Nightmare in the Dream State of Scottish Poetry: the fiasco that was the first Edwin Morgan Poetry Competition Prizegiving at the EIBF

The bad poem that was the presentation of the first Edwin Morgan International Poetry Competition Awards Ceremony at Edinburgh International Book Festival (EIBF) on Sunday evening managed to include everything but the poetry of the prize winners – a sad and disgraceful fact that reflects poorly on the state of EIBF, the small world of Scottish poetry, poetry publishing and poetry professors. It serves to remind us that where literature, commerce, celebrity and media hype meet, the poem is still a most vulnerable thing, in this case done in by ineptitude and self-serving formality.

As it disappeared up its own backside, the one hour programme managed to introduce us to the origin of the prize and its justification (note that this includes a career boost for poets previously unknown and unheard), a poem by its illustrious poet sponsor, Edwin Morgan, and the organisation that spawned it, Vital Synz. Huddled in a tent in Edinburgh, we learned that the main aim of Vital Sins (as it has suddenly become known) is ‘to bring the best poets to Glasgow’ and at that point we should have been prepared for the worst. The panellists indulged in back-slapping and reminiscences: how long they’d known each other; the many projects and junkets they’d collaborated on; selected poems by the judges were read by each of them in turn. And then it was Thank You time. Everyone who matters on Planet EIBF was thanked: every poetry bureaucrat imaginable (including the festival director many times over, with true gush); the sponsors; the judges; the presenting professor (Michael Schmidt OBE); the audience; even the invading Irish who had originally inhabited Scotland got a grateful mention. (Well, you’ll never know when you’ll need a handout or a bunch of opportunists to stand up for you – from this swipe I exclude the audience).

I’m not alone in having suspected for a long time that EIBF and most other book or literary festivals are primarily about celebrity spotting and book sales, and rarely anything to do with the art of writing prose, fiction or poetry. However, this suspicion has not prevented me from turning up to events and supporting writers who’ve taken part. The evening in question saw Richard Price (Judge No. 1) read, amongst other things, a disingenuous poetic essay on the nature of Love, how it can work against Reason, against itself (like the love of poetry perhaps, or the love of hearing new poetic imaginations at work). This took a little over ten minutes and was a reassuring introduction to the pedigree of the judges. Donny O Rourke (Judge No. 2) was next up full of kindly reservations about the nature of Berne, Switzerland, his most recent home, (the connection to Charlotte Square, Edinburgh was not made clear), the dangers of narrow-minded nationalism and his views on the views of a celebrity broadcaster on the work of Robert Burns (who really cares what Jeremy Paxman thinks about anything?). And he finished his long set (at least 20 minutes) with a reconstituted song about the Glencoe Massacre and the need for forgiveness, but the real question was: would anyone in the audience forgive O’Rourke for his overlong contribution which helped prevent the prize-winning poets from being heard? Collette Bryce (Judge No. 3) introduced us to one of her lyrics very quickly - she must have caught sight of the clock - and then gave us an insight into how the judges went about their task: this is a tedious convention that accompanies prize giving events and it’s so unnecessary, it’s so boring, it’s all about them and their mail boxes, and how Richard and she were actually talking to Donny. (Remember he was in Berne, Switzerland). About the poems. On the phone!

But, I’m afraid the bulk of the responsibility for this debacle must rest with the chair of the event, David Kinloch, who failed dismally in his duty to that which mattered most in that hour: the prizewinning poems, the poets and their audience. In the closing minutes we heard the first prize winning poem from Kate Miller, and then there was - after a few more thank yous - silence.

I complained bitterly to the chair and other panellists when the event closed and was promptly invited to join them at the reception which followed the performance where, I was told, it was just possible that the reading of the winning poems might finally happen. But, of course, they would only be heard by the select few. I declined the offer. Instead, one of the winners and I sought refuge in the back room of the Oxford Bar in nearby Young Street where the same Eddie Gibbons (not only a friend but a poet I have published for the best part of ten years) finally delivered his reading to an audience of one. It’s a source of comfort that the bars of Edinburgh can still be a sanctuary for the dispossessed poets and their songs!

So, still traumatised by the experience, I remain convinced that at the Edinburgh International Book Festival and events like it, the last thing you’ll hear is the poetry – and that’s if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, like the audience in the Scottish Power Tent on 17^th August discovered, you’ll not get to hear it at all.

Sean Bradley