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What first inspired you to get into poetry?

My family continually arguing probably got me into poetry. I read everything I could get my hands on from libraries,

second hand book shops and jumble sales, just disappeared into books. There was a bloke who owned a little shop in

Barrow when I was a teenager and he used to put all sorts of things in the 20p box because he knew I wanted them

and couldn't afford them. He, the broken step ladder that I pulled up like a drawbridge so I could hide on the flat

roofed garage and The Book of Victorian Verse saved my life and sanity on several occasions. Then I went to a punk

gig with a load of the older punks that I hung around with. Out onto the stage came this gangly bloke with massive

hair and when he'd finished spouting his poetry I thought, I want to do that! It was John Cooper Clarke and it took me

a few years in a town that didn't exactly have a thriving performance poetry scene for me to start ranting words of my

own to anyone who would listen.

Who or what influences your poetry?

I love so many poets and have loads of influences, John Cooper Clarke being just one. As a young writer, I was lucky

enough to be around some amazing people who inspired, taught and encouraged me; Adrian Mitchell, Henry Normal,

Julia Darling, Kevin Fegan, Adrian Henri and a list far too long to print helped me and I'm so grateful for their support

and friendship. I love words and am constantly inspired by hearing a new poet at a gig or getting an email with a poem

in from a friend. I suppose I think of myself as a playwright who sometimes writes and performs poems so I'd also site

reading Shelagh Delaney's play 'A Taste of Honey' as a huge influence on me. The voices were so strong and I relat-

ed to the language so much. It's strange that two of my biggest influences are from Salford and, all these years

later, it's my home.

What is poetry to you? How would you define it?

I'm not sure I can even answer that question. Poetry for me is about concentrated truth. Looking at things differ-

ently yet finding recognition, commonality or connection. For me, its about sharing what's in my head and record-

ing my experiences and thoughts. It's full of descriptions, narratives, rhythms and moments. It's the thing that

makes you gasp, laugh loudly, sit still, be moved to tears or to go out thinking you can change the world or that

you have a greater understanding of beauty having heard those words. Poetry is whatever you want it to

be....although not everyone will agree with that and it won't help you pass your GCSE English or Creative Writing

MA.

Is there any advice you would give to new poets, writers or performers?

I'm not sure I'm in a position to give anyone advice but I'd probably say, go to spoken word gigs and watch, listen

and see what you like about other people's performances. Don't copy but try and work out why you like particular

performances, learn tricks about how they handle the mic and rowdy audiences, use their body and their voice.

Be inspired by people and get up there and do it. You only learn from doing it. Most importantly find your own

voice, work out how to be yourself onstage or if you don't want to be yourself, create a character and do that.

What does 2014 have in store? I'm currently working on a new show for a contemporary dance company in St Helens using stories and memo-

ries to make a script which will be developed into a dance piece. I'm also writing poems and stories and hope to

do a joint poetry collection with Melanie Rees later this year. I'd also like to do more performing of my poetry

alongside theatre and devising work this year too.

Who grow up without history of which they're aware. They won't recall this dirty old town when it's cleansed of its poor Or the tens of thousands on Kersal moor And our brothers and sisters in Bexley square

When the smell of revolution was so thick in the air A smell so sweet you could almost taste it it drowned the cesspools of human shit

Because a cure for our poverty is to ship in more rich people

We need more of those like we need Stowell's steeple

At the cost of 20 million we were promised prosperity and jobs

Something we were fed to appease us, the mob

But how does a shiny office building help a mum feed her kids

The least they could give her is a job, god forbid

You see I don't remember when they closed down the docks

Or cross lane market and its endless pubs

I do owe this knowledge to my Nan and her mum

Who can remember a time when the sun always shone

And what when they go, and there's none of them left?

And the pigs in their chambers are done with their theft

Leaving the shell of this city to shrivel and rot Where once stood Salford, on the map is a blot

You may ask yourself "Why remember? Why does it matter?"

"About those filthy old cranes all broken and battered. Or the sandstone cross in Eccles town centre.

And the neat rows of houses intersected by entries."

"What do you care if our history dies?

I can do nothing if someone else tries

Take a look around; see how far we've come

We have impoverished workers still branded as scum

We've got brand new houses falling to pieces

And a life expectancy that no longer increases

Tesco's, Morrisons, Media City

Our home's drained of soul, but at least it looks pretty. To those who ask this my answer's quite simple,

This city is more than just Manchester's dimple

And those who forget will never learn

Monsters of the past won't take long to return.

…

“Although not born in Salford, I have lived and worked here for most of my life.

It is an inspiring and creative place to take root and write poetry.

I began writing as a child and a great deal of my work concerns fairy tales and

dark places. Part of me has never let go of that world. Most of me never wants

to.”

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Siberia and punishment. Hand in glove. Labour camps once the penalty for questioning an oppressive state. Imagine being born there. Imagine being born gay there. Your criminal nature judged and sentenced before any deed is committed. A sickness that must be treated like a tooth that hurts.

In a region rich with precious ores, pride is a rare commodity for a queer boy, whose teachers would exile him, whose public representatives would flog him. Blending in, he crafts outer shells, elaborately painted with caricatures footballer, drinker, stud.

On-line, he searches for a connection; a stranger offering a fleeting touch, warm-blooded and real. But the clandestine meeting snaps like a bear trap. Masked men and women closing around him like metallic teeth around an animal’s leg. Their words sharp. Their collective grasp powerful enough to subdue the wildest beast.

Boots take turns to kick out, target shins, then stomach, then head. The frenetic tempo speeds in a Cossack dance of violent intensity. Shins, stomach, head. Cries, groans, crack of bone echo to indifferent passers-by, while a video camera inflicts a wound that can never heal. Captors strip away his protective layers, leaving this un-Russian doll’s delicate core, naked and exposed.

Viewing this broken form, covered in blood and piss poured from a bottle, Mother’s face will twist in rejection of her mutant offspring. Father will brandish a gun, eyes burning with a fire lit by dogmatic tradition and fed by legislative papers. Pride goes underground, deposited with unexploited minerals and waiting for icy conditions to thaw. A buried treasure to be found at the start of a rainbow.

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"A refreshingly unpretentious poetry night, with a great vibe." - Mary J Lockwood

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pOEM cONTINUES...

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bY dOMINIC bERRY.

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