Hearing John Agard ...

I stood, tipsy, swaying, wide eyed, at the back of the vaulted hall - I'd arrived a little late for the reading, brimful with bumpers of Merlot - Richard had read earlier his elegant unsettling poem, Ornithoptera - we'd chatted to Page and Irina in Monks Bar - it was early evening - Old Portsmouth was full of poets -

The Tongues and Grooves tenth anniversary poetry festival was being held in the Square Tower - all day, inside this Tudor bastion, there had been workshops, music and readings - George Marsh had spoken wise words about Seamus Heaney - I'd thought about Ireland, with its history like a velvet jacket soaked in blood, its exiles, its fervent assassins - 

Maggie Sawkins had been the guiding spirit of the festival - she'd made it happen through her wild charm and charisma - 

But Maggie also wrote brave and unflinchingly truthful poetry - I remembered how the words of one of her poems, glimpsed at two in the morning, had made my eyes fill with tears - it was as though a sweet secret was being whispered to me - 

Now I listened to John Agard read his poems - his voice was sometimes tender, sometimes passionate - he spoke with the authority of a learned, powerful, soul - his words made me laugh, yet also filled me with wonder - 

I wondered what it must be like to have such mastery over image and phrase - those supple creatures had always escaped my nets - 

Later, we retired to a beautiful house in Battery Row - Mark Andrews, slim and gracious, was kind enough to say he remembered me - 

Over yet more merlot, tumblers of Glenmorangie, laughter and joshing, John Agard told me how he'd learned to love words - a priest had taken words from a dictionary for the class to ponder - each word for John was like a magic sign - 

What does the word whippersnapper mean, father? - 

Look in the mirror Agard! - 

John told me about Ignatius Sancho and Francis Barber - I gushed about Samuel Johnson - 

Then John mentioned his sonnet to Toussaint L'Ouverture - we spoke of Wordsworth and Dove Cottage - I said Dorothy Wordsworth was an angel -

I then thought, again, of the imprisoned Haitian - 

I thought - I must not be silent -