Annie Freud and Emma Harding - Tuesday 22nd March

Continuing with our sumptuous programme for the first half of 2011, our next event features the talents of two poets, Annie Freud, whose latest collection The Mirabelles was recently published by Picador and shortlisted for the T S Eliot Prize, and 2010 Poetry on the Lake winner and Keats-Shelley shortlistee Emma Harding.

Joyous, daring, engaging: Annie Freud's poetry delivers an exhilarating cornucopia - as Sarah Crown suggests, she 'collects odd and beautiful words and phrases... and embroiders them into the fabric of her poems like beads'. She studied English and European Literature at the University of Warwick, and her first collection The Best Man That Ever Was received the Glen Dimplex New Writers Award.

'Freud's poems are determinedly wry... the obvious delight the poet takes in language infuses her work.' The Guardian

Her second collection The Mirabelles was shortlisted for the 2010 T S Eliot Prize. Her father is the painter, Lucian Freud, her maternal grandfather was the sculptor, Sir Jacob Epstein, and her great-grandfather was Sigmund Freud. She is a tutor in poetry writing and lives in Dorset with her husband.

Emma Harding was born in 1976 and grew up in Birmingham. Her poems have been published in a number of magazines and anthologies including Magma, Acumen, Orbis, Dreamcatcher, Mslexia, Poetry Salzburg Review and Boho Women Peeling Oranges (Boho Press). She was recently shortlisted for the Keats-Shelley poetry prize 2010 and won the Silver Wyvern in the 2010 Poetry on the Lake competition. She works as a BBC radio producer.

'Great linguistic and conceptual verve' James Harpur

Tuesday 22nd March, The Punter, Open Mic floor spots, books for sale. Doors 7.30pm Readings 8pm. Tickets on the door only, £4/£3.


The look you shot me, milk-blue squid of Kimmeridge,
was one of recognition.
To you, I must have seemed an ogre, the kind that mothers
warn their children of. Something in you stiffened —

and the whole wild treble-clef of you leapt five foot
clear of the water,
then vanished through the bladder-wrack. Love you as I did,
I would have been the death of you.

And so, half-honoured and half-humbled,
I went back along the beach to the obsessive clink
of fossil-hunters' hammers, and the burdened buggies,

over the bridge and up the narrow, foot-worn path
where the eyes of people coming down declined
to meet the eyes of those returning to their cars.

Annie Freud