I drive through the most photographed front yard in the world, beneath the arches,  into the safest courtyard in England. 5.40pm.  Buckingham Palace.  “No need to lock your car sir” says the policeman.  He might not have said “sir” but I like to think he did. He didn’t.   I step out and a lone driver  parks next to me – Joanna Lumley.  I  smile, grip my invite, walk across the courtyard and join the others making their way. Tonight we’re attending a reception entitled “Contemporary British Poets.  I take what today has been defined as a  Selfie.  “No photographs ‘sir’”  says an usher holding out her hand. She takes my self phone with one hand and passes a name badge with the other. Yes.  Champagne and apple juice circulate. After fifteen minutes or so we are ushered with firm politeness  through the picture gallery and into the open lake of ballroom for what is the largest collection of British Contemporary Poets I’ve ever  seen  in one place in my life  on this earth. This is special.

In the front row the queen, the duke of Edinburgh, Princess anne and their friends.  The poets on stage are Sinéad Morrissey, Liz Lochead,  Carol Ann Duffy,  Gillian Clarke, John Agard and the master of ceremony, Ian Mcmillan.   We all know this is not the best place to hear a poem – bad acoustics – but it is the only place we see each other.   We are celebrating each other and there’s a kindness in that.  The poets on stage exemplify this spirit.   A poem is an intimate affair of public note.   And intimacy in crowds is who we are. It’s what poems are. It’s what this is.

Across the room sits Moira Dooley, a fine poet and kind woman. Thirty years ago Moira invited me to Sothebys. It was an auction for The Ted Hughes Arvon Centre. That’s when I first met  Ted Hughes. There’s Michael Horovitz who booked Ted Hughes at The Royal Albert Hall in 1965. Michael  swirls into the hall like a waft of  winter wood smoke.  He reminds of a grey sea horse. Alert with poise. Kind eyes.   “You look happier than I’ve ever seen you Lemn” he says.   William Sieghart introduces me to Charles Saatchi.  Broadcaster and musician and artist   Cerys Mathews with her red trilby hat tilted like the moon is at home amongst poets as we are amongst her.  Carol Ann Duffy  has done something special here. I’ve never seen anything like this before  in my life. There’s a history of poets here

. It is a  palace full of poets.  A Kate Tempest of poets. An Inua Ellams of writers. A Caroline Bird. A John Hegley of images. A Jacob Sam La Rose of words. A Jo Shapcott of truth. A McGough of resilience.    A fierce and powerful Grace Nichols of wisdom. A Warsan Shire of journals.  A compassion of poets. To see us lay down  arms and open them has been a gift and a lesson… to see each other… .  At 9pm I  go home but not before a one handed photo snap through the car window.  Been a long day. Started this morning in Manchester on Breakfast TV . And yes I met her and I shook her hand again. I meant to have a word with the Duke of Edinburgh about the mural at the primary school.