“You can’t write unless you read.”

Simon Armitage comes to town

Walking the steep hill to St Andrew’s Episcopal Church as the sun went down on 29 October, I found myself out of breath for two reasons: the first was obvious — it was a steep hill! — and the second was because the biggest literary event of the year was about to begin. Simon Armitage was in town to read from his latest poetry collection, New Cemetery.

I first encountered him at GCSE through his poem ‘Remains.’ He may also be familiar as the founder of the Laurel Prize, or as a musician and podcaster. I, along with the rest of the audience, came to know him as a comedian from the moment he took his coat off. Underneath was a tartan shirt which, he confessed, he had chosen by accident. 

The title came from plans for a new cemetery at the top of his hill, against which local people protested. Considering their signs had spelt “cemetery” incorrectly, he joked that it would be bad luck to sign their petition. As the fifth-or-so peal of laughter rang out from the audience, I reflected on who this famous ‘Armitage’ was. Where was the melancholy, perhaps even severe figure of my imagination?

Each reading was prefaced by an explanation of his creative method: his memories, emotions, thoughts, and also how he felt about a piece upon its completion. Having spelt out the first word to indicate his clever wordplay, Armitage paused before reading ‘Deer Diary’ to say, “I was so pleased when I thought of that.” Another burst of laughter ensued, but this time in response to his self-awareness and ability to praise his own work. Armitage removed the poet from the mythical realm and, in doing so, created a much more interesting evening. 

Armitage’s father died during the writing of New Cemetery, taking his thoughts back to the shirts washed and hanged, to his childhood holidays and times driving up and breaking down on the steep Garrowby Hill. Armitage recalled his dad’s sayings — “If you can’t fight, wear a big hat,” or “This isn’t a competition, but we can still win.” If these sayings were enough to make the audience laugh, others were enough to make us cry — “I’m going now, Simon. Stay here with your Mum”. 

During the Q&A, I asked him about scrutiny and what it is like to know that he is on the curriculum as the Poet Laureate. He told me he felt immense privilege, hoping that, as Ted Hughes had done for him, he could get the students bored stiff at the back of the class to wake up. He said that he is often sent student essays and was at one point called “sexually incapable” in an analysis of ‘Remains’, which put the audience in fits of laughter once more. 

As the evening ended, I again found myself ruminating. I had listened to the Poet Laureate, and he was a real person, full of optimism and creativity. 

As he sat for dedications, I asked him if he had any advice for young writers. “Read. You can’t write unless you read.” He handed me my copy with a smile, signed and fresh from the press. With Simon Armitage sitting in front of me and his new collection in my hand, there was no doubt in my mind where I would begin.  

Photo by Mali Delargy