Review: Sonnet Youth #10: Season 2 Launch


Wednesday 19th April, Drygate, Glasgow.

Sonnet Youth bills itself as a spoken word house party and the launch of Season 2 was no exception. Cat Hepburn and Kevin P Gilday have been running these nights for over a year and while they work closely with the local community, hosting poetry events for the 16 and up age range, Drygate seems to be where they are most at home.

Cat started off with a poem about being out of her nut at T-In-The-Park : a fun start to the evening, after all, losing a pal, taking poppers and having a disappointing sexual encounter in a tent is something we can all relate to.

Next up was Aidan Rivett, relatively new to poetry in comparison to the performers on after him but you wouldn’t have known. Trotting out a mix of tried-and-tested and new material, his set almost seemed professional. What I like about Aidan is his jump between the serious and the absurd. Call me old fashioned but when dealing with heavy topics like depression or Oasis, a bit of humour is always needed to get the crowd on side. Spending a great deal of time on his back, reading poetry to the ceiling, he finished off with a poem about hangovers, quite rightly dedicated to Gilday – the king of self-hatred and vomit.

Kate Tough got a lot of laughs in her set. I’ve always thought found poetry to be hit or miss: hats off to Kate for taking a text called ‘basic horse law’ then substituting the word ‘horse’ for ‘sphincter’. After watching her performance, I would love to read some of her fiction and poetry, which is available from Freight books & Amazon online.

Last in the first half was comedian Kimmy Louden who chatted about feminism, ecstasy and her ingenious idea for a dating app – Dick Advisor. Maybe the most impressive thing about her set was how she manged to use the word ‘slag’ at a poetry night without the world ending – who knew? I’ll be looking out for her on future bills and I would encourage you to do the same.

The Creative Martyrs are a musical/comedy duo who play the ukulele and the cello while singing politically charged lyrics that cover topics like whether it’s ok to punch a Nazi in the face, bombing for peace, and bumming. Stepping away from the mic they easily managed to control the room, creating their own atmosphere. Regulars on the Edinburgh fringe, these two fine gentlemen showcased their performance chops, with a healthy dose of crowd interaction and lashings of face paint.

Colin McGuire read excerpts from his long-form show “Wake Up” with musical interludes, costume (he was dressed in his PJ’s) and props (he had a duvet and pillow). McGuire has always been a master at bridging the gap between page and stage, creating poetry which works just well as delicately crafted verse as it does being shouted to a pub of drunken revellers. Continuing to go from strength to strength, Colin shows no signs of calling it a night any time soon.

Colonel Mustard and the Dijon 5 treated Sonnet Youth to an acoustic set, pleased to have a few less members on stage, front man Colonel John Mustard informed the crowd that they could play some songs that don’t normally get to, as not everyone in the band enjoys them. Getting the crowd to their feet, the whole room danced from one end of Drygate to the other and back again to The Dijon’s current single ‘Cross the Road’.

A great night and well worth the door price. Peace, Love and Mustard.


A note on the anonymity of reviewers. All reviews published in All These New Relations are anonymous. The editorial team will not pass on any contact details for reviewers, nor will reviewers enter into correspondence with any readers. If there are factual inaccuracies or queries about a review, please direct them to the ATNR Editorial Team at

Review: Loud Poets – La La Loud


Friday 31st March, The Mash House, Edinburgh.

A whistle-stop tour: Loud Poets don their glad rags for La La Loud, a spoken word evening with an emotional core beneath the razzle dazzle. Catherine, Doug, Katie and Kevin are funny and welcoming hosts who perform with style and heart. In-house band Ekobirds lends the evening added poignancy and humour.

It begins with an open mic. Emma Atkin – up first, laughing nervously – holds the audience transfixed with her understated delivery and desperately sad narrative: ‘I was never meant to be the only one.’ Stuart Kenny, fast-paced and playing with words, offers rueful, relatable observations: ‘His newsfeed asked him what was on his mind, one day he realized what was on his mind was what was on his newsfeed’. Finally, Georgia Bartlett-McNeil proclaims a body positivity anthem, caressing her ‘denim cased man crushers’. The audience whoop, and the next chapter begins.

‘This is a battle to reclaim romance!’ storms Captain of the Rant. He harnesses body and voice as he indicts labels and the dream of perfection; at times dryly humorous, at others raging, then again petulant or dramatic. The audience are rapt, enlisted for the cause.

Jess Smith is charming, builds easy rapport. She begins with a funny, plaintive plea for America to ‘do your fucking dishes’. Later, to the La La Land theme, she says ‘You told me I was made of glass’ – ‘you didn’t have to drop me just to be sure’. Our hearts break a little.

Erin McFadyen is lovely to listen to, painting images onto our imagined canvas ‘we stand there with two muddy feet, each’. Her poems reference Maya Angelou and her wish ‘to not call anything that’s about my feelings chick lit’.

‘ROBERT BURNS!’ proclaims Chris Henson, as the audience flinch, ‘in describing a red red rose used the word red twice’. His dressing down of the bard leaves us laughing helplessly. Another poem is broken up by jaunty singing and perfectly-measured eyebrow raises. With a showman’s point to the air, he exits.

Bex Sherwood begins by unleashing a fusillade of rhyming slang at the laughing audience, dissolving into laughter herself at points – ‘I know she wants to get into his Adam Ants’. Her Edinburgh Fringe poem perfectly evokes the hot August streets ‘rows of locals pray’/‘we sacrifice this university a cappella group in your name’.

Mark Gallie is funny and eloquent, and his love poem for The One he has not met yet elicits a chorus of sighs. ‘We nearly met a million times’. He could woo the world with words. His vulnerability is cast aside in his Pokémon tribute – ‘You call us aggressive, I prefer primal’.

Topics range from the intimately personal to the overtly political. In form and style they likewise differ, with clever rhyming wordplay succeeded by vivid prose imagery interspersed by rousing slam poems. The best moments combine stylistic skill and emotional weight – notably, Katie Ailes, Jess Smith, and Captain of the Rant. The evening is varied but never discordant, stylish without being superficial. A lovely night.

A note on the anonymity of reviewers. All reviews published in All These New Relations are anonymous. The editorial team will not pass on any contact details for reviewers, nor will reviewers enter into correspondence with any readers. If there are factual inaccuracies or queries about a review, please direct them to the ATNR Editorial Team at

Review: Flint & Pitch Revue #4

24th March, Bongo Club, Edinburgh.

Flint & Pitch Revue nights continue where the Rally & Broad cabaret shows left off, in the same venue with a similar format, with a similar crowd (roughly fifty/fifty Edinburgh artists and appreciators). Some people come for the spoken word, theatre or music, some come for the raffle. This review is focusing on the poetry, although it should be noted that the raffle remains a sizeable lure.

Ryan Van Winkle is the first poet on stage, reading new material focusing on loss, childhood and ageing. Being born in Connecticut, there is also the issue of spatial distance, and Van Winkle’s poems feature recurring images of trains, travel, recklessness and death. Of the four main poetry cadences (Slow, Slam (Crescendo), Slam (non-Crescendo) and That High Pitched Urgent One), Van Winkle is one of two performers to deliver his words slowly, pressing middle syllables slightly harder to make his delivery both urgent and languid. Also, his patter is excellent. I recognised parts of it from other gigs, but mention this not as a criticism – rather as a note that patter is a necessary skill for performers to develop. Repeating what works between gigs is a sensible way to go.

Sophia Walker performs one segment from her new show In Fidelity, road testing the material for the first time. Walker is an experienced enough performer to turn forgetting her script into the biggest laugh of the night, and maintains Slam (non-Crescendo) cadence throughout. Her word choice is straightforward and immediate. Due to it being a test of new material, the dynamism isn’t quite there, but in confessing her relationships and infidelities she is able to bring in commentary on monogamous couples, particularly incisive on the subject of need and respect. The potentially intense material is approachable in this form, the delivery laidback rather than confrontational. It’s not there yet, but that’s the point. Anyone looking at long form spoken word needs to work through this phase, and it’s always interesting to see how early versions develop.

The final spoken word act, Ellen Renton, is on in the final poetry slot of the evening, in the New Voices Slot. Renton’s use of the slow cadence is punctuated by tiny stillnesses and slight smiles that enhance her optimistic, genuine musings on growing up. It’s not showy, but it’s tremendously effective. Her subject matter is an interesting contrast to the older poets, because this is positive about youth and moving on. While she deploys alliteration too often, her poems still strike a chord and as such her set produced the biggest cheers of the night.

*Correction: The original post had stated that Ellen Renton was in the headline slot of the evening. This has now been corrected to reflect the New Voices slot.

A note on the anonymity of reviewers. All reviews published in All These New Relations are anonymous. The editorial team will not pass on any contact details for reviewers, nor will reviewers enter into correspondence with any readers. If there are factual inaccuracies or queries about a review, please direct them to the ATNR Editorial Team at

48hr filmpoems! A cinepoems event.

With due tribute paid to the energy of the kino cinema movement, the cinepoems team organised a 48hr filmpoetry event in Glasgow on a dreich December weekend. 13 teams entered: exactly 48 hours later, 13 brand new filmpoems were delivered. Read on for more about the event and links to all the filmpoems, or jump to the cinepoems YouTube channel here.

The challenge was devised in a moment of creative madness, with the hope of engaging and exciting poets/film makers who were curious about filmpoetry, but hadn’t yet had a chance to explore it. The kino ethos emphasises DIY effort above all things: rough and ready is the nature of it all, thus putting less pressure on those who just want to get out and do. We prefaced the challenge with a crammer workshop introducing the context and history of filmpoetry, some of our favourite examples, encouraging the audience-participants to discuss, choose favourites, criticise, and to explore the building blocks of image, sound and text. The chimes strike 6pm on Friday, and the countdown begins.

It soon became apparent that, far beyond the wildest hopes of the cinepoems team, there was a level of collaboration happening internationally, wholly due to the initiative of participants themselves calling out for collaborators on Facebook and Twitter. We had stipulated that the films must be delivered by the deadline  to the Andrew Stewart cinema in person, in an attempt to bring some sort of structure to the event (it was loosely designated a competition, although challenge really was more accurate). Participants took full advantage of social media, apps, the possibilities of the digital and online world to team up (as strangers) between Berlin and Glasgow, and, in one case, a team operating simultaneously in Scotland, Ireland, Spain and Australia. One member from the latter team, Ally Gillon, explains:

[the ideas came together] very fast and in a Whatsapp group with the three poets on the team deciding the theme in advance (we would draw on our respective international locations and our proximity, in all cases, to rivers) . Rico suggested that we could follow a character, whom he named Riddles and we laid out a timetable for how to divide up the 48 hours, since we were all in different countries. Then on the Friday night of the event, we ​took turns to write. First Rico, then me, then Clare, each ​writing our stanzas in response to what the previous poet(s) had written.

Gonzalo and Brian waited until the poem was finished before​ Gonzalo visualised the storyboard and started sending this to Brian, who illustrated the whole thing. Brian then sent his scans back to Gonzalo, who animated them and put everything – words, sounds and visuals – together.

We didn’t use any cameras or live action. Brian’s illustration work was physical and Gonzalo did everything else on his Mac! They both worked at home collaborating closely via Internet over the weekend. It was pretty impressive.

It was hugely enjoyable to see our ideas come together. They did so as if in dialogue, since the separate parts of the poem were written in response to one another, and the visuals were created in response to the final text. We also responded to our physical surroundings, so the poets’ local rivers Hawkesbury (Sydney), Andarax (Almería) and Forth (Fife) all played a part, which I enjoyed.

The winning filmpoem

Although the emphasis is much more on the DIY challenge than the competitive element of weekend, we invited a judging panel comprised of poets and filmmakers to the screening to provide some critical context. We asked all participants to respect the 48 hour creation period, requesting that all creation, filming, sound and editing was done within this time. It’s fairly impossible to enforce this, of course, particularly when facing with teams varying from first time film makers to experienced film school graduates. Interestingly, our team of judges unanimously awarded first prize to a pair of first time film makers (although experienced poets), deeming their efforts to be the freshest and most responsive to time and place, following the logic of the physical act of making films on the streets of Glasgow to shape their filmpoem, rather than coming to it with a pre-determined idea.

We’re absolutely delighted with the complexity and variety of all the filmpoems, by the energy and sense of accomplishment that all the teams shared, by the unexpectedly international collaborations that seemed to naturally arise. And that there are now 13 more filmpoems out there, and a newfound enthusiasm on the part of the artists for this slippery, addictive artform.

Winning filmpoem – Word:Association from Fiona Stirling and Michelle Fisher.

Michelle [Fisher] and I had hoped to collaborate for a while, but hadn’t found the right project. The 48hr event offered us a set structure, with an interesting goal. Importantly, neither of us had any experience in this area, so it was a real adventure together. We really had no knowledge of filmpoetry, what it entailed, or what it required, so it was a bit of a gamble working with someone new with such a tight turnaround. However, from our first discussion about the project we found our ideas flexed and intertwined to create a concept we were both excited about. I think it helped that we have similar humour and philosophies about life and living. Michelle is also someone who works from her gut, and we would often be led to a creative choice through her ever reliable goosebumps.

Our idea continued to evolve throughout filming, as we adapted to batteries dying and light fading. It really helped that Michelle had the confidence to approach strangers and ask permission to film – this is something I never could have done alone, and it got some of our most powerful images.’ (Fiona Stirling)

  • Second Place: HONEY – co-created by: Dan Minghella, Anna Rising, Max Syed-Tollan, Andrew Ward, Toby Wilson and Yvonne Zhang.
  • Third Place: Gag – co-created by: Annelyse Gelman (Berlin) and Martin Collet (Glasgow).

For me the challenges were more learning as I went as this was my first foray into film poetry, so the workshop was invaluable ( I used imovie), and the technical bits were a real learning curve. Doing it all in 48 hrs added to the excitement, you saw me running to get it in on time! Seeing my work in the big screen was simply amazing and everyone else’s of course. I’m so delighted and excited to have been involved.’ (Janet Crawford, Beacon)

The filmpoems
*the winning filmpoem – Word:Association – is shown above, as is Deciphering The Dust. The team who produced Gag requested that their filmpoem was not added to the channel. Details of the participating teams and artists can be found by clicking through to the details for the videos.


Tiredhappycrazy. The cinepoems team, judges, and participating filmmakers and poets.

Richy Carey: Sound Advice

BAFTA Award winning sound artist Richy Carey offers some thoroughly useful practical advice on recording sound for film poetry.

Recording film sound can seem less instantly gratifying than shooting the images. It’s more ephemeral and less conspicuous, and it’s an investment in terms of time and energy for what might not seem like the eventual focus of the film. When was the last time you heard someone say I can’t wait to hear the new Star Wars film? But it is the sound of your film that carries your work to the audience. The patterns of light and sound waves entwining as they unfold from the screen are the contour lines along which your poetry walks, and taking time to think about what the sound of your film says about your work will amplify your imagery and your poetry.

What follows is a bit of a checklist for recording sound for your film poetry, written on the assumption that you might not have done a lot of a sound recording previously. It will hopefully help you think about where and why the sound of your film poetry meets the images you create, as well as just giving you some practical advice to help speed up what can seem like a laborious process.

1 What do you want to hear?
Much like planning your shots for filming, you should always first sketch out what you want the audience to hear. Find some examples of recordings/films that you like the sound of and try and think about why you like them. What can you hear in them and how might you come close to replicating it? This is true for working in the studio as well as when out doing field recording.

Fig 1: A very quick sound sketch.

It’s really difficult to improvise when you are also thinking about the technicalities of recording, so spend some time making a list of all the things you know you want to get recorded and do them first. Then you can go back and try other things out. This way you’ll quickly build up a bank of sounds and get to making sooner.

2 Monitoring.

Try and make sure that the speakers or headphones you are listening back on when recording are the best you can get your hands on. What the recording sounds like when you record it is more or less what it will sound like when it is played back to the audience. Cars, wind, electrical hum, etc. can be taken out when you are editing, but doing so severely compromises the quality of your recording. Do your best to make sure what you can hear when you make the recording is what you would be happy for your audience to hear at the end. This will also reduce the amount of time you need to spend editing or trying to cover up unwanted sounds later in the mix.


There is a world of microphones out there and for the most part they are not cheap. Much like cameras however, it’s not how big or expensive they are but what you do with them that counts. Different microphones are made for different things and it is important that you know which one you are using and how best to use it. When filming, the most common type of microphone used is a shotgun microphone. These are very good for using outdoors and at a distance from the source you want to record. X/Y microphones, like the kind you get on zoom recorders, are great for close up field recording, ideal for collecting sounds that you will use later in the work and they can also be useful for recording voice. The third is a condenser microphone, much like you’ll see in a recording studio. Excellent for recording voices or other sounds in a controlled environment – not good for outdoors (they are very delicate) and not good from a distance.

Whatever type of microphone you use, be it the one on your phone or something upmarket, make sure you try it out at different distances from the source of the sound. This lets you figure out what type of sound you like and also think forward to the eventual shape of the work and the image you foresee it being paired with. A close up image of a bird and a recording of distant birdsong might be jarring. This can be a good thing of course, just as long as that is a decision you have chosen to make and not one forced upon you by not having made the right recording at the time.


This might seem obvious, but once you start recording you’ll quickly amass a long list of .WAV or .MP3 files with memorable names such as 00011463.WAV. When recording using a DAW (Digital Audio Workstation) such as Reaper, Logic, Cubase, Pro Tools, Garageband or even Final Cut, etc. make sure to name the track you are recording on to. This makes it much easier to edit yourself, or pass on to someone else to edit, as it will automatically name your file something sensible. Similarly, when you are out field recording, say what you are listening to into the microphone at the start of the recording. This means that when you come to transfer them on to your computer you only need to listen to the start of the track to know what it contains.


As I have mentioned there are lots of DAWs you can choose to use to edit your recordings into one homogenous audio track. They all have their ups and downs, but one that is initially free, has excellent tutorial videos on its website to help you, and can be used to edit to video, is Of course whatever you are used to will likely be the best option for you.

There are only a couple of tips I would initially give for recording which will help you in the edit, and again these are as true for studio recording as they are for filming and field recording.

  • Let the tape roll a bit before and after your recording. As with film, give it a few seconds from hitting record before you start to speak into the mic or move to the sound you want to capture. Similarly give it a few seconds at the end before hitting stop. It’s really easy to trim a long recording short, but impossible to extend a track if you have stopped it too early and clipped off the last bit of dialogue or not allowed the sound to naturally fade out.

  • Avoid clipping. This is when you see the meter on your recording device go red and means that your gain setting is not right. A clipped audio file will distort and sound noticeably poor. It is not possible to fix clipping in the edit as it’s part of the original recording. To avoid clipping, if possible test out your source by either asking them to do the loudest part of their performance or, in the case of field recording getting as close to the source as you are likely to get in the recording. Adjust your gain level so that you get a good, strong recording level but make sure that it’s not too close to the red. Always anticipate that when recording a voice or performance, the performer will be more animate, and therefore louder, during the actual take than they are when you ask them for a test run.


The language we use for sound is a physical one. When we talk about sound we talk about its texture, shape, size, weight and materiality. Try to think about your sonic composition as if it were a sculpture. What does it look like? What does it feel like? How does one substance meet another? How and where does it entwine with the image and the poetic object?

Practically speaking, it’s useful to think about the frequency spectrum and where the sounds in your work sit within it. If you have a speaking voice as part of your work, introducing other sounds that are in the same range of the spectrum can muddy the mix, making it difficult to hear both the voice and the other sounds no matter how much you adjust the volume of each. A broad palette of textures and frequency ranges will give colour to your mix and also allow you to experiment with different audio-visual relationships.

The {sound-image-language} object.

This is a term I use that helps me think about the rhizomatic, dynamic structure of film, what Umberto Eco might call a “complex interplay of motive forces”1. The sound, image and language of film are in a state of constant flux, vying for attention and continually impressing their agency on each other and you. When you are constructing a {sound-image-language} object, it makes sense to be as responsive as possible to the unexpected ways they might meet and change each other.

As such, I’d advise being flexible with the film and audio editing process. Don’t just edit the film to ”completion”, and then make the sound, or vice-versa. Try to be editing each at the same time. You might find that there are moments in your editing process where the poetry and sound really connect to say something that contradicts the image at that point in the film. If so, change the film. Similarly, with the sound or the poetry. Let each part of the process inform the construction of the other.

Make a decision.

When you do something, make sure you know why you are doing it. This seems obvious, but when you are working with recording devices, cameras or DAWs it can be really easy to let the technology make the decisions for you. Knowing what you want to record and finding the right sound is great, but equally so is just hearing something you like and going with it intuitively. In both cases however, you can say to yourself that you got that sound because you wanted it. Your choices are what give your recording character, and are where you can make the sound of your film poetry insightful, artistic and personal.

Richy is a sound artist, filmmaker and academic. He makes films about the way we listen to film, and writes about the language we use to talk about film. You can see some of his work or get in touch at

1 Eco, U., 1989. The Open Work. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Eco was speaking about graphic scores, but the field of interplay which he talks about is as applicaple to film as it is to the open scores he is discussing here.

‘Then film is absolutely immaterial as it is seen. It’s light moving in time.’ Bridget Tempest: My Aesthetic

Still from ‘Nostos’, Bridget Tempest, 2016.

Bridget Tempest is an artist based in Skipton, Yorkshire, where she lectures in Printmaking, Film Studies and Contextual Studies at Craven College. Specialising as a printmaker, she has in recent years made film another central component of her practice, in works which combine prints, moving images, text, music and voice. These quiet but exquisite works, playing on the tension between the rhythms of art and the rhythms of nature are, she says, a way of making images ‘ambiguous and subjective’, and of exploring the relationships between landscape and the self. We asked Bridget a few questions about what motivates her work, the role that film plays within it, and the ways in which it might be considered ‘poetic’.

1) Can you say a little about your printmaking practice, and how it relates in your work in film?

The way that all works on paper are framed (mount and glass and frame) seems to be unavoidable: I suppose I was looking for something else. As an artist, if you want to get your work into a show or a competition, you have to submit the image online. Already it’s dematerialised, having become data on a screen.

Actually it’s more of a story, how it came about, my dalliance with film. Freddy, my 18 year old nephew had just come back from rehab again. That was the routine. He’d come back and he was funny and clever and looking really well. We had lunch at Whitechapel Gallery and I took him to see John Stezaker’s haunting collaged photographs. Over a cup of tea, I showed him photographs of some work I’d recently finished, a series of over 40 monoprints, the topic of which was Addiction. He’d really liked them and asked if he could show some friends and we left it at that. It was the last time I saw him because a month later, the lad was only a puppet, barely able to function and then he was dead of an overdose.

After his funeral, his sister helped me put the pictures into a film using Imovie with one of Fred’s beautiful songs as a soundtrack and it was played at his wake.

This ignited my interest in film as an adjunct to print for its capacity for narrative and its economy of space. I liked the possibility of a vertical narrative alongside a horizontal sequence of events.

However, I knew that I wasn’t interested in animation, the obvious route. Film as a language or a medium has so many different aspects that the more these are considered, the richer the creative potential becomes.

Still from ‘Blueprint’, Bridget Tempest, 2014.

2) Following on from that question, what are some of the challenges of making films, as compared with making prints?

This is an interesting question because the obvious answer would be technical. Film is now a digital medium and you have to learn the editing programme. That was really difficult for me but I had a student who showed me the basics of Final Cut Pro. Then I experimented using YouTube videos and Dummy manuals. Mostly everything went wrong or I couldn’t do what I wanted so had to invent ways of getting there. Accident and chance were my most faithful accomplices!

The more important answer is the challenge of moving out of a spatial medium into a temporal one. Print is a process that is dependent on materials. Your matrix is lithographic stone, or copper, or zinc or wood. The different textures, the feel and connotations of the substance you are working with and into, exert their own presence on the character of the marks you make. It’s a sensual experience working with materials that carry all sorts of connotations, especially considering they are materials from the natural world: stone, wood, copper.

A print is an object and possesses subtle textures, from the velvet depth of black of a drypoint to the palest washes of a lithograph, and these are acknowledged and exploited by the artist printmaker.

Then film is absolutely immaterial as it is seen. It’s light moving in time (to borrow the title of a book on experimental film by William Wees). The spectator can only respond to its ephemeral array of moving light through recognition, through the way that photographs register time. We must relate the images portrayed as shadows to previous experience in order to make sense of it (ideas which follow from reading Henri Bergson)

Tarkovsky memorably described film as ‘sculpting in time’. When you edit film, you engage with something more to do with music or words, finding rhythm and timing in your composition. It’s completely different from organising marks in space.

There are similarities in the way you can layer disparate images together in quite a random way within the editing programme. When you are making a print, you lay the paper over your printing plate so you can’t see what will happen. That’s the exciting part. I do the same with film, layering footage with scanned prints in quite a haphazard way. I heard the American experimental filmmaker Leighton Pierce talking about the excitement he got from film being similar to his practice as a ceramicist, taking work out of a kiln. As soon as I can predict what will happen with a print, I have lost interest. Not quite being in control of a medium leads to all sorts of unexpected collisions so that suddenly you find the image embodies exactly the idea you had wanted to convey.

Recognising the specifics of your medium doesn’t curtail your engagement with it. For example, for a poet, whose medium is the word, (which includes sound and performance), film can be used as a means of recording the event or it could be something else The challenge would be to let the visual imagery complement the power of the words rather than distract and unnecessarily complicate that impact.

3) Your films encompass some or all of prints, footage, music, voice, and text. Using one of your films as an example, can you talk us through how you assembled these various parts, and why you made the decisions you did?

I’ll talk about Seclude, since I made that film with a specific outcome. I had been asked to make a painting about a house, Kirtlington Park, which belonged to my great aunt and where I lived as a child. I found I couldn’t do it at all. Nothing seemed to convey the sense of timelessness and the peculiar position of a place that hasn’t really changed over time when everything else has. I was thinking about Yves Bonnefoy’s The Arriere Pays, which represented some territory beyond, a place that may have been dreamed about or may not exist at all. My father spent his war years based at Kirtlington and he is part of a sheet of time that’s almost disappeared. I used his voice for the connotations of the elegiac timbre as he describes the lake. The music is from Arvo Part’s collaboration with Gerhard Richter at the Manchester Festival a couple of years ago which I recorded on my phone and the other music is from a friend’s record player and I have no idea what it is but it seemed to fit. Contrasting montage filmed in the kinds of alien places where I might have been thinking about Kirtlington seemed to evoke its particular peace.

4) Are there any lessons you have learned in your experience of making films which you would like to share with our readers?

I do feel I’m just flailing around in the dark with my films! I’d say to your readers that it’s been very helpful for me to understand a bit about film and there’s plenty of critical theory around. The specifics of a medium are a good framework. (Rosalind Krauss writes about medium.)

Digital programmes like Premiere and Final Cut are pretty easy to work but they’re easy for anyone. The problem is to find your own voice. I’d imagine that for a poet, used to words and not images, it’s a different symbolism and you have to be careful that the word and the image enhance each other or play against each other but not fight each other.

Ian Hamilton Finlay found a wonderful synthesis working across media with his concrete poems, even using nature herself as his palette at Little Sparta.

5) We at All These New Relations are obsessed with the idea of the ‘filmpoem’ and how ‘poetry’ might be realised outside of its conventional ‘habitat’. While you don’t describe yourself as a ‘poet’, I wonder if you have any thoughts on the ‘poetic’ qualities of film-as-medium?

I think there are many examples of films that are already poetic, from Tarkovsky to Antonioni. What you would be doing, is making something that is as succinct as a poem and includes all the elements that make it a poem but in visual terms. I keep thinking about a film I saw by Sean Martin called Koan 2. It’s absolutely everything that a poem is but in film.

6) What has been your experience of viewers’ responses to your films, as compared (perhaps) with responses to your prints? Are viewers’ expectations different, and if so, do you work with that in mind?

When people see my films, they are included within installations, so they are seeing the prints at the same time. On the whole, as a new experience, I haven’t had to explain much. They seem to get them. Reactions vary. One lady was furious and said she’d never seen anything so ridiculous in her life, whereas a few minutes later, someone wept, saying she didn’t know why she was so moved. Part of one installation is feedback people are invited to write with coloured pens on prepared card and these are then incorporated into the work. I must admit, I never really consider the viewer when I’m making the films. I’m afraid I’m only trying to get it right for myself!

7) Where do you see your work in film developing in future?

I’m a bit obsessed with finding a way to integrate the print with the film in terms of how to show them together. One thing that always bothers me is the apparatus that film requires for it to exist. The print as an object is so simple – it’s just there and you bring your attention to it, whereas the film needs you under its own time. You also need sockets and projectors and bulbs and health and safety and technicians and it’s never ending……

I’d like to be able to set up a way of using light and mirrors or lenses so that the film and the print can exist together autonomously.

I found Miriam Hansen’s article “Benjamin, Cinema and Experience: ”The Blue Flower in the Land of Technology” very interesting for many reasons, one of which was the implications of apparatus.

Still from ‘Nostos’, Bridget Tempest, 2016.

8) Can you recommend any poets and/or artists working in film that our readers might enjoy?

Tarkovsky’s film Mirror, for a start!

Zata Kitowski brought a PoetryFilm project to Alchemy Film and Moving Image Festival in Hawick in 2015 and she showed a selection of films celebrating and exploring this genre.

Maryam Takafory makes beautiful contemplative films that include text about own experience as an Iranian exile and as a woman. Sean Martin’s short films are poetic meditations with poems as soundtracks.

There’s the Alchemy Film and Moving Image Festival in Hawick every year and the Artist’s Film Biennale at the ICA where many filmpoems are shown, though not necessarily labelled as such. You’ll probably find some experimental filmmakers protest that their films are already poems.

I don’t spend that much time on the internet so am not really the best person to ask, but more and more artists are crossing and mixing media so it’s an exciting new territory to explore.

Ripened Eyelids: the Cinepoems of Benjamin Fondane

Benjamin Fondane

Each issue we’ll focus the lens on a poet of the past whose work, though perhaps overlooked in its and our time, paves the way for the spirit we wish to capture in All These New Relations. Here, academic and translator Andrew Rubens introduces the innovative work of the early modernist poet Benjamin Fondane.

‘With a miraculous suppleness the letters come apart to form words half-intelligible half-absurd’
Horizontal Bar (Cinepoem no. 2), Benjamin Fondane, translated by Leonard Schwartz

Romanian-French Modernist Benjamin Fondane’s turn to cinema was precipitated by a crisis of language. (Dis)affected by the turbulent culture of the early 20th Century, his faith in the redeeming power of poetry was shattered by the catastrophe of the First World War. Like the Dadaists and Surrealists he associated with, from the ruins of art for art’s sake he began to explore different media, including photography, theatre, word games and philosophical essays. Language could no longer be taken for granted, but he began to reconfigure its broken pieces into new kinds of poetry. His jobbing work as a screenwriter and his encounters with the filmic experiments of acquaintances like Germaine Dulac and Luis Buñuel perhaps made his engagement with cinema inevitable. But it was also the respite from language offered by silent cinema, ‘totally free from rational discourse and the norms and limits which it engenders (Michel Carrassou) which attracted him.

An interest in media is an interest in translation, in the capacity for events, subjective states and concepts to be approached through different modes. As with many ‘avant-garde’ poets and artists, Fondane’s mistrust of the capacity for one set of forms to fully reach what they seek to express led to a breakdown of the boundaries. Finding freedom in the averbal outlet of film, he produced a paradoxical response, engaging with it through writing. His Three Scripts: Cinepoems, published in 1928, comprises three ‘unfilmable’ screenplays, presenting around 180 scenes apiece, each running into the other in a sequence impossible to realise – except ,that is, as the silent film they project on the ‘screen’ of the reader’s imagination.

The book included illustrations by his friends Man Ray and Alexandru Brătășanu, emphasising both the overlapping of expressive genres and the interrogation of their capacities. This critical scrutiny in the midst of artistic practice also informed the draw of film for Fondane the poet: he declared cinema to be ‘the only art that was never classical’, shackled neither by tradition nor doctrine. He wrote several essays on the form, and in 1929, at the behest of Victoria Ocampo, travelled to Argentina to introduce South America to Dadaist and Surrealist film with a series of screenings and lectures.

To his annoyance, his experimentations with the poetic energies of cinema began just at the time talking pictures were making their grand entrance. Synchronous sound, in Fondane’s ears, reduced film to a conservative, conventional medium. Silent films demanded an active, imaginative engagement from the audience. Talkies generated passivity and received ideas. This rejection paralleled Fondane’s disillusionment with his former notions of poetry as clear and pure, distilling essences and revealing truths, a perspective he came to find facile and hollow. In his encounter with Dada, he came to acknowledge the opacity and indeterminacy of words, both the limits of language as communication and its endless possibilities for play. As he wrote the highly original works which came after his cinepoems, his understanding of the reader’s engagement with the poem was informed by the relationship between the cinema audience and the silent screen.

Of course, even ‘silent’ films are usually accompanied by a soundtrack. Music is communication of yet another kind, more or less free of rationalising signifiers. Given his comprehension of the absurdity and abstraction present even in the most ‘concrete’ uses of language, it is perhaps unsurprising that, frustrated by the dawn of the sound film, Fondane sought to harness the power of music when he came to actually direct his own feature. Tararira, produced by Falma Film and shot in Argentina, centred on the burlesque adventures of a group of lutists, played by the celebrated Aguilar quartet. Their adventures were entertwined with the music they arranged for the film, mixing Mozart, contemporary composers like Ravel and the Yiddish folk music of immigrants to the Americas. The film is now lost, and we can only hope that Fondane went some way to achieving his goal. ‘If I was free’, he wrote in 1933, ‘truly free, I would make an absurd film, on an absurd subject, to satisfy my absurd taste for freedom’. Perhaps there is a contradictory freedom to be found in the impossible quest for absolute freedom itself. Fondane’s exploration of the poetry which exists between different creative modes, and at the places they overlap, offers ways to pursue connection and expression. This neverending pursuit is at the centre of all artistic practice, and Fondane’s methods remain inspiring today.

from ‘Ripened Eyelids’

1        along a poorly lit wall runs the shadow of a hand and parallel to it runs a white hand with a pointing finger
2        another shadow on the same wall the pointing finger turns the other way
3        the head of a streetlamp with two candles and two flames whose human gaze
4        lunges desperately into the night: illuminating dim forms with a reflector moving right and left. signs windows hesitating over
5        a long stretch of sidewalk on which
6        a hat rolls
7        the arc of a punch
8        a dangling hand gloved in white
9        another punch
10        a pair of trousers with an impeccable crease sags
11        overalls standing in a boxer’s stance
12        a bloody nose
13        a cap on a silk scarf seen from behind
14        a black eye
15        a flaccid hand tries to catch the end of the scarf grasps nothing but air
16        a sledgehammer falls
17        a hand digging through a pocket on the ground
18        the streetlight, leaning so far that it almost falls, considers
19        the blood-drenched hat demolished by violent kicks
20        an explosion of mangnesium
21        a store window with a pale mannequin
22        wildly applauds

Andrew Rubens is an academic and translator from Edinburgh, Scotland. He is a founding member of the Association Benjamin Fondane and one of the contributing translators to Cinepoems and Others, NYRB Poets, 2016.

Five Filmpoems: Curated by Susannah Ramsay

A still from Colour Poems by Margaret Tait, 1974.

Susannah Ramsay is a filmmaker and researcher based in Stirling, Scotland. She is currently working on a PhD at the University of Stirling on the subject of ‘Experiencing the Film-Poem; Touching the Landscape, Tasting the Film: A Phenomenological Analysis of the Film-Poem through Practice and Exhibition.’ We at All These New Relations are big fans of her work (be sure to check out her meditative and lyrical West of Dalabrog). Here, she shares five of her favourite filmpoems. Together, they constitute a fine introduction to this most neglected of genres, and a remarkable showcase of poetic beauty as realised on the screen.

Some of these comments are taken from my research on the phenomenology of filmpoetry (2014-2016). To contextualise briefly, the filmpoem’s long and complex existence has manifested itself from the European avant-garde film movement of the early Twentieth Century through to the development of experimental cinema of the 1940’s, segueing into the contemporary context of artists’ moving image. As the filmpoem genre becomes increasingly prevalent we are not only seeing more sophisticated interpretations of this unique medium, but also more creative ways to screen these films, for example through site-specific exhibitions. My top five filmpoems are as follows.

L’étoile de mer (Man Ray, 1928)

L’étoile de mer (1928) by Man Ray is an early example of the symbiosis of film and poetry using visual metaphor to interpret a poem by Robert Desnos. In the tradition of both surrealism and experimental cinema the abstract images in L’étoile de mer allow the viewer time to reflect philosophically on what is being perceived. The majority of the film was shot through molded glass creating a haptic quality to the visual experience. The blurred images of two people, which are seen behind textured glass becomes a mediator of truth and provokes the viewer into imagining what is being hidden from them. This film exemplifies haptic visuality, a film theory introduced by Laura U. Marks in her book The Skin of The Film (2000). In terms of contemporary artists’ moving image, I think Man Ray’s film continues to translate the key elements that define filmpoetry.

Meshes of the Afternoon (Maya Deren & Alexander Hammid, 1943)

When I discuss filmpoerty, it is difficult not to mention Maya Deren’s classic offering. Originally shot without sound, this film embodies the philosophical devices we can now attribute to the filmpoem. By the mid to late 1930s the European avant-garde movement was in decline, and the Second World War prompted a shift in interest to American artist filmmakers. The American avant-garde of the 1940s onwards became increasingly retrospective regarding many of the early Twentieth Century European traditions of fusing poetry with images. In Meshes of the Afternoon, Deren herself channels philosophical concepts through visual metaphor and film form. Reversing the film, repetition of images and changing camera angles are visual tropes Deren employs to create a poetical montage and unconventional narrative. The tonal qualities of the black and white film add to the mysteriousness of this conceptual masterpiece.

Colour Poems (Margaret Tait, 1974)

Margaret Tait was known as a filmpoet and experimental filmmaker. Her approach to filmmaking was remarkably similar to the ethos of the avant-garde, generally self-funded, non-conformist, uncompromising, non-commercial, with distribution and exhibition being select. I think Colour Poems (1974) depicts some of the more thought provoking images within her oeuvre. There is a wonderful poetical moment, which begins with the poppy fields where Tait questions the true essence of the image through juxtaposing shots of the Scottish oil industry and related capitalist iconography and a sequence of images relating to a return to the earth. Nature is brought into being through spoken word. The narrator willing the viewer to look beyond what can be seen, to ‘look into all that is illuminated by the light’ […] ‘the own person’s own self perceiving the light and making the music’ suggesting that we are the beholders of (our) true vision.

Mile End Purgatorio (Guy Sherwin & Martin Doyle, 1991)

This is probably one of the best examples of both poetry-film (words on-screen) and filmpoerty (spoken words and images that create connotation). Sherwin is an exceptional experimental filmmaker, who continues to create meditative compositions, which the viewer is prompted to reflect on. His series of films entitled Messages (1981-4) exemplify this. Mile End Purgatorio has a great sense of humor, and reminds me very much of John Smith’s The Girl Chewing Gum (1976). Short in length, this film delivers both content and concept beautifully.

Poem and Stone (Maryam Tafakory, 2015) Trailer

Iranian film artist Maryam Tafakory displays a more direct approach in terms of filmpoetry through her profoundly personal and evocative films. I first saw this filmpoem at the Alchemy Film and Moving Image Festival in 2016 and was completely intrigued by her work. Poem and Stone is beautifully shot, as are all of her films, and incorporates both the personal and poetical qualities one would expect to see from a filmpoem. Themes relating to tradition, culture, and human experience come into being as Tafakory’s film reveals what it is to remember. Tafakory’s work displays familiar filmpoetry tropes, for example combining on-screen text, spoken word and images. Her powerful visuals juxtaposed with uncompromising text is a timely reminder of why the filmpoem genre is still relevant and can create a platform for subjective thought, monologues and discussion.

Sources: MARKS, L. U., 2000. The Skin of the Film. Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the Senses. Durham and London: Duke University Press. NEELY, S., 2008. Stalking the Image: Margaret Tait and intimate filmmaking practices. Screen, vol. 49, no. 2, Summer, pp.216-221. RAMSAY, S., 2014. Articulating the Avant-garde. Exploring the Reliability of Memory through the Filmpoem Genre. MLitt dissertation. RAMSAY, S., 2016. PhD, Literature Review. Films DEREN, M & HAMMID, A., 1943. Meshes of the Afternoon. DOYLE, M & SHERWIN, G., 1991. Mile End Purgatorio. MAN RAY., 1928. L’étoile de mer. SMITH, J., 1976. The Girl Chewing Gum. TAFAKORY, M., 2015. Poem and Stone. TAIT, M., 1974. Colour Poems.

‘I’ve never seen an artform that I didn’t want to try’: Harry Giles Talks Twitter Bots


Can tweets be considered poetry? And can robots write poems? A conservative reader of poetry might baulk at the idea of answering these questions in the positive. But we are not conservative. Nor, for that matter, is poet, performer and activist Harry Giles. Over the last few years, Harry has ‘cultivated’ a whole ‘garden’ of poetic, political and poetico-political Twitter bots. Here they talk about the joys and frustrations of the medium, how they got involved in the Twitter bot scene, and how we can too.

C: Harry, thank you for talking to All These New Relations this afternoon on the subject of Twitter bots or wherever the conversation may take us. So let’s start with your journey into bot making. What was it initially that drew you to making Twitter bots?

H: It’s genuinely just seeing other people’s Twitter bots and thinking, ‘I want to do that’. I think that’s a problem I’ve had throughout my life – I’ve never seen an artform that I didn’t want to try. Sometimes I manage to restrain myself. But I’ve always been a dork. I was never quite fully the sort of child computer programmer type person, I never got that far, but I’ve always been playing computer games. I grew up on the internet as a teenager, I lived in a tiny Scottish island, so the internet was my social life, so I’ve always kind of been in tune with that, with that world. And when I was younger, when I was a student, I made an interactive fiction game, so I used to make a lot of text adventures essentially, so yes, on literature, on digital literatures, I’ve just been interested since I was writing I suppose, and Twitter bots is just a new form of that. But I started seeing the wonderful, creative and very poetic Twitter bots, and seeing the potential of the medium, so I started teaching myself how to do it.

C: Cool. And you see it as a kind of way of bringing together a sort of poetic imagination with a, in your own words, ‘dorky’ tradition? [laughs]

H: Hmm, that’s interesting. I suppose it’s with dorky interest, but there’s been a huge shift in my lifetime, of like when I was a teenager, socialising on the internet was weird, do you remember when it was weird? I met people from forums and people were worried I was going to get stabbed. And now everyone socialises on the internet, and that’s a huge change in my lifetime, so actually it’s not dorky to be on Twitter, it’s like it’s not even a strange cultural experience, it’s a very mainstream cultural experience to be on Twitter, so to make a poet-like – the skills of making Twitter bots are dorky skills, but the aesthetic isn’t dorky – it’s actually very populist. Like it’s the most populist poetry I do, I think, because it’s taking place in a massive popular social space and it really needed that space.

C: I wonder if – because to my mind there’s something, that maybe with that shift from the internet being a subculture to the culture, it seems they’ve lost some of the magic, or the innocence – because I had a similar experience and I remember just, being into really weird, niche genres of music that nobody in my town liked but all of a sudden there were all these people you could share it with. Whereas now I suppose because it’s so ubiquitous, you know it loses some of that, I don’t know… Do you find that the Twitter bot as poetic medium is a way of keeping some of that magic, or that kind of countercultural energy?

H: I think you’re right – I think you’re right to put your finger on that, and I think that’s partly as a result of the people who are involved in it, because a lot of them are people like me who miss some of the early internet stuff. The artistic Twitter bot community tends to have a very ambivalent relationship towards Twitter as a social space, and as a platform. I mean I think lots of Twitter users… Twitter users hate Twitter a lot more that Facebook users hate Facebook. Like Twitter users hate Twitter. And that’s part of being on Twitter, which makes it very contemporary. So I think a lot of Twitter bots are there to inject beauty, calmness, weirdness, strangeness, magic into a social space that’s often, like, really frightening, abusive…

C: Polarised in a lot of ways.

H: Polarised… Tedious, banal, all corporate, blah blah blah blah. So there is that. And the thing about this dorky thing again – because the other thread that leads into Twitter bots is the history of generative literature, procedurally generated literature, pre-digital – like it’s really old – there’s an amazing essay, there’s one by Holly Gramzio, there’s another by Katie Rose Pipkin I think it is, who’ve both done genealogies of generative literature that go back hundreds of years, and both of them pick entirely different examples and give hundreds of years of genealogies of generative literature, it’s really interesting.

I think a lot of Twitter bots are there to inject beauty, calmness, weirdness, strangeness, magic into a social space that’s often, like, really frightening, abusive…

C: Wow – I don’t know those essays, I’ll have to check them out.

H: Yeah yeah yeah, well if you remind me I’ll find them and send you links. Because there’s things like poem-squares, code-squares, poem-wheels, and like coming into the modern era, stuff like Raymond Queneau’s…

C: Is it ‘A Hundred Million Billion Sonnets’ [Cent mille milliards de poèmes] or whatever…

H: Yeah, yeah.

C: He invented the ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ as well.

H: The what?

C: Choose your own adventure story, at least as far as I know.

H: Possibly.

C: But then perhaps there’s a whole other genealogy out there.

H: Yeah, that’s another form. So yeah, threading into there, there’s generative literature, there’s gamebooks, RPGs, that feeds into that cultural stream of Twitter bots, there’s hypertext literature, there’s uncreative writing like Kenneth Goldsmith’s, all of that feeds into Twitter bots.

C: So do you see your work as quite consciously in that tradition?

H: For me, yeah, those traditions, yeah.

C: That also raises something that I wanted to ask you about, in that you use games as a model quite a lot in your work, both online and live work and so on. I wonder if you could say a little bit about how you see the relationship between games and poetry and how Twitter bots play into that?

H: Mhm. There’s two ways into that – what’s the connection between games and poetry – and the easy and simple route is just to say that for me poetry is play in the space of language. And play can be very undirected, like when we look at children playing, sometimes they’re following sets of rules to make something happen. But the other kind of play is just being in a space with lots of possibilities and stimulants and, like, moving around a bit, and most poetry is that kind of play.

C: I agree, and it goes back to that sort of, ambiguities and polysemy of language, it gives it that space for wordplay.

H: There is a difference between play and game. So I could say that play is central to my work, but actually – you’re right – it’s games, because what games are are like unnec- – I can’t remember what the definition is, but, like, unnecessary sets of rules voluntarily followed, that’s kind of what a game is, it’s voluntarily following a completely arbitrary pointless set of rules.

C: In a way Twitter does that as well, giving you 140 characters.

H: Exactly, exactly. So Twitter has – it has more rules than that. It has social rules, and social conventions, as you can win points essentially. Well you can literally – there’s faves and RTs, you literally win points, and you know the kind of things that will win points, and deliberately tweet to win points.

C: That’s like Charlie Brooker in his rundown of the top 25 games ever or whatever, and I remember I was watching it and I was like oh there’s Monkey Island and there’s Doom, now what the hell’s going to be number one and then he said Twitter. I initially thought well that’s a bit of a cop out, but actually the argument he put forward was pretty good, it’s that ‘gameification’ or whatever, that point scoring.

H: Yes – but also, formal poetry is a kind of game, it’s a language game. And given a set of constraints and you have to find – it’s like half a crossword, it’s like half a puzzle, half a game. But then also looking more deeply at the structure of it I would say, not in the Wittgenstein sense, but that language is a game. And it’s also social conventions of games, like there are these sets of rules that we follow like languages, and there’s different sets of language you can play, different registers, different accents, different dialects that we speak in, and a game is both a means of exposing the rules that are there, and also pushing out and testing those rules. Like, whenever somebody – well, most people – when they play games look for ways to break rules, and get around rules, and trick the rules – and that’s what games are. It’s not following them, it’s like how can I break through this system in this system, and that’s the approach I take a lot of the time to writing poetry.

C: It makes me think of the Dadaist poem, you know Tristan Tzara’s instructions for a Dadaist poem, cut up a newspaper and blah blah blah, and there’s one word in that, in the instructions (which kind of looks like a poem itself with the line-breaks and so on), there’s one of the instructions which is ‘Copy conscientiously’, and it’s that word ‘conscientiously’ that I think the secret of the poem is in because it’s the only thing in the instructions that a robot can’t do, you know, there’s no conscience….

H: Well… [laughter]

whenever somebody – well, most people – when they play games look for ways to break rules, and get around rules, and trick the rules – and that’s what games are. It’s not following them, it’s like how can I break through this system in this system, and that’s the approach I take a lot of the time to writing poetry.

C: Go on!

H: Well I just – I like thinking through the agency of em… Okay, so there’s two ways we can think about the conscience of a robot, a bot, a Twitter bot – and something that characterises the artistic Twitter bot community actually, is that it’s highly conscientious. I mean we’ll talk about conscientious bots, they’ll talk about ethically good bots. So a lot of the prominent makers of Twitter bots will put language filters on their Twitter bots, so if they’re using, if they’re generating from a corpus of words they’ll make sure that certain words aren’t in there. A good rule of thumb is that you don’t make a bot that would tweet anything that you wouldn’t say, that’s a good rule of thumb. And people – Dairus Kazemi thinks through this a lot, Leonard Richardson has written on it well as well. And it’s really quite subtle thinking on how to do that, to the point that when – do you remember Microsoft’s Tay disaster, the Tay bot?

C: Yeah, where it turned into a racist Nazi in like five minutes…

H: Yeah yeah! And the artistic bot making – which is a quite, it’s interestingly, it overlaps but it’s a bit distinct from the corporate and functional bot making community – we saw that happening and we were like you complete numpties!, if you’d have had one conversation with any of the artists who make Twitter bots we could have told you what was going to happen, and told you how to fix it. Like it was a solved problem, so easy, we could have told them how to fix it, because we’d thought all this through, we’d developed the theory and the techniques, and they just didn’t think, they just didn’t think.

C: So they were perhaps playing a different game?

H: I think they hadn’t worked out what the rules of Twitter were. They hadn’t really thought through what the rules of Twitter were.

C: Interesting. So yeah, following on from that, this idea of agency, or responsibility I suppose. Do you ever – I mean your bots are pure in the sense that umm… Do you ever tweet as your bot?

H: Oh, umm…

C: I mean, do you ever break the generative rules and just, you know…

H: Mhm, I don’t think I do. No, I have one or two cyborgs, so there’s a couple of my propaganda bots, I have Anarcoo [@AnarchyCoo], which tweets anarchist slogans and pictures of highland coos, and a daily anti-fascism, which is a half-made bot I haven’t finished it yet. The ones that have a propaganda purpose, I’ll sometimes – if they’ve got followers – I’ll sometimes login them to just tweet something about a current issue, so in the bot world we tend to call those cyborg bots, ones that have human and generative in them.

C: I see, yeah.

H: Some of my bots are propaganda rather than poetry. And the agency thing is interesting – I mean the reason I paused with the ‘can a machine be conscientious’ is, a lot of us tend to talk about our bots as separate agential entities. Yes, we create them, yes, we write all the code or copy all the code. But each bot, you do think of them as having a life of their own, they do have a kind of life or mind of their own and they always surprise you. A well-made bot should make things that you weren’t expecting it to do. And because you made it, it produces a result which is alien and surprising to you, you think of it as… When my bot tweets something bad because I haven’t done the programming right, when it tweets something and I think oh god you shouldn’t say that, I don’t think – part of me is thinking I failed in the writing, but part of me is like bad bot!, like, I have to train you! And thinking about bots as having agency, that’s the language that I use.

C: And I suppose it’s – is there often a, do you try to make your bots as finished as possible before you make them go live, or does this, you know, nurturing process, to pick up on the parental metaphor that’s seeping into your discussion…

H: It differs from artist to artist, because all of my art practices I do develop in public – I’m always releasing drafts of things, like I did a thing last year where I made thirty bots in thirty days, and I think they cannot all be finished, so that’s quite explicitly…

C: Yeah, I wanted to ask you about that!

H: And I just haven’t got back to them for a while, but I need to do a lot of maintenance on them.

C: So how was that process?

H: It was thrilling, and exhausting, and it forced me – because I wasn’t satisfied with just churning out bots on the same model, I wanted to learn – it forced me to learn a lot of new programming skills, hard and fast. So my programming ability just doubled in capacity over the course of that month, which is really satisfying, but I also, similarly, just learnt a lot about the aesthetics of bots at the same time. It was a charge through, figuring out everything I could about the aesthetics of how bots worked, and it was kind of an interesting month to do it, because it was the month of the election of Donald Trump, and there was some really interesting interactions with the project around that. Because it was producing weirdness and beauty and occasionally bits of propaganda, because a lot of the bot makers are based in America, and most of them tend to be sort of progressively aligned – like, there are a lot of very sad traumatised scared people – and they were saying things about the bots, like oh God at least something good is happening on the internet right now! Because Twitter was a vile space, and it was churning out all this random generative poetry for a month! And anti-fascism. So that was nice.

C: So, you were talking about how the Twitter bot, is in a way a kind of antidote – maybe antidote is too strong a word…

H: Yeah, yeah it’s not an antidote. A respite!

C: A respite, yeah. From the tumult, from the view… Do you think more generally… Do you think Twitter bots are inherently… In terms of the form, do you think there’s a potentially disruptive way they are positioned in relation to, you know, post-truth, online discourse, blah blah blah…

Every technology and every artform can be used by anyone, could be turned towards any end, so what matters is also the social technology and the social expectations that you build around the artform.

H: Yes and no. I mean I wouldn’t say inherent. It’s… [sighs]. Every technology and every artform can be used by anyone, could be turned towards any end, so what matters is also the social technology and the social expectations that you build around the artform. And, as it happens, artistic Twitter bots are, for the most part – like, there’s a lot of sort of leftist or progressive activist Twitter bots, like there’s an incredible Twitter bot called Trump2Cash [@Trump2Cash], that uses Donald Trump’s tweets to predict the stock market, and donates profits to Planned Parenthood.

C: Wow!

H: And it succeeds. Because when Donald Trump tweets about a company badly it falls in stock price, like that’s just what happens, and it’s turning his Twitter into cash. So there’s a lot of that kind of thing. But also, like, the internet, the autonomous internet far-right, makes extensive use of Twitter bots…

C: Really?

H: Oh God yes! Look into Trump bots – Hilary had bots too, Clinton I should say, but – but yeah, the people who turn up when you mention any of the keywords of any given American political issue, like, a lot of them are bots if you look into their accounts, and a lot of them are what I called cyborgs earlier. So people will have little armies of bot accounts that just tweet abuse, or like spam. Fake news, out into the world, but they’ll also go in there and type other things to make it seem real. You can see them co-ordinating the stuff on 4Chan live, you can see them doing it.

C: It’s amazing, and it’s quite a remarkable contrast between these sort of villainous bots pretending to be humans, and masquerading a sense of human agency, and the way that you and other artists approach it…

H: And there’s also, like, very conscious… war…. And there’s, there are arms races that go on. There are people – so for example, the first reply to any tweet that Donald Trump makes will be valuable digital real estate, because if you get in that, whatever you link to gets loads and loads of clicks. And so there have been warring bot armies on different sides, to get replies in to Donald Trump’s tweets as quickly as possible – I might be able to find the articles on that. [It’s] being used in lots of different directions. There’s a brilliant bot maker called Nora Reed, best known for Thinkpiece Bot [@thinkpiecebot], if you’ve seen that, it’s beautiful. She’s made many good bots and she’s pioneered a form called ‘honeybots’, which tweet, just tweet platitudes on keywords to annoy reactionaries on Twitter [laughter]. There’s, like, a Christian mob there to annoy like reactionary atheists, of which there’s a lot. So the kind of people that search for keywords and then tweet abuse at them, she’s made bots to deliberately attract them and waste their time, and argue with them in a completely infuriating way. So there is like an arms race that goes on at the political end of Twitter bots.

C: Cool – so actually your bots are engaging with all this activity that’s going on, it’s not just like….

H: My bots are taking place in that social sphere. I’m not that sophisticated a programmer and most of my bots are not particularly interactive, and that’s partly because I’m more of a poet than I am a programmer. So most of my bots are non-interactive texts, some of them have some very mild interaction with them, or some of them have a form of – I’m better at designing social interaction than machine interaction, so I have one, I have Autoflâneur [@autoflaneur] that’s designed to be interacted with in real space, and I’ve thought through the social space around the text of that bot. There’s another one called DebateCoachBot [@debatecoachbot], which you can @ into any argument that you’re having on Twitter and it will send you like friendly messages, and I made that to try and keep people being nice and constructive in arguments.

C: Yeah! And that’s like countering the, as you say, the rules of Twitter, in a really kind of inventive way…

H: And that’s kind of rooted in my theatre background, my performance art background, in that when I’m making theatre and making performance I’m thinking about designing social interactions, like that’s what I do, so I’m doing that in the Twitter bot space as well. Because I know how to design those but I don’t know how to program very well. I mean I can program a bit, but…

C: Let’s talk about those kind of practicalities now. I wonder, can you talk us briefly through how you go about… [laughter] how?!

H: I mean if you Google ‘how to make a Twitter bot’ you’ll find a hundred tutorials and the best collection of tutorials which explains things better than I ever can is, which I highly recommend. There’s a general programmer, artist, a wonderful person who tweets as @v21, who made a platform called ‘Cheap Bots Done Quick’.

C: I know that platform, yeah!

H: And so that’s a Twitter port of a tool that a writer called Kate Compton made called Tracery. It’s a tool that makes writing generative literature really simple for lots of people, so it’s much easier – I’ve seen people with no programming skill log into that and be like oh I see how this works! and all. What you do – the technical term is a ‘context free grammar’. What that means is you write a bunch of sentence structures, and you write a bunch of words that can be plugged into those sentence structures – so like adjective-verb-noun – and then you write a list of adjectives, a list of nouns and a list of verbs. It makes doing that really really simple. And then boom! You’ve got a Twitter bot. So that’s the simplest way to make a Twitter bot. Anyone can do that, who has any writing capacity, or who can at least like, format a Microsoft Word document. It’s that – it’s very very accessible. But those bots are minimally interactive and they’re also – they, most of them can’t work with outside input. So if you want to do the kind of bots that mess with existing text, that manipulate existing text, or that go grab things from news headlines, or that manipulate other people’s tweets, then you need some deeper programming skill, and this is what I started teaching myself during 30 bots in the 30 days, I just taught myself basic JavaScript using free online tutorials, and then used various tutorials I found on botwiki to teach myself how to host a program on the internet. So I have programs that live on a server somewhere in the cloud, and they’re just generating tweets all of the time, so I had to teach myself how to do that. But I still only have a very basic understanding of it, and the people, the botALLY community, did a lot of coaching through that month, I got a lot of…

C: So is that a collective thing, where several people are making bots, like NaNoWriMo?

H: So NaNoWriMo is a really long-running thing where people try and write a novel in a month, in November. And then, in response to that, a couple of people who are into generative literature, Darius Kazemi is one of them, I can’t remember who the other person is – Hugo something I think [@hugovk]– created NaNoGeneMo, which was National Novel Generating Month. So people had to write a program that would generate a 50,000 word novel in a month, with a very very loose definition of novel, because natural language processing isn’t really developed enough to write, like, actually interesting 50,000 word novels, so most of them are bizarre and wonderful experimental texts. So NaNoGenMo was happening, and then we were like oh, why don’t we do NaBoMoMo?!, ‘National Bot Making Month’, and the challenge was to write a bot every day, and I think I was one of only two or three people who achieved it, or possibly I was the only one… I’m not quite sure.

C: Congratulations!

H: I’m really obsessive!

C: So you mentioned botALLY

H: Yes, botALLY or botALLY…

C: Tell us a little about that.

H: It was a community of makers, that started just as a Twitter hashtag, and there are various places that it gathers on the internet. And it’s an ethic and an aesthetic as much as a community. It’s people who make artsy interesting political Twitter bots, and who are interested in the politics of Twitter bots, and discussing generative literature, generative texts, the role that bots have in our world and pushing that forward, aesthetically, ethically, politically. That’s all it is. But it’s very friendly and welcoming community, so anyone who wants to make Twitter bots, if you just tweet a line like how do I make a Twitter bot? and then the hashtag ‘botALLY’, somebody will pick that up and be like oh right, have a look at this link.

C: That sounds great, and also refreshing in terms of – I think a lot of people who aren’t part of these communities might feel a bit intimidated by the kind of knowledge and so on – but you’re saying that’s not a prerequisite to…

H: No, I mean I came into that community with no programming knowledge, as a poet, having made, like, two very very technically simple Twitter bots, being interested in Twitter bots, and I watched a conversation and I chimed in every now and then and I picked up from what they were talking about, and then when I needed help I asked for it, and people helped. And yeah, they’ve taught me a lot, loads of, yeah…

C: Cool, so it’s a good place to start then.

H: Yeah, just have a look at the chat that’s on #botALLY, and is a very good place to start as well.

I’m not going to go so far as to say machines have consciousness. I do think they have agency, but I’m not going to go so far as to say they have consciousness. And because there’s a distancing of a non-conscious machine that is not making aesthetic decisions, they can break language or remake language in a much more dramatic way.

C: I wonder if you could talk about, maybe take an example of the bots you’ve made, and some of the challenges you faced, which you feel you kind of surmounted and it was a success…

H: I’m just looking at my phone… Pick a bot. I don’t know, are there any in particular you wanted to ask about?

C: Umm, not necessarily – wait, what’s the one you do with the train map? I like that one, it seems quite elaborate as well, using images and so on.

H: Yeah that’s kind of interesting, in that – so that is, um, Spotrail… Botrail! I think it’s called Botrail [@BottishRail].

C: I see what you did there!

H: Yeah, that wasn’t my name actually. I think it was Henry Bell’s…

C: Oh yeah…

H: It was somebody else’s suggestion! I had to start asking for suggestions for Twitter bots, because I was running out of ideas. Botrail – no, @bottishrail because ‘botrail’ was already taken, so I had to use the old name ‘BottishRail’. And it’s a sci-fi public transport bot, so it tweets made-up maps with made-up place names and it imagines lots of different kinds of public transport that might be in there. It is technically complicated – it’s got four different elements in it. So it picks a random map (and I’m going to make this more complicated at some point) and generates a random image map, and then it also generates random place names to attach to that map, and then it also generates a random text to say what it’s describing, and then it randomly formats that text into lots of different weird fonts that look like a nice, that make it look like a nice public service announcement, that’s kind of retro. And so sometimes it says stuff like ‘launching the magnificent cyber-funicular!’ or ‘launching the brand-new west highland teleportation expressway!’. So it generates those four different things. So it is sort of technically complicated but it was the third to last bot that I made in that month, so over the course of the month I had taught myself how to do all of those individual things. So that it actually only took like an hour, or an hour or two, because I could copy-paste bits of code into one thing and bring it all together into this big Bottishrail, and I think it’s one of the best that I made that month. But I had to teach myself how to generate – I can’t remember what the image format is – but how to generate images in JavaScript – I can’t remember what the name of the image is… SVG! And I had to figure out how to generate convincing place names. I’d actually done quite a bit of that work before for a previous project, but I had to update it. I had to work out how to pick random fonts, and then it was using the same text generation stuff… So that one’s actually made in Cheap Bots Done Quick.

C: Oh right!

H: Yep, which means the source code is open so anyone can have a look at it, if you put ‘cheapbotsdonequick’ forward-slash source forward-slash name of bot, in this case bottishrail []. And so it was less hard to make than the ones where I had to program from scratch in JavaScript.

C: So do you then find yourself, does the idea come first and then you’re like, okay now I’ll have to learn how to do x, y and z so that…

H: Yep, usually the idea comes first, but in the process of figuring out how to do the idea the idea gets better. Because you have an idea and you think, ah, I’ll try and implement that, and as you’re implementing it you see the possibilities around that idea, so you can reach into there, and reach into there.

C: In that respect it does sound like writing a poem.

H: Yeah, exactly! But also like – if I’m doing a poem that has a performance element where I think it would perform well (not all my poems perform well), it has to be performed to an audience a few times, at least before it’s done, because I need to see how the lines and the rhythms land in those people’s ears, and then modify it accordingly. And similarly, usually when I make a bot I need to run it for a few days to look at what three days of the timeline looks like, and think, oh I need to tweak this and rebalance that and shift that.

C: That’s a really interesting idea as well, that it’s a sort of drawn out nurturing or cultivating or sculpting, whatever kind of metaphor you use…

H: Cultivating’s the metaphor I usually use. I think of myself as having a bot garden, or maybe a bot ant farm. Yeah, I have a garden of bots, that live autonomously and grow autonomously and do their own thing, but I do need to tend them, prune them, repot them sometimes, yeah.

C: Nice. So there’s a quote, I can’t remember it exactly – I should have made a note of it – Christian Bök, the Canadian poet, said that – I’ll paraphrase – the poets of the future won’t be poets as such. The great poets will be revered not for writing great poems but for creating a robot that will write great poems for us. To what extent do you agree with that statement?

H: I’ve written a whole essay about it. It’s called ‘What Can Poets Do About Robots?’ which says anything that I could say better, I think I was quite pleased with that bit of writing.

C: Is it online, can we link to it?

H: Yeah yeah. It’s on my blog somewhere. Um… I sort of agree. And I sort of don’t, in that lots of artforms have taken this trajectory – from craft to conceptual art, from creating things to making conceptual art, and that’s actually sort of circular, in that conceptual art like Damien Hirst, boring as he is, now have studios of craftsmen – craftspeople, craft workers – to make all of his stuff. And that’s also what Rembrandt did. So it kind of goes circular. They come up with the concepts and other people do the execution. And I think poetry to an extent has now discovered you have to do the same thing.

C: Mhm – so we’re outsourcing…

H: Yeah… well yeah yeah yeah. And like generative poetry has a long history and, but, there’s a particular – and this is also where Christian Bök comes from – there’s a particular moment with the Oulipo, who are often misunderstood as writing lots of weird texts, but what they actually define their work as is…

C: Rule-based…

H: Is writing the rules. That’s what they do. That’s how they defined their work at the start. They were like let’s come up with constraints for making poems, and the work is to come up with an interesting constraint and to exhaust that constraint. That’s why you have things like Eunoia, which is exhausting the constraint of writing univocalism, to do the maximum you can do with that, so it almost never needs to be done again, and then people misunderstand it – including me – and are like oh it’s so fun to write univocalisms! But the whole point is you don’t have to anymore [laughter].

C: That’s quite similar to conceptual art in some respects as well, in that it’s, you can only do conceptual art once.

H: Certainly making bots to make great poems, that is what’s happening now, that’s what we’re doing. I mean I do think there are bots – I don’t think I’ve quite managed it – but I do think there are bots that make genuinely great poems. My favourites are poem.exe [@poem_exe]…

C: I know that one yeah, it’s brilliant.

H: Makes these like beautiful… And then I think there’s, it’s either Tiny Minimalist or Autominimalist. It wasn’t announced with great fanfare, but it’s very quietly beautiful, which is appropriate. I’ll just see if I can find it. Yeah, Auto Minimalist [@AutoMinimalist], and it’s tweeting endless variations on various techniques, pioneered, and variations of techniques, pioneered by Aram Saroyan.

C: He’s great.

H: He is great. And that’s made by Allison Parrish.

you don’t have to enjoy the magic, you can also enjoy the craft. Some magicians, some people want to enjoy the magic show and some people want to enjoy the craft, and both are legitimate.

C: Yeah, that’s cool – and it’s interesting you should mention that, I don’t know where poem.exe gets its [language]…

H: I don’t want to know! People have threatened to tell me but…

C: That’s a really interesting point in and of itself. Is it exposing the man behind the curtain, or in this case robot? Does it spoil that kind of magic? What do you think?

H: I don’t know. Yeah, I don’t want to know. Yet, if you want to – you don’t have to enjoy the magic, you can also enjoy the craft. Some magicians, some people want to enjoy the magic show and some people want to enjoy the craft, and both are legitimate.

C: And in a sense that kind of goes back to what you were saying about how when people play games they’re trying to find ways of breaking the rules, or in video games you find the glitch that lets you jump forward four levels or something…

H: But back to the can robots take our jobs as poets thing, can robots take poets’ jobs? I do think we’ve now got the technology and the aesthetic movement to write robots to make poems. They’re no [inaudible], poem.exe is the closest that I know. They’re nowhere near being able to write good poems for most forms. Like, haiku it’s just about got there. I don’t know, any other form that poet, that poet – limericks, there’s some good limericks.

C: Yeah, and it seems to me, the act of retrieval in Pentametron [@Pentametron] for example, is using form, but it’s not writing is it…

H: No, it can’t write genuinely great poems. It writes good poems, but it can’t write great poems.

C: But it’s interesting you mention this Saroyam connection with Auto Minimalist, because a couple of my favourites, I can’t remember the names of them, but there’s one that uses the syntax of Ezra Pound’s In a Station of the Metro [@BlackBoughBot], and there’s another that uses the syntax of The Red Wheelbarrow [@DependsUponBot], and they’re great, and often very funny, and absurd, which is what Twitter bots do so well I think. But yeah, we’ve spoken a bit about the tradition of that kind of generative work but how do you see it as – I mean you’ve got Saroyan, you’ve got Ezra Pound, you’ve got William Carlos Williams, all innovators in modern, or modernist, or late modernist poetry – how do you see Twitter bots as responding to or following from that page-based tradition?

H: Mhm. So I might – there’s a few different lines to draw. One might be to go to Gertrude Stein, breaking language, reforming what language can do, going into that. Asemic writing or asyntactical language, creating new forms of expression – and because they’re distanced by a non-conscious machine – and I’m not going to go so far as to say machines have consciousness. I do think they have agency, but I’m not going to go so far as to say they have consciousness. And because there’s a distancing of a non-conscious machine that is not making aesthetic decisions, they can break language or remake language in a much more dramatic way. Although I think Tender Buttons is a masterpiece in terms of creating aesthetic effects that go beyond meaning. Yep – another line that we could draw is to people like Ezra Pound, but I think that line’s been drawn, I think that line’s been superseded long ago by hypertext. Like, I find The Cantos boring, because we live in a hypertext world, we live in a world of constant collage, shuffling, reference, and there are way better – Twitter is one of them – there are way better formats, media, for doing that kind of collagey, referential work than the page. Another line we could draw is back to Baroness Elsa von Freytag, the early sound poet. I made a bot for her. It’s called Auto Else – Auto Else, I should say [@autoelse]. There are lots of bots that are playing with sound in various ways, and that are just fully exploring the expressive capability of sound. Like, I’ve got quite a few sound poetry bots, but I’m not the only one.

C: What about concrete poetry then, in that context?

H: Concrete is harder for bots. Concrete poetry’s really hard to come up with new means of expression in, and this relates to the, can bots supersede, can they take all of our jobs. Because they can. I think eventually, I think it’ll take a couple of decades, but we’ll be able to do most forms well – robots will be able to do most forms well, they’ll be able to come up with interesting – because they’ve long been able to come up with very interesting absurd poems, that’s a magnificent history. So there are types of poetry they can do really really well.

C: Yeah, like have you seen that The Policeman’s Beard is Half-Constructed?

H: Yeah yeah yeah, exactly exactly. So there’s loads of poetry they can do extraordinarily well. But what they can’t do at the moment is personal expression, individual expression. Political expression that’s tailored to a specific moment, because they’re not conscious. So until we have very advanced artificial intelligence, at which point there isn’t really any distinction between them and us, they can’t take our jobs! [laughter] Because the job isn’t always to innovate and make new, that’s not the only job of a poet. The job of a poet is also to express yourself – you are a self which is unique, snowflake [laughter] – and to be a bard, to respond to the existing community in a meaningful way.

C: Yeah, absolutely yeah.

H: So they can’t take those jobs until they’re so much like us that they may as well be us, or we’re so much like them that we may as well be them. And I also think that will come. But you were talking about concrete poetry – because concrete poetry’s so specific, every concrete poem is so specific it’s very hard to generate, in a continually satisfying way.

C: Yeah, and it’s specific in the sense that its syntax is singular…

H: Exactly, that’s…

C: That’s the essential property of a concrete poem.

H: So I have a couple of very basic generative experiments around concrete poetry but they’re not aesthetically satisfying, they’re exercises.

C: I mean to pick up on the – you mentioned The Cantos and it just raised the question in my mind – what’s the relationship of the Twitter bot to poetic genre i.e. fragment and epic?

H: You might have to unpack that question.

C: Okay – umm, do you see the feed as an ever-expanding poem, or do you see each tweet as a discrete entity, or, well I suppose those are not mutually exclusive…

H: A wave particle! [laugher] I think it depends on the bot, that obviously some bots – so for example autoflâneur is explicitly written as an infinite poem, that it’s an endlessly unrolling set of instructions, and I designed it to be read as an infinite poem.

C: That’s interesting as well, because you were talking about how that bot uses social spaces and social conventions and so on, so that its infinity comes up against our finitude.

H: Yup, and another one of those that works reasonably well like that is – it’s not finished, but, well, it’s getting there – is one that I do called ‘Ubersonate’, which is based on…

C: Schwitters?

H: Yeah Kurt Schwitters’ Ursonate because it’s infinite, so it’s an infinite Ursonate. And it’s just using the syntax of Ursonate, and generating it so it’s like an infinite sound poem. But there are others where – so for example, both poem.exe and Auto Minimalist, each of those tweets is very and clearly intended to be an individual poem, so if you look at the whole feed it’s a book of poems, but it’s not an infinite poem, it’s an infinite book of poems, if that makes sense. But there are bots that can do both, and you have to understand the bot in its whole context. And there are lots of bots, including many that I’ve made, where the joy of them actually falls apart when you look at the feed, because the magic’s important…

C: That’s something that’s interesting as well. Would you ever consider publishing the output of your Twitter bots on the page, in a book?

H: Oh yeah, I’m going to do it.

C: Oh really? Now that’s exciting! [laughter]

H: Next year it’s, yeah, I can’t really reveal more than that, but yes. It’s active recontextualisation.

Every artistic movement responds to the technical and social conditions of its time, and Twitter bots might not be interesting in twenty years time. And that’s okay. Like, I’ll obviously be sad.

C: Well let me ask you two more questions because I’m conscious of time. Firstly, it’s interesting what you’re talking about in how at the moment these poems are good at doing absurdity but natural language processing is at such a point… For example, I did a riff on Ursonate as well, when I was listening to, I think it was Christian Bök’s reading of it on YouTube, and I accidentally clicked the closed caption thing, and it thought that he was speaking Italian, so it came up with these subtitles in Italian. Then I used the automatic translate to get them in English, and then I put that text in the frame of the Ursonate score, kind of like a translation by Google. And for me we’re almost in this golden age of natural language processing for lovers of the absurd, because the poetics of error you get with Google Translate are just brilliant.

H: Yeah, the uncanny valley.

C: Exactly, and it also makes me think of – a bit of a preamble for this question I apologise – of early cinema, it was quite avant-garde until the talkies developed and it became more conventional – maybe conventional’s the wrong word but you know what I mean…

H: Genre-bound.

C: Yeah! Is there then a danger that if natural language processing and generative literature becomes more intelligent, and better, could it potentially lose some of the magic, much as the internet has…

H: Well yeah! But more than that, I think it shifts. Every artistic movement responds to the technical and social conditions of its time, and Twitter bots might not be interesting in twenty years time. And that’s okay. Like, I’ll obviously be sad. And like, I might even be one of them, like individual creators, who are still obsessed with early noughties style Twitter bots, and because their obsession is so outlandish they’re still creating genuinely interesting work. In the same way that there are people writing genuinely interesting sonnets! Why the f… Why should sonnets be interesting in the twenty-first century? They do not speak – they shouldn’t speak – to the people…

C: But they’ve never been more popular!

H: Yeah yeah yeah! So that will happen, it will go in and out of vogue, but it should, and the social meaning of that poetry form will change, and as you say the potential of natural language processing will change, it’s all in the, like, it’s in the downward slope of the uncanny valley at the moment, where it’s still very transparently machine made, it’s not at the bottom and it’s definitely not rising up the other side, so I think we’ve got a long time…

C: Exciting times…

H: And I think it’s going to take a lot longer than people think.

C: Yeah, yeah.

H: I think AI is going to progress. Like, I think people are expecting really impressive AI in five years. I think it’s going to take twenty or thirty.

C: Yeah, especially in terms of language.

H: People just have no idea how hard it is, and how little, what a small advance we’ve made.

C: Yeah. I wonder then, to close things up, and you kind of answered this question already, but where do you see the future of Twitter bots vis-a-vis the poetry world? Do you think they might – you know, it’s kind of niche – do you see it becoming… Much as concrete poetry, once upon a time, was ‘it’s not poems’, whereas now everyone is happy to have a concrete poem in their collection, how do you see that developing?

H: Well, I mean I’m trying to push it, and this is one reason I’m putting print Twitter bots in my next book. To be clear, that recontextualises the poetry, and that makes it a very different thing, which is important. So that’s partly why I’m putting that in there, just to try and introduce generative literature to new audiences. Because I was shortlisted for a prize last year – the Forward Foundation commissioned a poem from me and I gave them a Twitter bot just to see what would happen – I also gave them a static poem, just as a static poem, as well, but it was just, like, picking the best of the Twitter bots. But also, progress. Stanza – somebody at Stanza – got in touch this year and said ‘we love autoflâneur, can we do something with it at Stanza’, and I was like yeah sure, so I made them a new version of it.

C: A kind of St Andrews special!

H: Yeah yeah! So I made them a Stanza-specific version of it. Because I want mainstream poetry to see this world and see the potential, and I think it’ll come, yeah, I think it’ll come quicker than, yeah, poetry changes really quickly. And it’s, because it’s a very populist form it gives more people an in. And like, I think there’s much more resistance from British lyric poets to, like, American-style post-internet poets. There’s a bit of a generational war going on there, which I’m trying to sidestep by just writing the weird stuff that I write. I’ll take your word, I’m not really into either of you! [laughter] That’s not true, I like reading it, I just don’t write either of styles.

C: Good!

H: Haha, yeah don’t quote me as saying I don’t like either of those, I actually do like them. No, yes, that’s what it is – I love reading all kinds of poetry, but I like writing games, forms, generative work.

C: Yeah, I can sympathise with that [laughter]. Well thank you very much, it’s been a pleasure.

H: Thank you, it’s been a lovely chat. I hope this was the kind of material you were looking for.

C: It was exactly the kind of material we were looking for, thank you!


Harry Giles is a writer and performer from Orkney, Scotland, now based in Edinburgh. Their work gets everywhere from page to screen, from happening to performance or, as they put it, ‘in the crunchy places where performance and politics get muddled up’. They’ve performed poetry and theatre across the globe, winning several slams and putting on critically acclaimed shows at the Edinburgh Fringe including Everything I Bought and How It Made Me Feel’. They also make games, working with Book Week Scotland, Nevis Land Partnership and Stanza (see above!), among others. Their first collection Tonguit, Freight (2015), was shortlisted for the Edwin Morgan Prize (2015) and the Forward Prize for First Collection (2016). Be sure to check out Harry’s work at

Coming Soon…

All These New Relations

A twice-yearly online magazine at the intersection of poetry, film and digital media.

First issue going live on 25th April 2017…