Hi All, I recieved the following and thought I'd pass it on...
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Feel free to copy the following to your blog and spread
the word. Let poetry bless the blogosphere once again!
WHAT: A Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading
WHEN: Anytime February 2, 2010
WHERE: Your blog
WHY: To celebrate the Feast of Brigid, aka Groundhog Day
HOW: Select a poem you like - by a favorite poet or one of your own - to
post February 2nd.
RSVP: If you plan to publish, feel free to leave a comment and link on
this post: moondrummer.blogspot.com
Last year when the call went out there was more poetry in
cyberspace than I could keep track of. So, link to whoever you hear
about this from and a mighty web of poetry will be spun.
Feel free to pass this invitation on to any and all bloggers.
This is now an annual event, started by Reya.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Invitation to The Fifth Annual Brigid in the Blogosphere Poetry Slam
Sunday, 24 January 2010
January Meeting
Hello fellow scribes,
It was a heroic coterie of women who risked life and frozen limbs through Nottingham’s early wintered streets and tucked themselves snugly into Minxy’s plush apartment this month. After making sure that everyone was seated and sated with tea in teasing mugs (you should have seen them), and a barrel of baked biscuits, we proceeded to attempt to complete the now yearly task of producing relevant writings for February’s Notttingham Rainbow Heritage exhibition.
The suggesting themes were as follows...
1. Gay icons – inspired by the London exhibition, who were your icons?
2. That’s so Gay! – any piece of writing inspired by this popular denigration
3. Write about something that has happened to you, relating to your sexuality, that you would either love or hate to see happening in the future
4.Imagine yourself at age 80, looking back at the differences, good or bad, that your future world has with the current year 2010.
The following was my 15mn freewrite... there were many other inspired pieces, and it would be great to see more added to this blog, so please post yours here soon :-)
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I stared out of my window as I do every morning nowadays. I love to watch the birds swinging from the feeders. They’re so rare these days that I sometimes wait half an hour before glimpsing a single one. Once upon a time I’d find whole families of blue tits and sparrows fighting over a ball of fat. These days a bag of food lasts all winter. Anyway, there I was, dreamily soaking up the dazzling winter’s sunny snow rays, when a couple came gliding out of the church opposite, swallowed up soon into the fold of family and friends. People were throwing confetti and capturing the event on the life recorder. Their virtual relations, beamed in from abroad, were observing from their Holoslates, foot-square sheets that emanate a reconstituting light from their position on the ground.
My thoughts were propelled back to fifty years earlier, when marriage was legal for friends of mine. It had taken fifteen years of couples using the commitment ceremonies successfully, year after year, before the government agreed to allow commitments to become marriages, and there’d been much questioning about whether this was the right thing to allow, or whether any single-sex couples even wanted marriage anymore. Then, all of a sudden it was allowed, and there were a few years of celebration before it really sank in that this was now an accepted process for all to be able to demonstrate their love, no holds barred.
All was well until the food started running out during the big freeze, and people were looking for scapegoats.
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See you all next month... and don't forget, come to visit us at the exibition in February at the Broadway cinema.
Haven't we all been quiet
Sapphist Writers appear to have been in hibernation for the winter, but I assure you this is not so! We've been connecting beautifully in the real world and neglecting cyberspace. At the moment, all energy is going in to the Nottingham Rainbow Heritage Exhibition at the Broadway, starting February 23rd. More about this soon. Meanwhile, I just wanted to write my own little tribute to what has turned out to be the most magical coming-together of women.
Ode to Sapphist Writers
Some who show a tendency for linguistic contortions;
Some who give their lovelorn angst Shakespearean proportions.
We all get a kick with taking words and messing around,
Found ourselves hooked by a poem about a dressing gown.
Some readings kept us warmer when the women’s centre froze;
We shared our hearts so easily, and loved the words we chose,
Blushed and smiled and cried and laughed and nibbled on our biscuits,
Talked about the secret worlds that make us feel like misfits.
Their writing gives me goosebumps, their writing makes me pensive;
Sharing with such talent, then, should make me apprehensive
And yet I find their gentle warmth allows my pen to flow;
I share my thoughts, however small, in their accepting glow.
Okay, it's not really long enough or, for that matter, poetic enough, to be called an ode but I hope it brings a feeble smile to those who read it, in which case it was half an hour well spent!
Monday, 12 October 2009
tonights meeting
Tonight we wrote on the theme of ‘favourites’ - music, colours or food. After a bit of a slow start where I tried (and failed) to find adequate words in praise of Hallelujah, as orgasmic as mashed potato or as lush as any shade of green, I tuned into the following words which I'm sharing with you exactly as written (scary!!). Karen x (Monday 12th Octobr 2009)
there are some things you want to feel, touch, say, do, hear, smell
and there are others that do all those things to you;
whether you want them to or not
things you feel were there at the beginning
things you hope will be there at the end
things that make you weep when you want to rage,
things that make you rage when you want to fall
that trip you up when you want to fly
and that shoot an arrow through your heart
when you soar beyond
letting the pain slip out of your breast
and float you down to earth
a feather at a time.
the lightest thing, the hardest thing, the wildest thing.
the heart aching yes,
the gut wrenching please
the take me with you when you go
and the no, the no, the no.
the wrapping round like a pashmina
the heaving up like coal sacks
the dragging back like trunks of forgotten pleasure
the sinking down, like dead weight to nowhere, returns to earth
Thank you Renee for tonights ideas and Jimmy Cliff for the associated feelings.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Where did that one go?
Aaaah, it's October and I think the world is caught up in that back to school rush of busyness that can make us forget to stop and be creative, silly, playful. That's why Sapphist Writers is here, a little gentle reminder to just write - don't save up your words for that Something Important you're going to write when you retire - write now, write free, write in fun, in play, and squander your words wherever you will.
I recently noticed a rather trivial piece of my writing pop up in QB and stopped for a second - was that really me, the women who edits and edits and never sends anything off, sending some casual little snippet out into the world without a thought? Yes, it is me, thanks to this writing network! Being brave enough to share even when I don't feel I've something mighty to say. Gosh, I might not even read through this post before putting it up . . .
Next meeting, all you wonderful discovered and undiscovered Sapphist Writers, is this coming Monday 12th October. Come and play!
Thursday, 10 September 2009
Monday 14: Next Meeting of Sapphist Writers
Don't forget to come to the Sapphist Writer's meeting this coming Monday, the 14th, at 7:15pm! We'll meet at the Nottingham Women's Centre (30 Chaucer Street) as usual. See you there!
Click here to read post in full..Saturday, 5 September 2009
Words to Sandy's poems
Do not feel beyond this point
We cannot tolerate sadness here,
It echoes with our own.
You must not let us see your fear . . .
It does not need to be known.
Your anger is unwelcome;
No matter if it’s justified
You may very well have a reason
But you should keep it all inside.
In time, you’ll learn containment;
You’ll not let anything show,
Your exterior will shine contentment
While your inside is hollow.
You’ll be corroded to the core,
A dump for toxic waste;
A brightly painted steel door
Protecting our distaste.
Your pain might be infectious
And being cold is the only art;
Our sensibilities are more precious
Than your beleaguered heart.
Waiting for the train
We heard its whistle once again
And stood, still, waiting for a glimpse.
You and I, in limbo, in the grey,
Hardly expecting to be here,
Forgetting our mutual joy
Under the cloud oppressing us.
Over the grey weeks that we walked,
Catching sound but never a sight,
We strained to glimpse our bashful train
And on this of all days, it came.
We barely had the faith to wait
But somehow we stood, mesmerised
By a far-off whistle’s promise
And distant chugging on the air.
A moment before hope ran out
The plume of steam appeared in view,
A purer cloud beneath the grey,
Wreathing the engine’s ancient black,
Like signs of spring crept upon us.
I saw joy in your face, and yet
You would not take it as a signTo be patient, my love, and hope.
Wallpaper
How can she not remember
Why she tears at me distractedly,
Ripping long shreds from me,
Without remembering
A father’s hands shredding into her?
She leaves when he comes to her
And finds herself here, after.
Picking at me as if I can tell her.
As if to uncover a secret
She has buried in the plaster.
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