IT’S PLYMOUTH!
by Thom Boulton
 
John Lennon’s squatting in the
front window of House of Fraser,
apparently John Lewis didn’t realise
‘War is Over’ and the
commercialisation of Christmas
is dead.
 
Sir Cliff put in for his own market stall,
under the big screen, he’s selling
mistletoe and mulled wine,
hoping to warm passers-by.
 
Mud have made boxes of
peppermint creams and
minced pies, wrapped neatly
in hand decorated boxes – the glitter
is everywhere
but AGE UK are grateful that
the lonely
will have at least one visit.
 
East 17 have said they’ll
stay another day – travelling is tough,
despite the warming planet, you can never
guarantee
it won’t snow.
 
Steely Span are channelling the gods of acapella.
Bouts of Gaudete are echoing on the steps of
St Andrew’s.
 
Jethro Tull have hijacked the bells
of St Budeaux Church, the solstice is being
rung out,
everyone’s excited for the jazz flute parade
through Victoria Road.
 
The local mediums of Albert Road have
channelled Bing Cosby and
David Bowie, it’s the second time they’ve
ever met.
 
The Air Ambulance is towing Peter Auty,
he’s literally walking in the air above Derriford.
 
Jona Lewie is stopping the cavalry of shoppers
from entering
Debenebanum-nums, Debenebanum,
Debenum-num... 
  
Bob Geldof’s clutching at the change pot,
packing bags at Asda,
he’s stuffing turkeys into plastic bags,
band aids and paracetamol into canvas – asking if they know it’s Christmas in Africa?
 
Elton John’s thanking everyone for the year,
he's stepping into Xmas on the Mayflower Steps.
 
Boney M have swapped Moscow for Mutley,
they're outside Goodbodys – busking
for a breakfast.
 
Sinead O’Connor and Ella Fitzgerald are going through all the classics,
serenading the parked cars of the Torpoint ferry.
 
Greg Lake’s waking us all on Xmas morning,
breaking our rose-tinted glasses
​left in our stockings,
squashed next to the satsumas.
 
The doors to Drake Circus never shut, propped open by Shakin Stevens, he’s
wishing ‘a merry Christmas everyone’
to the flurry that drifts in.
 
And we’re all hoping that Wizzard get their wish,
maybe the cheer, the goodwill,
the community spirit, the time with family,
maybe all of it will really be
something we celebrate every day.

Wow. What a night.

Alexander Rhodes and Robert Garnham played excellent hosts for what was a truly brilliant showcase of South West poets. From Cornwall to Cardiff (and plenty of nooks in-between) all varieties of performers and wordsmiths rocked up to give us their best performance pieces.

I was one of three judges (along with JoJo Moreschi and Emma Twamley) and was given sole responsibility of judging the writing techniques used by each contestant.

In true teacher form I divided the points up into various possible features like narrative, rhyme or no rhyme , non cliche imagery, show not tell etc and included more contemporary features such as ambitiousness, breaks/twists, surrealism and abstract elements. This was all topped off with a juicy cherry I called 'gut' which drew on my reaction to lines (Did I laugh? Did I relate? Did I feel my cold heart roughly warm to a tepid pulp?) - Yes, all of this and yet it was still bloody hard to call it.

When someone is creative it should be celebrated but here I was judging the creativity and then showing the entire room what I thought. I attempted to channel the ghost of Craig Revel Horwood before realising halfway through the necromancer ceremony that he was in fact not dead. Instead I relied on my own senses. Luckily, there wasn't a single 'bad' poem in the mix. All of them were unique in their own way and it was great to hear each and every one.

​Personal favourites from the first round were the final two poems, Nick Kitto's poem about being middle class but wanting to be ghetto and Kat Savage's poem which was just beautiful.