We switched on the two-bar electric fire, switched on the lights, patted dog, and shared a dish of cheese and pineapple. Then I sat back and enjoyed the fine company of two lovely poets, Jinny Fisher and Rachael Clyne. They came together as friends through the innovative project of Jo Bell which was 52. Many such friendships and networks have forged through this connection and it was great to hear from them how much it all meant, in terms of poetry development and the new friendships made.
52: Write a poem a week. Start Now. Keep Going. Jo Bell and guests, is available from Nine Arches Press.
52: Write a poem a week. Start Now. Keep Going. Jo Bell and guests, is available from Nine Arches Press.
Here's part of our chat.
Poetry reading by Jinny Fisher:
"My poems start nice but they often end up quite surprisingly not nice. I often write about a parental abuse or a kind of borderline abuse … "
Poems read:
Hare Mother
A Mother and Daughter Fold Sheets
Pool Pictures
A Future Particle Physicist Interrogates his Mother
Poetry Reading with Rachael Clyne:
Poetry Reading with Rachael Clyne:
"I seem to have been writing quite a bit about clothes … I have a thing about shoes, I have to have a pair of sturdy shoes to last me when everything goes pear-shaped"
Poems read:
Pinafore Dress
Armageddon Shoes
Art of Fading
Magic Suit
It was a pleasure welcoming them both to the lounge. Here's a couple of poems in print too:
It was a pleasure welcoming them both to the lounge. Here's a couple of poems in print too:
Pool Pictures
by JINNY FISHER
Arms to the sky, legs flung wide, she launches
her budding body into the deep end.
His camera snatches her, mid-air.
She does not seek his eye but paddles
with a gasp and a laugh to poolside.
She leaps again and he rewinds the film.
Back at home he will mount and frame
his prints, exhibiting them
to family and friends.
She will leave the room, as she glimpses
a different image, behind her father’s eyes.
Magic Suit
by RACHAEL CLYNE
I wanted to know if they’d left his teeth in.
I never saw him without his teeth.
They offered me a sherry. I went in.
Low hum of air conditioning,
two carnations on his chest,
his face pillow-smooth.
I couldn’t look at his hands
his elegant fingers and the crooked
one from the accident before I was born.
I touched his arm.
Eighty-five, a good innings, said the nurse,
giving me his hearing aids, glasses,
his fake Rolex, still ticking
clothes in a black bin bag.
As she handed me his credit cards
I knew there’d be debts to clear.
Southport Tailor’s Magic Suit
read the clipping; he kept scores of copies.
One jacket to fit all sizes was his claim.
He hinted it was something to do with
the way he cut the shoulders, but fearful
of being ripped off
its secret dies with him.
