ten poets and a bottle of plain water

Last night I went to the TS Eliot Prize reading, a huge annual event where the ten poets each read from their shortlisted books prior to the following night's announcement of the winner. Of course, this year's shortlistees are more familiar to the public now than they might have been, because they each read a poem on Radio 4 last week; although I didn't hear them, I know others did because they told me about it. And a couple of them were new to me.

Here is the shortlist, arranged (I hope) in the order they read in:

Matthew Sweeney for Black Moon (Jonathan Cape)
Alan Gillis for Hawks and Doves (Gallery)
Sarah Maguire for The Pomegranates of Kandahar (Chatto)
Fiona Sampson for Common Prayer (Carcanet)
Edwin Morgan for A Book of Lives (Carcanet)

Sophie Hannah for Pessimism for Beginners (Carcanet)
Ian Duhig for The Speed of Dark (Picador)
Frances Leviston for Public Dream (Picador)
Mimi Khalvati for The Meanest Flower (Carcanet)
Sean O'Brien for The Drowned Book (Picador)

Peter Porter, the chair of the judges, started the evening with a reading of Eliot's 'Death of Saint Narcissus' and then made way for the evening's compere, John Walsh. He did a creditable job, in language far more flowery than that of the poets... Then the readings, but unfortunately Edwin Morgan - a living legend - is too frail at 87 to have attended. We heard instead an absolutely riveting recording of his voice, reading three poems. It was hard to make out all the words but his cadences are so wonderful, and the words you could hear were so good, that it was pretty much my favourite reading of the evening. There was much buzz about it in the foyer.

There were several good readings, though: it's always a big treat to hear Ian Duhig, and Frances Leviston - whose book I haven't even seen yet, let alone read - read a very interesting poem about a fortune teller. The Belfast poet Alan Gillis was new to me, and also worth having a look at his book I think.

The Bloomsbury Theatre seemed more inhospitable than ever - what an awful building that is! They had double-booked a whole row of tickets, so there was mild seating chaos, and the weird, glary spotlighting in there nearly brought on a glaucoma attack. By the break my left eye was sore. (I'll use this as my excuse for accidentally dropping my water bottle cap off the balcony! Apologies herewith to whoever I blinded underneath. You can;t take me anywhere.) And there wasn't even any sparkling water at the bar - I had to drink plain water all evening! The ignominy.

But these are small prices to pay, I suppose, especially as a fellow Salt poet of my acquaintance informed me before things kicked off that he has invented a new kind of perspective - I think it might be called "antiparaconspectivity," though I might not be remembering it right - though he was quite tired from inventing it all afternoon, and hadn't written up the manifesto yet, so he couldn't tell me how it works. But he assures me it's going to be great! The New Renaissance is truly upon us. And it broke out at a poetry reading.

And then I came home through rainy Euston to a long phone call and a very patient teenager.

Who must now be awoken from her enchanted slumber.