I've had a poetry bonanza in England for the last few weeks. Firstly with the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival which was as wonderful as ever. It started with a fantastic workshop with Robert Wrigley who, with his charm and humour, had us all writing away. I attended a talk on Poetry Travels with Olivia McCannon and readings by Richie McCaffery, Kim Moore, Shazea Quraishi and Luke Yates. Close Readings, Craft Talks, Discussions and Short Takes. It was exhausting and exhilarating and the only problem was not being able to go to everything.
Back in London it was my turn to read. My first reading in public was at the wonderful Troubadour Cafe for the launch of the latest edition of Magma, number 57, one of my favourite poetry magazines. I had one poem in the magazine called '&' which I read, plus one other poem which I chose, called 'If I were an Animal'. The theme for this edition of Magma was The Shape of the Poem and look at the fabulous cover! It was an exciting evening with lots of poets reading some inventive and wonderful work and the atmosphere was warm and vibrant. I imagined that I would be terrified, and was certainly nervous, but the atmosphere carried me along and I had a fascinating evening.
My second reading, was a few days later, for Second Light, a network of women poets. I'd had a poem commended in their competition which was then published in their magazine Artemis Poetry. I love this magazine for its selection of poetry and for its articles which are hugely informative. I was given a 7 minute reading, which doesn't sound much, but seemed quite a long time to me. Strangely, I found this reading unsettling, as the room was small and the audience very close. I think I galloped my way to the end, but, as with every new experience, I learnt a lot, mostly about how not to read. I found it a very interesting event held at The Art Workers' Guild with some powerful poems being read. Moniza Alvi, who had judged the competition then read from her moving new collection At the Time of Partition.
So now I'm back in Portugal, in the middle of making turkey gravy to freeze for Christmas. There's not much poetry in that.
