“Give me hands that help over lips that pray” says poet Asa Williams, gripping the microphone and staring down at the audience of poetry goers, friends, and bookshop employees huddled together on the shop floor, some holding blankets, others tin G&T’s, leaning against each other to listen to a night of poetry written by the people of Durham, hosted by The People’s Bookshop as their first event since lockdown. 

The shop itself is hidden away, and climbing up its winding staircase becomes a moment of ritual before arriving finally at the top floor. It’s small, no bigger than an attic, with books crammed in at odd angles, out of print copies and antiques sat under biographies and pamphlets, and the scent of coffee being freshly brewed dense in the air, making it feel close, looking down at the fog and the streets below. The shop, to the unacquainted, is a bewildering, secret place, and the volunteers – on any given day a mix of students, locals, and professors – are its trusty guides, presiding over the only radical bookshop of its kind in the Northeast.

The arts community in Durham is a close one, where word of mouth is the main means of communication, and news spreads like a ripple in an instant. Think of it like a large, confusing, extended family except with less group dinners and more conversations over an open notes app on someone’s phone. Word got round the family fast, and suddenly the quaint shop was overrun to bursting point with writers, guitarists, fellow poets, and Bob Dylan enthusiasts, all there to support to support not only the growing movement of art in Durham, but also The People’s Bookshop which actively encourages and fosters creative expression outside the university setting.

          Drowning in your hair and your eyes,

          Giving head in a moonsoaked bed,

          Whilst your housemates watched the spilt sunrise.

          There were a thousand words said in the dark,

          And maybe half of them were true my love.

          After your read Rimbaud to me at Wharton Park

          Till one day you decided you’d had enough.

                         – Asa Williams, ‘The Avenue’

The lineup saw poets such as Eden Ward, Izzy Gibson, Ariana Nkwanyuo, Alex Kramskaya and Asa Williams, each bringing a unique poetic voice and style to their works – some funny and melodic, others aggressive, words landing on the downbeat like drums – it was a wide and wonderful cacophony.

          ‘Through cracks in penthouse windows,

          blowing through paper deeds to land,

          we feel hope prickle the nape of our necks

          in a language we can all understand.’

                         – Izzy Gibson, ‘Political Manifesto of an Iceberg Lettuce’

I’ve often tried to locate the origin of poetry, I think it lives in some quiet place between the ribs and the diaphragm, burying itself deep inside the chest and smouldering like ashes – heat radiating onto the page and fire burning on the lips of those who read it. It’s outrageous, like a secret being performed, there’s an element of the forbidden in it – the audience leaning in close to listen to words scribbled in a fit of rage, a moment of passion, cooling the embers for a moment. A group of people become bonded, sitting around a campfire listening to the echoes of love on the avenue, feeling the memory of a hand brushing past theirs – the world opens up for a moment. 

          ‘Perhaps it is the sweetness of June.

          Perhaps is is the warm shoulders pressed against mine,

          the palpable love of how dawn breaks over my best friends faces

          The moment is so perfect I want to hold it in my palms.’

                         – Eden Ward, ‘Sunrise over the observatory’

          ‘But if I could tell them, that I had seen the stars and met the moon.

          That I had indeed danced with the cat and laughed with the spoon.

          That the universe was bigger than they’d ever known- 

          More profound than their very own.’

                         – Ariana Nkwanyuo, ‘Silk Ear and Sow Purse’

Words and a sixteen wheeler truck have more in common than you’d think – both can hit you all at once, rearranging your insides and leaving you floored, picking yourself up if you are able. Poetry is unforgiving, and thus lends itself well to protest – it gives voice the effervescent and the indignant, the merciless and the aching. ‘The People’s Poets’ displayed the way that art becomes action and action becomes impact, the small shop atop Vennels blazing bright for an evening, illuminated by a community that huddled close together to sing the body poetic.

          ‘And passionate words 

          And quarrelsome lips

          Blaze harder and brighter in between sips.’

                         – Alex Kramskaya, ‘Whiskey Poem’