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The third in our Forward Prizes for Poetry interview series.

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Leyla: Michael, how lovely to have your friendly face on this list. I’m currently asking myself a lot of questions about the spirit of a poem. You are a writer that manages to spark life in your poems both on page and in performance. How does a poem change from page to performance?

Michael: I always think of any written poem that I go on to perform regularly as having two incarnations – a sort of split soul. The first dwells in the way it’s written and slinks across the page. The second exists in the way it stretches out into a performance space with an audience in tow. There’s sneaky cadences and rhythms that canter to the fore when spoken out loud, unplanned exuberances, that I don’t foresee when writing. Editing the poems orally gives a fair indication of which ones are questing after life on the road, but even that’s not foolproof. It’s such a soppy thrill getting to the bottom of it all.

Leyla: Where does the spirit of the poem live?

Michael: Initially, I think it’s in the opening line, or parcel of words, that spur the rest on – the lexical egg & sperm combo. Though more and more I’m finding the first stanzas I write, the galvanisers, end-up getting edited out – yet they live on in the undertow, the hinterland, the space between the title and the first printed word. So, there, I’ll say, in the missing verse/the poem’s absent friends.

Leyla: Gorgeous. I agree that the first attempt at the opening can sometimes give too much away, too quickly or sometimes it’s a throat clearing of some sort, or a strong-handed statement to let everyone know you know what you’re talking about. I think you know the rest of the poem is almost complete when you are able to delete it and trust that it’s still there, as you said, in the hinterland.

I regularly find myself having a love/hate relationship with how permanent writing is, how the written feels so cemented compared to performance which allows us to be ever adapting. How does time affect your poem, how you read it and how you feel about it?

Michael: Yeah, wildly, with gallus fluctuations. I’ll focus on the reading element here (to spare the word count), and make it more Forward Prizes apposite.

This year’s shortlisted piece is perhaps a paragon example of the gonzo shifts I go through. When I first started reading this one, it was all raw and fleshy, visceral and (at times) barking too brashly. I’ve found a steadiness with it, it’s a grief piece, so it’ll never be mechanically executed, but it has a vocal voyage I’m now in control of. I hope it’s more generous than it first was, inviting people in more readily. At the same time, I hope to never deliver it the exactly the same way twice, and don’t think I ever will.

Leyla: It’s really affirming to see so many Scottish based writers on the Forward Prize for Single Best Poem Performed. In which ways does place, specifically Scotland, influence your practice and writing?

Michael: Oh yes, what a gorgeous gaggle of humans, poetry here is in fine and fecund (lusty?) form.

For me, each poem comes caked in Caledonia and Scottishness of sundry sorts; that’s whether I like it or not. I’m not wired to write any other way. Even if I’m writing about some far-off spot or a fictional scenario set in a future realm, I’m carrying Scotland with me. Perhaps I’ve couriered it there purposefully or, more likely, it’s smuggled its way in, crept in through the back door. Hopefully it’s a light touch though, non-intrusive, hidden in my colour palettes or the brogue of the speaker, rather than overpowering the experience. Place within place as people are within us.

As much as self-critique is essential, let’s hear it too for self-praise; this is a moment of celebration after all. In that vein, what’s your favourite line of poetry you’ve ever written (and, naturally, a wee inkling as to why would be lovely)?

Leyla: My favourite lines from ‘Dear John Berger’ are ‘The house is so empty I can hear the glass in the windows breathe.’ and ‘I could light up grown men like puggy machines.’ ‘If a woman comes alone, does a tree fall in a forest?’

I love when I write a line that doesn’t make full logical sense, but conjures a feeling. Then I usually pair it with a really clear visual, which allows the heart and the imagination of the reader/audience to work in tandem, transporting them into my experience or, maybe more interestingly, their own.

I think a lot of the best lines have weight in the spaces, the things that are present, but are not said, only felt. Poetry is always trying to capture the experience of living a human life, which is an impossible task. Poets come close, but of course, always fail. Life is simply too complicated, too individual, too big. But the best poets, in my opinion, are the ones who manage to conjure feeling and keep mystery. And, of course, sprinkle in some humour to not take the whole thing too seriously. That’s my taste anyway, so that’s what I try to achieve.

Michael: And achieve it you do, to an acme. Totally agree on the side-serving of humour alongside the murkier stuff, offering readers and audiences a gulp of air is such a giving and necessary thing. Speaking of poetry supremos… you worked with/were mentored by the wonder churner Kim Addonizio, right? What kernels of wisdom did you pick up off her – for page or stage or life?

Leyla: I’ve always been a big fan of Kim’s work, sometimes I struggle to get through her collections – she inspires me so much, I have to put her book down and go write!

She’s extremely knowledgeable, kind and very blunt which are all things that make her an excellent mentor. She is very committed to the poetry life and she isn’t going to pander to your vague wanderings, or your self-pity. She taught me you have work really, really hard, and dig really, really deep, and read a lot – that makes her sound very serious, which she’s not, she just takes poetry very seriously. I enjoy being pulled apart by her, and for whatever sadistic reason, I keep going back for more.

She’s always talking about how to spot doorways in your poems. A doorway is a moment could be a potential opening that takes you deeper. You should take your pen through these doorways to see where it takes you. I think poets tend to edit down too early in the process and sometimes we need to push further on before we pull back.

Michael: Och, that sounds superb, as fantabulous and fierce as it rightly should be. Hey, have you ever seen a performance that’s totally blown your socks off (poetry or otherwise)? And did you manage to channel any of its lustre into how you perform yourself (which is exceptionally well, with tenderness and panache; big fan – as you know)?

Leyla: I am so so so lucky that I have been around so many good performers. I come from a performance art background. I have seen some insane things happen on stage. I’m not sure it’s appropriate to go into it here – but ask me about it sometime! In live art, the performers tend to be themselves on stage, or at least a heightened version of themselves. I learnt from them that the key to good performance is presence, it’s really that simple, if you’re alive behind the eyes, and really in the moment you will be interesting to watch. If you’re closed off, in your head or disassociating in any way people can feel that. You have to look the audience in the eye and be like I am here and you are too and we’re in this together, stay with me, let me carry you.

Wow, cheesy, but I’m not going back now.

Michael: Here’s to it – candid, enthused and shimmering. As a performer, who lights up a space, what’s been a significant show, billing or event that’s allowed you to really just take stock of a special moment and (rightly) pat yourself on the back?

Leyla: I think my book launch in Glasgow at King Tuts was really special. It marked a decade of performing my poetry. It’s such an iconic venue, it was a Saturday night, the audience were charged like they were at a music gig. I never thought I’d be able to write a book, it felt like coming home to somewhere I’d never been.

Lastly, if you could host a dinner party with four writers/performers who would your guests be?

Michael: Well, since you’ve set the question up, and we’re sharing this inky space, I’m going to sling you my first invite (with brio and bells on). I feel like we’re in this together, in print, on stage, and in the sociality orbiting around us. So that’s me hosting, you as my first guest and three more to follow (I’ve maybe been generous in that numerical interpretation but so be it). From there, I’m going to invite: Ada Limón, Ocean Vuong and Hollie McNish. I’d have loved to have included Seamus Heaney and Edwin Morgan on that guest list, but not sure I should be tinkering in the affairs of the afterlife. So that’s our feasting ensemble – me, you, Ocean, Ada and Hollie. Now… I best start prepping the menu – everyone likes aubergines and mushrooms, right?

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Leyla Josephine is a poet, film and theatre maker from Glasgow. Her theatre show Daddy Drag was the winner of 2019 Autopsy Award celebrating artists making ground-breaking work in Scotland, and her spoken-word show Hopeless was shortlisted for Saboteur’s Best Spoken Word show 2017. Her Creative Scotland-funded poetry book In Public/In Private was released last year with Burning Eye Books, and she was mentored by Kim Addonizio through the process. In 2022 she developed a play The Belly & The Beast with National Theatre of Scotland through The John Mathers Rising Star Theatre Award and her play Ms Campbell’s Class 4th Period was published with Bloomsbury Press in 2023 and performed globally as part of Wonderfools Positive Stories for Negative Times. Her spoken word album Archive:Live! was released in 2020.

Michael Pedersen is a prize-winning Scottish poet and author, and the Writer in Residence at Edinburgh University. His poetic prose debut, Boy Friends, was published by Faber & Faber in 2022 — it was a Sunday Times Critics Choice and shortlisted for Best Non-Fiction at Scotland’s National Book Awards. The Cat Prince & Other Poems (Corsair/Little Brown), his third collection, won the Book Are My Bag Readers Award for Best Poetry 2023. Pedersen has also been shortlisted for the Forward Prizes for Best Single Poem — Performed and won a Robert Louis Stevenson Fellowship.

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