Post Poetry Festival time

So that means not much time and new poetry books to read, draft poems to work on, ideas to sift, and images to ponder on,

like

how can I stop that photo moving as I type (it just did),

how wonderful peeling paint can be,

and the question that I asked myself all weekend   ... is there a long lost letter in that box?










As you can see in this second photo I found many examples of twinned materials around and about The Richard Jefferies Museum, the main poetry festival venue this year.
Do go see this wonderful small museum, unsurprisingly its between two roundabouts in Swindon, more details here http://richardjefferiesmuseum.blogspot.co.uk

and the water, on a sunny Sunday morning, with the birds, dog walkers, babies in prams. A blessing to be so close to fit in a walk before the third poetry workshop and my poetry reading slot.















It was a surprise to be asked to read, a nice surprise, and thanks to mobile IT I found a poem.

It was also a surprise to see the Tent fill and fill with people, well, mainly some very good poets, for the main event - a reading by two very esteemed poets Mona Arshi https://www.monaarshi.com and Todd Swift http://toddswift.blogspot.co.uk.








I chose to read a poem called One Afternoon at Teatime  which was recently published online by Pulse. It was great opportunity to publicise Pulse's work. Here's a recent poem they published http://pulsevoices.org/index.php/archive/poems/872-someone-loved-her-too#comments

 I've copied  One Afternoon at Teatime  below, but do please read it online at http://pulsevoices.org/index.php/archive/poems/801-one-afternoon-at-teatime and read the comments  ... as C. S Lewis said we read to know we are not alone.

One Afternoon at Teatime

Arthur stops close to where we sit waiting
for the person you call the activities lady
to serve us drinks and biscuits.
He moves his wheelchair with slippered feet,
so we become another group.
You introduce me, This is my sister,
I nod to Arthur and watch his mouth form words
that seem reluctant to reach me, hang
in the air unsteady, diminished.

He continues to speak, I continue to nod,
I think he's asking about my name,
you seem to understand, or do you guess?
I'm trying to work out if there's a knack
I've yet to grasp, a way to hear
the hush and lisp of his voice, because
all the time you've been here, where
you don't want to be, after all these months
Arthur is the first person you've introduced me to.

We choose our biscuits, I drink tea, you have coffee
Arthur has half milk, half coffee and continues to speak.
I think he's talking about his family, two daughters, a son,
I'm unsure so I ask is he watching the rugby?
No, his game is football and there's something
about a golden goal. I say what position did you play
and hear, clearly, outside left.
Something rights itself inside me.