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, 18 July 2016

St Josephs Catholic College

St Josephs really got into the groove! I reckon they'd have tried on the maxi dress if given the chance. Here they are playing with the 70's stuff and enjoying the virtual vibe!

A Morning with Wayne

I've known Wayne for a number of years, initially through Artswords Writers Cafe, and then as a regular reader at Poetry Swindon Open Mic. Wayne is a recovering alcoholic and he also suffers from mental illness. Poetry has helped Wayne in his recovery process and he has self-published several books to help share his ideas and poems more widely.  I was delighted when Wayne asked to be part of the lounge project as it has been such a pleasure to see him develop his work and grow in confidence through reading out loud and performance. It's an inspiration to others and to us at Poetry Swindon to see the importance of public engagement and how what we do can make a difference and perhaps even improve lives through poetry.

with Anna Selby

It was a real pleasure to meet Anna Selby in July - she's a woman who gets excited about life, and a brilliant conversationalist. She is 'the glass of sparkling pop', a 'ski trip'. Thanks for coming to the Lounge Anna! 

Two poems by Anna Selby

The First Time I Saw Your Winter

I rebranded snowdrops:
they turned into shame lilies,
juniper berries - Nordic furies,
leaves – luns: from the Old
meaning to let a breath
flee from idleness.

Your language
got more picasz, less hefda, more
shenğikï. Each word became a wire
birds sprang from.

Your turn now.
Shoo. Stand in front of the mirror
not knowing you’ve been named.
It will be as if, for the first time 
ever, you’ve just seen yourself.

Luns, picasz, hefda, and shenğikï are fictitious words.

Washing My Father
after Doina Ioaind

Sadness moved into my house.
It stood in the corner
until I stopped watching it.
When it tired, it spoke out from the dark.
Its voice was sisterly.

How long will you stay here? I asked.
But sadness only speaks when it wants to.
When its whim spins and points you
in a new direction.

When I turn back,
the oranges are black in the bowl.
I hold my father’s jaw.
His tremor ratchets through me.

Why do you lift your father like a drowned man? Sadness asks.
Huge waves are breaking over the burnt-out pier.