A place where ...

A community space, in the gallery of the Richard Jefferies Museum, where art will be zoomed into YouTube with Babycham, cheese and pineapple, psychedelia, You (as in Tube) and Hilda in one form or another. Sit and read poetry, talk about poetry, write poetry, and perform in front of your friends to the background music of Leo Sayer. Or sit and draw, read anything you like to a selection of 70s hits or the Sound of Silence. This is a project of Poetry Swindon and the Richard Jefferies Museum Trust.

Monday, 21 March 2016

An afternoon with Jinny Fisher & Rachael Clyne

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.

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:

"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:

Pool Pictures

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 

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.

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