Carole Satyamurti’s eyes

I pinched myself to be there. God knows how I got invited. I can’t remember. Perhaps I invited myself. Poets were there, people I had actually heard of and read and who all seemed to know each other. Jo Shapcott. Maura Dooley. Sarah Maguire. Jonathan Davidson. Phil Bowen. I had the books to prove it. I had published one book and knew nothing.

To the Poetry Society, the holy of holies, an upstairs room on a Saturday afternoon my family did not thank me for using. A voice workshop, with Patsy Rodenburg, on how to read our damn poems so people would bloody listen.

Knowing only the language of shyness, but thanks to a large family enough strategies to fake it, I went in and began introducing myself. I pinch myself to still be in touch with some of them. In the corner, elegant and with a stillness that I found immediately appealing, stood Carole. Slurping tea and talking much more loudly than my nerves were able to mask, I said hi and could we work together. I am still amazed she said yes.

Patsy Rodenburg made us sit what felt like six inches away from each other and say lines of one of our poems without losing the gaze of the poet sitting opposite. Then at a slightly greater distance, eventually moving to arm’s length. For the next two hours all we did was stare into each other’s eyes.

I was aware of two forces in Carole’s eyes, which dwelt in equal, not opposite strength to each other: the first, of unqualified acceptance and second, a steely, not quite austere benevolence. I don’t remember her blinking once. The same lines, over and over, to the same pair of eyes, for a whole afternoon. You’d think we’d get bored. But not a bit of it. ‘Did you really feel the emotion of every word you were speaking into your partner’s eyes?’ Patsy asked. If the answer was no, we did it again. And again. When I give a reading now, I still think of her gazing back at me, accepting my words and without saying anything (those were the rules), encouraging me to do and be better.