Fire River Poets in September

Continuing their series of poetry events at The Brewhouse, Fire River Poets are pleased to announce that the guest poet for their reading on 2 September at 8.00pm will be the Cornwall-based poet and National Poetry Prize winner, Caroline Carver. Chairman of Fire River Poets, John Stuart, said “Caroline is well known to poetry lovers particularly in the South West and we are more than delighted to have someone of her stature to read for us.”

Members of Fire River Poets will also be reading during the evening and, as John is always at pains to point out “We always provide a platform for poets of all ages and levels of experience, so there will as usual be an open mic session during the evening for any poet who would like to come along and read. Poets who would like to take advantage of this should contact me to book a place and for further details either on 01823 252486 or by email: wj.stuart@sky.com.”

The reading begins at 8.00 pm, takes place in the Studio and costs £5.00. Tickets may be purchased from the Brewhouse box office. Enquiries and bookings on 01823 283244 or info@thebrewhouse.net.

Poetry café at The Brewhouse

Poetry lovers and, in particular, poets, whether they belong to a writers’ group or not, whether they have published any poems or not, whether they write seriously or not, are invited to come along to The Brewhouse to join us in a poetry café run by Fire River Poets. Cafes are open meetings at which members of the audience are invited to read their own work and to enter into discussion and debate with the guest poet and the chairman for the evening.

These are not ‘showcase evenings’ in which audiences are expected to listen in rapt silence, but participatory evenings for poets and poetry lovers to exchange views with published poets with a view to developing more confidence in writing, a better understanding of the world of modern poetry, both in terms of approaches to writing and of the publication ‘merry-go-round’. It is also an opportunity to get to know other lovers of poetry.

The chairman of the evening, John Stuart, who is also chairman of Fire River Poets, said “The important thing about a poetry café is that it is informal, friendly and unfussy. Anybody who feels uncertain about reading their work in public will soon realise that their audience is on their side. It is a great opportunity to see what it’s like and to learn how to read your work aloud.”

The guest poet for this freewheeling evening will be the popular local poet Genista Lewes who will talk about her own experience of poetry and learning how to express her own intimate thoughts. She will answer questions and will be happy to debate issues that arise as well as sharing experiences of when and how to seek publication.

The café begins at 8.00 pm on 1st April 2010, takes place in the Studio and tickets cost £5.00 - obtainable from the Brewhouse box office (01823 283244).

Heroes

HERO

Thinking about who my hero would be I realise that it is not any one man or woman. There came a time in my life when I became aware that all was not right with the world. I think that time was watching the News showing coffins of the American soldiers being laid out on the tarmac, during the Vietnam War.
I learned from Jean Jacques Rousseau that “Man is born free yet everywhere he is in chains”
I learned from Maya Angelou that it is possible to be gracious and forgiving and tolerant in the face of adversity and great hardship.
And I learned from an old friend Dennis Birch who died a few years ago a great piece of advice when he told me-
“I keep holding out the hand of friendship and it’s up to the person if they want to take it”

Who would have thought that in my lifetime I would have seen the Berlin Wall come down, the Twin Towers raised to the ground and the self sacrificing act of the rescue workers AND a black President in the White house, in one of the more prejudiced countries in the world.

So my Heroes are the ordinary men and women who become EXTRA ordinary bringing about changes and working tirelessly for the future to change the things that are wrong.

Invitation

I’ll let the tide come to me
wrinkling its skin and curling up
the beach with its whispering voice
giving me a tongue lashing with it’s
thirst quenching, gut wrenching bulk
pushing up pebbles and flotsam and sand
looting the lugworms burrows with salty liquor
shouting move back - move back - make way
covering the dips and hummocks of the shore
making it flat once more, kicking down castles
and moats, providing a mooring for boats and
fishermen’s floats, I’ll let the tide come to me
licking and creeping to my toes and I’ll let
its nose sniff me out like a dog wanting its tea
I’ll let the tide come to me while I sit ashore
watching and wanting the water to wash
like a brimful of hope from an ancient sea
cleansing and healing the devil in me
I’ll let the tide come to me

After your day of fishing

as we danced you told me
about your day, the breakfast
the people and the sausages

we waltzed on the carpet
hands held then you twirled me
about you, the tv on but we talked

and I could smell the scent of lake
and catch on your cheek
as we danced in the living room

you kissed me on my cheek
told me you loved me more
our end to the day was complete

with you dancing the minutes
knitting it back together
with hands and feet and lips

I thought it was about time someone got the ball rolling, so here is my piece from our recent meeting.

Ian

Closing Time

On the day they announced your demise, I walked between your aisles a few minutes before closing time, following the scars on the pale grey linoleum, where millions of feet had tramped and thousands of  buggies had been pushed.

I filled a bag with pic’n’mix for old-times sake, and observed your employees, pale-faced in their red jackets, lost souls wandering around in glazed silence, aligning some item on a shelf here, tidying a display there, purely out of habit.

Your automatic doors opened and closed of their own volition it would seem, unsure whether they should be letting customers in or keeping them out. And in the December twilight, I imagined the ghosts of a thousand shoppers, stretching back through your hundred-year history, herding in to say their final farewells.

In a flash-back, I felt my childhood excitement, perusing your shelves in search of a new outfit for my Action Man, before, as an extra treat, being taken to the ice cream parlour next door for a knickerbocker glory with hot butterscotch topping. 

It was then I remembered that you sold me my first long-playing record. ‘Top of the Pops’ it was called, if I remember correctly, and contained songs that had recently been chart hits. It was only when I got home and played it that I realised the songs were performed, not by the original artists, but by impostors. My mother, sensing my disappointment, took it back and demanded a refund. 

Where will we go now, I asked myself, making my way towards the forlorn woman at the checkout, to buy those things that fix electrical cable to the wall? And that plastic coated stretchy wire that holds up net curtains? Where will we go for cola bottles, fizz bombs, liquorice snakes and mini fried eggs? And metre-long chocolate bars and giant Quality Street at Christmas? Where will we go for that silver-backed tape, those self-adhesive rubber things that hold tea towels, and cheap CDs containing a hundred Motown hits from the sixties?

They couldn’t even sell you for a quid, I hear, the price that your usurpers - Poundland, Pound Stretcher, et al - purvey their out-of-date and sub-standard goods. And when it came to the crunch, you, the original ‘five-and-dime’, were hoisted by your own petard. 

I wanted to be the one who could say he didn’t hover with the vultures and partake in the feeding frenzy that occurred in the days before your automatic doors flapped shut for the last time. But I’m afraid I can’t; I found myself queueing among the greedy hordes to  buy a packet of dust masks and some half-price beige emulsion that has still to find a wall.

Now, as I wander my High Street, I can’t help but feel that something is missing, even though I rarely stepped through your doors. I observe your empty shell and watch the clearers using your scarred grey floor as a football pitch. I stop momentarily to read the plain printed sign, stuck with Blu Tack to your window, which says: ‘We are now closed forever’. 

more competitions so get writing....

Deadline 31st May

FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE
Fee: £3
Prizes: up to 75 guineas (yes really!)
Entry: www.frogmorepress.co.uk


FROME FESTIVAL SHORT STORY COMP
1000-2200 words
Fee: £5
Prizes: up to £300
Entry: www.fromefestival.co.uk

YEOVIL LITERARY PRIZE
2000 words or novel or poem
Fee: £5
Prizes: up to £1000 plus local award
Entry: www.yeovilprize.co.uk

GOOD LUCK!!!!