Erotic poetry workshop.
So, I got this. This ain’t my first rodeo.
Then Carrie Etter threw a suckerpunch, not happened since the Man for a Day workshop.
I’d been asked to write about a part of my body in an erotic way, a loving way, give it magic powers and turn this into a poem. Continue reading
Matthew Caley told us, ‘There’s a lot riding on you as an audience.’
It turned out he wanted a florist in the audience. As he suspected there was not; there never is. He concluded that florists don’t like poems. This was a big build up to a tiny tanka, a haiku with obesity he said.
He and Alison Brackenbury gives the kind of confident from-memory reading where the subject matter is a kind of bonus; it’s a pleasure to listen to their voices and intonation.
Alison opens with a unexpected tribute to Swindon. Not because she doesn’t like Swindon but because I didn’t expect that poem – about rock and rollers who died in plane crashes – to end that way.
Alison talks about horsey love, climate change, the spring at a Roman villa, extinction. And. No.
‘Happiness bored you most of all,’ she said.
Matthew Caley and Alison Brackenbury read at Poetry Swindon Festival, 7 October at Richard Jefferies Museum.
Chronicle by Louisa Davison
We started with an American sentence – 17 syllables – with an encounter with a person.
It’s like an extended Haiku, and for someone who tweets for a living, a fun challenge:
– I ran across the road avoiding a car; the driver shook her fist.
– Jumped into Coate Water to save a child, but it was just a coat.
– The human condition, the past, another country in his diary.
As someone said later, Kim Moore, poet-in-residence, worked us hard in her workshop, Encounters and Collisions, with the right balance of poems to read, discussion (without too many tangents) and work created. It’s amazing what 17 syllables can bring out from a bunch of writers – cockroaches and Cathedral cheese, cockney Albino, friends for life, squaddies and shoe-buffing dogs, phagocytes. Continue reading
The night before at the Ruth Stone House Party – also featuring lots of poets – the intros seem to go on f.o.r.e.v.e.r. and basically a long list of publications.
Thankfully the point of Quiet Compere was for the audience to decide if the 10 poets x 10 minutes were any good by listening to their poems. And so our first half host, Sarah L Dixon, read a couple of her poems and introduced poets by way of their name only.
Sarah’s The Source was probably the muckiest poem I’ve heard about a marriage breakup – a horrid smell leading to a cloth in drawer for a collection of, ahem, male excretions. Continue reading
Ruth Stone
Poet Ruth Stone lived to 96, transforming all losses into movement, into growth, so said Stone-enthusiast, Chaucer Cameron who edited Salt on the Wind: poetry in response to Ruth Stone. She lived in a little house in Vermont with no running water and wrote about the everyday and her family, and science, civil rights and even horror. Continue reading
Little Usherette
So I had a quick nap in Hilda’s Lounge, as you do, then back to the tent-palace, as you do. But this is Poetry Swindon Festival and things can get way more surreal.
Jill Abram and Jinny Fisher were the warm up acts for an ‘industrial strength poetry evening’, according to host Cristina who tripled up as heckler and cheerleader.
Cristina told Kim Moore, joint poet-in-resident, to read the one about the scaffolder. This one is a ‘psalm’ to her dad as it turned out. Her one about the Trumpet Teacher’s Curse (she’s just quit after 13 years to do a Phd) made me laugh and nod as she listed her primary school students’ crimes against brass instruments and the subsequent list of things to inflict on them, such as practicing for hours without improvement, then perform at an empty bandstand in the cold and rain. Kim told us she read it to her mum, a shoe factory worker, who said, ‘that was my life for years’. It took a moment for the inference to ripple to the back, but I laughed right away having a mum who sometimes failed to plaster a smile to her face during school concerts (and being a mum myself). Continue reading
Jean Atkin workshop
‘Here is a map.’
‘I don’t like maps.’
‘Can we use a satnav?’
‘There won’t be a test. It’s in the spirit of dadaism’
Jean Atkin kicks off the Poetry Swindon festival Big Poetry Weekend with a workshop, and asked us to get lost with a map. ‘You discover a place once with a map, then again when you visit,’ she said.
My eye was drawn to Bettiscombe Manor House and my mind to horror, which to anyone who knows me is far from a shock association. Dredging up my map skills the ye olde writing meant a historical site and the jam-packed series of irregular lines around it – some pretty steep hills.
Bettiscombe Manor House
I hide in a tight valley,
Sheepish slopes rise on all sides.
Children bring tabogans to Sliding Hill
Oh, some time ago.
No snow for years;
One great fall and the clouds were finished.
These days fun is found in my bare broken bones,
Then treachery on mildewed steps
Down inside to the cellar.
At that point, one poem up and still fun in the edits, I thought I’d quit while ahead.
Jean Atkin’s workshop was at the Richard Jefferies Museum on 6 October 2016, part of Poetry Swindon’s Big Poetry Weekend.
Chronicle written by Louisa Davison
Photograph © Jennifer Berry
The omens were good for Children’s Day -Word Twisting a Fine Falerie at The Richard Jefferies Museum as a dramatic jamboree of Dada ended the day before with a library dance to Lou Reed’s Perfect Day.
Things were set fair, a beautiful setting, amazing weather and an audience of over a hundred fun-seekers eager to find out just who Mildred, Henry and Harriet the eccentric tour-guides were.
With The Goblin Circus in residence too, a memorable day at Coate Farm seemed guaranteed.
The aforementioned eccentric tour guides were on fine form as they promenaded the museum bringing artefacts to life through words and movement.
It was jaw-dropping stuff!
‘The toilets are here here here here and here!’ they helpfully cried.
Playful, funny narration saw them tell the life of Jefferies on Long Pond in the attic before ending things in the future on the back lawn.
Past, present and future, not a bad day out so far!
But here come The Goblin Circus to tell stories and teach children to make their own goblins!
A big ladybird and ring-master engaged audiences all day.
LADLES AND JELLYSPOONS! GENTLE FOLK AND MISCHIEF MAKERS! WELCOME TO THE GOBLIN CIRCUS!!!
There were faeries, goblins, humans, elves and shapeshifters, and misfits , all just a little bit weird.
The monsters and dreamers of the circus were certainly on hand to inspire and entertain!
Then Robbie came with his drums, juggling stuff and parachute fun.
The lawn was falerie full of families trying things out.
There was also a poetry corner where children could write their own and read poems.
Beth made delicious cupcakes that all but disappeared -people were goblin them up all day for sure!
Great idea. Keats poetry set to music, threaded through with ghostly story.
The first drama was how my friend Tess could avoid the rustling of a bag of Haribos during the performance. We didn’t think they’d appreciate this added sound effect. She solved the problem by emptying the sweets into her handbag. (I hope she found all of them. Few things worse at the bottom of a handbag than old sticky sweets; perhaps bruised pears and spare toddler’s pants that fly out in a meeting when trying to find a pen – but that might just be me.)
If you know anything about poetry or remember it from school, Keats is almost certainly in the running order, so this came at it from a fresh angle.
The singing was impassioned, the piano beautiful but the story left me a little cold. Continue reading
‘I’m on that team
That says go forward
With a Head Full of Steam’
Martin Malone cut through the dark of a busy Central Community Centre by announcing the results of the meat raffle; prize a lamb shank.
Mysteriously no-one had the winning ticket, I’m sure that a prime bit of topside made its way back up north with Mr. Malone too.
Martin is a poet at home in a Swindon skin and there was a two-way warmth between performers and audience on the night, poetry the go-between, The Interpreter’s House the common denominator. Continue reading
Festival Chronicle 