Most of my workshops unfold like this:

Connection

Lyric

Imagery

Performance

Here's some ideas from the performance end of things:




Voice and Performance Games

Aims

• to recognise the energy in words
• to explore the performance energy that words and phrases evoke
• to explore natural, exaggerated and authentic performance styles
• to play with words, phrases and performance styles
• to find the energy ready to take to the stage with confidence
• to bind the group through shared playfulness
• to have fun

LAAAA!

To break out of a normal conversational energy for energetic exploration, face the participants and instruct them to copy the next action. Then sing / shout a great, big LAAAAAAAA! in operatic or bellowing style and gesture to the participants to do likewise. Often unused to such extrovert expression, the participants together may not be as loud and powerful as the show-off in front of them. The group or groups within the group can then be challenged to competitive LAing.

Sometimes this can be a good point to point out the importance of not destroying the vocal chords.

Word Energy

Introduce the idea that words often have a natural energy by instructing the group to say the word ‘up’. It is usually spoken with a slight upward inflection. Then try the word ‘down’. This is usually spoken with a downward inflection (except in Northern Ireland, or when a participant has already sussed the nature of the game and is being contrary. Either way, such exceptions prove the rule.)

Then try ‘quick’ with its short vowel sound and hard snappy consonants, and ‘slow’, where the s slips into the l and the o is long and the w lingers. Try other words that display these qualities.

Accentuate the Positive… or Negative

Split the group into two teams. One team has the word ‘yes’ and must say it together, giving the word expression in a performance that tries to convince the other team that the answer to some unnamed question is ‘yes’. the other team does the same with the word ‘no’. Each team takes  turns, either at their own instigation or at the leader’s signal. If the leader is pointing to the teams to take their turns, the teams can be instructed to repeat the word several times before it is the other team’s turn. Again this is often a competitive game and it be obvious (or not) which team was the most convincing.

Word Orchestra

Split the participants into four groups. Give each team a word that has obvious ways of expressing it e.g. happy, angry, silly, sad. As in the ‘accentuate’ game, each team takes it in turns to be as expressive of their word as possible. An individual can then conduct the orchestra of teams by pointing to them consecutively, repeatedly or even simultaneously. The game often leads to an increased awareness of how the energy of words interacts in a phrase.

Turn it up to 11!

Each individual picks a line or two from a poem and says it to the group. Perhaps point out the natural performance that comes with speaking the words, particularly facial expression, hand gestures and physical stance / movement. Taking that level of performance to be a mid-range level of performance (an imagined 4-6 out of 10), try turning the performance level down to 0, speaking the words with almost no performance. It can often be surprisingly hard, leading to an increased awareness of the natural performance that goes with speaking words to others. Even trying to speak the words like an automaton becomes a performance. the group can point out performance when individuals are trying not to perform.

Then at the opposite extreme, try speaking the line, turning the performance level up to 10, an extreme extrovert performance. This may point out how far the level of performance can go, or how far feels comfortable. It may point out how ridiculous performing continually at this level can be.

Try changing the level of performance in one or two lines, going between 0 and 10 and/or back again. It may be obvious, or need pointing out, that the level of performance is not necessarily the same as volume or speed.

Finally, having experienced the extreme levels of performance and the range in between, find a level of performance that feels authentic to the piece being performed and practice it.

Take to the stage!


These games can be played at the start of a session to warm up a group, at any time during a session as energisers, or as  the lead up to a performance.

Have fun.

Michael James Parker

Great Western City 

It's hardly anything
An uneven skyline
Pastel houses pouring
Into another valley

Fold and twist and
Unexpected direction
Lending the merely
Functional dignity

Cathedrals of commerce
Learning and dwelling
And journey where
Every direction is Great

A city somehow rural
Still of the land
Homes built
From the same stone 

Their seeping foundations
Were hewn from
Below and above
And in between

Scraps of unbuildable
Banks colonised
By sycamore
Bluebell and bramble

And every street has an artist
Every surface brick
Or bridge of riveted iron
A canvas a block

To be sculpted by this
Romantic industry
Before I step
Onto the train

Back to my scrap
Of Eastern land
That was lucky to not
Become city

This is my Uncle Jim sailing us over to Old Harry rocks  in Dorset.















Old Harry

The brilliant green oak is out
Before the open hand of the ash
And I am on dry land again,
Home turf, the shepherded Down
And spikey heath, gold now
Before the purple. This

Is where I was born.
But I am native of the sea.
Old Harry, you call me,
Like you're not sure
If I'm the Devil
Or grandfather.

The gifts I bring ashore
You'll take
But you'll not smile,
You'll look over my shoulder
For some imagined sickle. So 
I do all the smiling. You're drawn 

To the chalk cliffs
But you'll not see me
As the keel slips into the sand.
I'm home,
With the gold
Of the things that I know:

How the tricky mirror
Of the sea can play the eye
With tone, tumble, wind over tide,
When the waves are white-topped
And onshore the sea-grass shines
Like a slice of sky.

I've a whole lived life buried
In those dunes and a crew lost
Like shadows in the birch.
And I know the places the Moon-
Light won't reach, where the beech
Will not whisper my whereabouts.

Do you see me in the land
Lit by the thousand colours
Of sky? The sky that lifts the ocean
High, and drops it, splash,
Like the dripping black anchor
Upon this land.

I always write too much to start with and am much to eager to tell my ideas and forget the poetry. Oh well, edit:












Where Power Comes From

East

It is dawn.
A single red Routemaster bus,
Is flying, unnoticed, across the blue-grey,
And the milk bottle train
Slips out of the depot,
Slinking along the sidings.

South

Cut,
Shining sword, to the sea,
Where my skin is a salty sea dog,
And over the gunwhales comes the smack
Of mackerel, the nausea of D-Day landers
And the celebration of gold.

West

Sub-sylvan,
I feel this belly-flood of green,
Think it dark to point of black.
I grasp the scales of the beast
Between the snorting wind and wilderness
And ride the swirling cloud over the edge.

North

Come here,
The now,
Fire spitting in the dark
Of hidden valley night, of winter white,
Of the meaninglessness of cycles
Of settle, depth and melt.

Earth

This land
Is all
That we have for sure,
This land, this land, this I am,
This green grass beneath my feet,
This carved and twisted stone round which I spiral,

Sky

Through the clouds
Is the blue.
Through the blue is the void.
Laid down upon the pavement I look high,
Penetrate the concrete, the gap in the city ceiling,
See through the stars and the falling

Ancestors

Once, now,
As the glacier
Withdraws and welcomes my kin
To its carving, I become alive,
I light fires, hunt bison,
Am bison, sacred, dead, and alive.

I'm exploring why I love the West Country. 
This is just a start:

Wessex

Past the city of The Saints,
And the soaring Cathedral,
Past the Test, we are West
And a kingdom apart
From the lands that were taken
By those in the south
And the east and the middle
And those who withdrew 
From the sea.

There is little to tell
From sight or smell
This chalk and sand
From that we've left behind.
The sky still sports 
The spiralling buzzard,
And pheasant step startled
From thorn and beech
And ash.

Nothing marks
The the subtle shift
But the law in the air
Is not the same:
Something to do with 
Distance travelled
Trade routes,
Pilgrimage
To light;

Some anarchy 
That crowns us all
As giant oak
And hazel copse
Stand equally 
Unthreatened.
This maybe in
Our ancestry
Or maybe
It's just me.

Blimey! This blog site has sat dormant for a while. It's taken a kick up the arse from the (inter) National Poetry Writing Month and the confidence of some ace gigs to get it going again. So let's start with this, blessing my work by calling in the powers that I want to feel flowing through my writing:

https://soundcloud.com/michaeljamesparker/callinginthepowers

Calling in the Powers
(Constructing a Heart)

East

It is dawn.
I am alone
As a single red Routemaster bus,
Flying, unnoticed, across the blue-
Grey sky above the semi-
Detached with a gentle diesel thrum.

A lone
Stranger: Father
Christmas or the Easter Bunny stands
Beneath a flaking London plane tree,
Milk bottle clinking delight at something completed.
The day comes in to land, takes breath, grieves

The loss
Of night,
Slipping out of the depot,
Slinking along the sidings. This
Never reaches its destination
But nothing does, so that's ok.

South

Cut,
Shining sword,
To the sea, the Channel,
Where my skin is a salty sea dog,
My muscles, and cockles, a battalion, ready,
And my senses: explorers, fisherfolk, survivors.

Through The Swinge
And the Race
These Bermudan boards keel,
And over the gunwhales comes the smack
Of mackerel, the nausea of D-Day landers
And the celebration of sea gold.

I have power!
I grin
At my companion anarchists
Downing a mid-day warrior draught
And spitting unwanted law-
Making into the harbour.

West

In sub-
Sylvan meeting
With Wandererthroughthewoods
I feel this belly-flood of green,
Think it dark to point of black.
In the flow I would know what this means:

I am mortal.
Magician,
I can smell the Atlantic from the fertile
Fields up to the clouded heath,
And I would be as desolate, need
To populate the coast with ghost and dragon...

The mountain
Shapes 
My fear: lime, granite, slate, 
I grasp the scales of the beast
Between the snorting wind and wilderness
And ride the swirling cloud over the edge.

North

Come here,
The now,
Fire spitting in the dark
Of hidden valley night, of winter white,
Of the meaninglessness of cycles
Of settle, depth and melt.

These hands
Overflow, I
Tread the narrow crest of sorrow,
Driven anger, overhanging
Fear and home to joy. Unbidden,
I sing my highland island song.

I take this old
Worn stone
Of destiny, no matter if th'original
Red sand, the stolen stone, the spoof,
I make my own meaning, crown myself.
Who else could be lord of these isles?

Earth

This land
Is all
That we have for sure,
This land, this land, this I am,
This green grass beneath my feet,
This carved and twisted stone round which I spiral,

This voice,
This mother
Of all the dwellers of the mounded
Earth, the hidden, behind
A little twist of perception,
The love that gives existence sweetness,

This I am,
This grace
Whispers I am perceiving you,
You are my child and I love you.
This wandering, this weather, this
Life laid down and given.

Sky

Through the clouds
Is the blue.
Through the blue is the void.
Laid down upon the pavement I look high,
Penetrate the concrete, the gap in the city ceiling,
See through the stars and the falling

To where
I am nothing,
Here, out there, nothing, upon nothing,
Father immaculate space.
I gaze down through great branches, dissipate,
Embrace this absurdity: starlaughter.

Ah well,
All will
Be well, through intergalactic emptiness,
The interstellar void, the interplanetary realm
Of invisible gods. I know it in my intercity 
Window seat vacancy and in between each dot of empty stuff.

Ancestors

Once, now,
As the glacier
Withdraws and welcomes my kin
To its carving, I become alive,
I light fires, hunt bison,
Am bison, sacred, dead, and alive.

And then
Come my brethren
With flint and seed and crucible:
Torc-turners, torch-bearers,
Sword-wielders, axe-grinders,
Horse-riders, carvers of plate and cross and cup.

And each,
Placing feet
Upon the shore, turn heads to horizons,
Lift great grins and great arms to the dancing hills
Where I hold this circle of space and time between nothing

And ever
Everything,
And here
And now,
Let go.

I am
Alive.

Where was I? Oh yes, roaring. Trying to work out whether to follow the advice of Robert the Bruce to try, try again, or of Yoda to do. Or not do. But in the mean time, roaring.
Take that energy to my next gig, I think: Hammer and Tongue, Hackney, February. Good poems. Good audience. Good welcome. Then, devoid of opponent, my inner critic pipes up and joins me on stage like a sign language interpreter, except that he's translating all my well-crafted lines to stuff like, 'That joke didn't go down very well', 'And I mean joke in the loosest sense', 'You're not really connecting with the audience, are you?', 'I don't think they like it. Why would they like it? You're telling them about you. Who would be interested in you?'
This is not so much an inner critic as an internalised gang of bullies that have stalked me off the playground of my childhood and I've projected onto unsuspecting audiences, friends, lovers and family for years. Sorry.

Two days later I am hosting my own Hammer and Tongue Brighton, putting on a damn fine show and turning my social phobia into a gift for the audience, an energetic clumsiness that nicely balances Rosy's slick wit.
For a while I wonder whether it's a home and away thing: I'm Manchester United at home, Wolverhampton Wanderers away. I need some of that sports psychology that trains the players to feel like it's a home game in an arena of opposing supporters. (Hmm. Opposing supporters. I like that.)

So, try again: Hammer and Tongue, Camden, February. Good poems. Good audience. Good welcome. Good attitude to performing: aware of the antics of my inner critic I ask him politely to sit down and wait until I get off stage when I will be quite prepared to discuss the good and the bad of the show. Fair enough. He nods and sits with the rest of the audience enjoying my poems, enjoying my performance, laughing at my jokes and coming with me on my adventures. Not so different, it seems from video footage, to my Oxford and Hackney shows, but a whole load different inside, and maybe that subtle difference in the vibe.

So I tried, and tried again, or maybe, finally, I didn't try, I just did.
I put on a show that people enjoyed. As well as my more boombastic stuff, I performed a poem that places on stage a sad and scared little boy being bullied in the playground and I let him let out his feelings. I started a peace process between armoured ego and vicious superego, performer and critic, me and a world that, sometimes, scares me.

The other day I read this on my 'daily wisdom' calendar:
There's no such thing as failure, only learning opportunities.
By the same token, I suppose there's no such thing as success, only learning opportunities that happen to go much as one would hope. Seeking success, I've had a million learning opportunities. Here's what has changed since I did festivals at the turn of the millennium: back then my yardstick of success was getting a (metaphorical) kick, a laugh and, if I was lucky, a snog. Now, a big grown up boy with a family and a range of responsibilities, my success criteria have become more complex, my notion of worth mixing up reputation, money and the social function of my art. Oh, and this notion of Mastery that turns the whole world of performance into the training ground of jedi knights and freedom fighters. Perhaps the warrior king and the muppet spaceman shared this perspective: 

Let go of attachment to success. 
 
Doing is easier said than done, but I am more relaxed at the last gig of my winter tour, 451 in Southampton, a truly inspirationally inclusive performance poetry night welcoming young and old, learned and learning, silly, serious, sublime and ridiculous, my parents and both my swaggering ego and scared little boy. It went down well:
http://the-importance-of-being-carrie.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/451-nuffield-southampton.html
High-fived by my folks, I sit down to learn from the Masters of opposite realms, yin and yang of Taylors, Stewart and Joelle. Yoda and Robert the Bruce both smile at their Initiate and get me a pint. Cheers.