're bound to end up
Hanging around Piccadilly.'

****

David Bateman

David Bateman is a people-friendly performance poet with a knack for getting silly and serious at the same time. Winner of the Edinburgh Performance Poetry Competition in 1990, more recently he was also nominated as Beat New Writing Talent in the Liverpool Echo Arts & Entertainment Awards 1996. His poetry booklets include The Ideal God Competition (1989 Reprobate) and From Jellybeans to Reprobation (1996 Hybrid). His collection, Curse of the Killer Hedge, was published by Iron Press in 1996. A new booklet, David Bateman's Millennial Poetry Party, is forthcoming from Spike Publications.

Mixed Doubles

I dreamt that there was two of everything
I had two places to stay
and two places to go
and two of all the usual ways of travelling between them.
It took me by surprise
and I had to think twice about it
but that was no problem.

Even couples came in couples
so when it was a toss-up between the pictures and the pub
they could do both and no trouble.
It was twelve of one and a dozen of the other.
They could even have affairs
and still be faithful at the same time.
Everything went beautifully
until I wound up in a love hexagon.
It was hard enough keeping track of my own other half
let alone my other half's own other half.
Unfortunately my other half's own other half's other half
found out what my own other half had been doing
before I did
and got together with one of my own other half's other halves' other half's own other half,
and came round to beat the shite out of both of me.

Fortunately, I woke up at once.

The Thrill Of The Chase

I have trained my dogs
Snoopy Timmy and
Beelzebub
to scent out the upper classes and
kill them.
Some say that this is cruel
also that the upper classes
are a good thing and
ought to be protected
being a part of our heritage and
all.
But any reasonable person I think
will admit that the upper classes
are parasites and
need to be kept down.
Snoopy Timmy and
Beelzebub
are an effective way
of doing this and
besides
I think the upper classes enjoy it.

****

Mandy Coe

Mandy Coe is a self employed poet and artist. Working extensive in schools and community venues in the North West she has regularly performed at poetry events and literature festivals. Her poetry is widely published in anthologies and magazines and has been broadcast in local and national BBC radio.

Rumours

Night times you brush your teeth,
undress, turn off the light then start
cross-examining your defernce,
rehearsing speeches in the dark.

Mornings you wake, struggle under
this strange weight, then remember
this is how you live now. Redrawn
by someone else's quotation marks.

It is out there, a forged coinage
stamped with your name. A pocketful
of bad pennies jingling as you walk;
a verdigris currency that strains.

Surreptitiously you check friends' hands.

Trained Up Nice

I tightened bolts, brazed and soldered,
wielded flame to fuse the spelter: copper-zinc,
alloys and lead. At the end of the day we queued
for the sink, staring at the poster of workplace rules,
slicking sore hands in glistening green.

Come dinner times we'd sit in the yard,
crouching between the rusted machines.
Given no time to clean filthy hands
mug handles slipped in greasy palms
and we bit into blackly finger printed bread.

When they made the company brochure,
I had to leave the shop floor to pose at a desk.
'Type.' ordered the manager.
'I can't,' I told him 'I can braze, but I can't type.'
'Pretend then.' So I splayed grimy fingers
over the keys. The secretary tutted, shaking her head.

When the overseer handed me back my overall
he said not to mind.
'You've trained up nice for a lass.' he said
'I'd not have employed you myself,
but you've trained up nice.'

****

Colin Watts

Colin Watts is a playwright, poet, teacher and publisher. His work has been published in journals such as Ambit, Envoi, Fatchance, Grafitti, Smiths Knoll, Smoke and The Big Issue. His plays have been performed by Liverpool Lunchtime and Network theatre companies in Liverpool and the northwest of England. He runs playwrights and performance poetry workshops for University of Liverpool.

Tending His Memory

He like a good English apple, did my father.
When he died, we planted James Grieve, Blenheim Orange.
We eat, give to friends, make wine. Some I pick early,
wrap in pages of the Echo, pack in boxes.
In the cellar they will last through winter,
preserved, I am told, by newsprint and the damp.

Until Christmas they remain firm, sharp.
Thereafter, the slightest bruise spreads like bad news.
By July, they will have shrivelled to scrotums,
spilling bright fungi of startling delicacy,
yellow, pink, green. I commit them to compost,
tend this year's crop, sample the new wine, miss him.

Getting The Hang Of It

Maybe, one day, I shall get the hang of it,
the mild and bitter, sweet and sour tang of it.

The Cupid's bow-and-arrow boomerang of it,
the why you never wrote and never rang of it.

The chalk and cheese, the hard/soft yin and yang of it,
the ego, id, the Sigmund Freud and RD Laing of it.

The Adam, Eve-olution and orang-utang of it,
the lock, stock, barrel and big bang of it.

I hope to say, before I die, despite the pang of it,
I've held it in my arms and not just sang of it.

****

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