May 11th - Sheenagh Pugh and Daniel Hardisty

Sheenagh Pugh was born in 1950 and lives in Shetland. She is the author of several poetry collections, including Id's Hospit (1997); Stonelight (1999), winner of the 2000 Arts Council of Wales Book of the Year Award; The Beautiful Lie (2002), shortlisted for the 2003 Whitbread Poetry Award; and The Movement of Bodies (2005), shortlisted for the T. S. Eliot Prize. Her Selected Poems was published in 1990; Later Selected Poems was published in 2009.

Sheenagh Pugh also translates poems, mainly from German but also from French and Ancient Greek, and is the author of two novels: Kirstie's Witnesses (1998) and Folk Music (1999). Her book, The Democratic Genre, published in 2005, is a critical study of fan fiction as a literary genre.

"Pugh is a cool, elegant poet. Her often quirky elisions and voyages have a quiet poignancy" – Poetry Wales

"Pugh's poetry evinces that fine quality of light which makes you feel while it lasts a special sense of freedom" – W S Milne, Agenda

Daniel Hardisty was born in Bradford, West Yorkshire in 1978. He studied English and Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia from 1996 to 2000. His poems have appeared in Poetry Ireland Review, The Rialto, New Welsh Review, Orbis, Envoi, UEA’s Reactions series and elsewhere. He is currently working on his first collection.

www.danielhardisty.com

[Tuesday 11th May 2010, Michaelhouse, Doors 7.30pm Readings 8pm £5/£3]

from "Murat Reis"

That city: brick, grey stone.
When the wind was right,

it breathed the sweetness
of brewery malt.

Each winter, canals froze
under heavy linen skies;

boys’ skates scribbled
grisaille on the ice.

A street brazier’s red
warmed his hands, stung his eyes.

Sheenagh Pugh; taken from Long-Haul Travellers (Seren 2008)


Trace

I am so temporary
even the mayfly laughs at me.

I leave myself on towels,
my fingerprints raise like steam.

My houses are hotel rooms.
My marriages hotel room rentals.

My biography an answerphone message,
or a label on a jar.

My children floating dandelion pods
that play in the summer gusts,

and come to rest
on the earth’s brute cheek.

Every word I speak is the detune
before the radio’s clear pitch.

I drop like a stone through
the mirror’s ripple.

Daniel Hardisty