Tamar Yoseloff and Katy Evans Bush - Tuesday 22nd November
Tamar Yoseloff was born in the US in 1965. Since moving to London in 1987, she has been the organiser of the Terrible Beauty reading series at the Troubadour Coffee House, Reviews Editor of Poetry London magazine, and from 2000 to 2007 Programme Coordinator for The Poetry School. She had edited a number of anthologies including ‘A Room To Live In’, an anthology of poems based on works in Kettles Yard, Cambridge, to celebrate its fiftieth Anniversary .
'Tamar Yoseloff is emerging as one of the best poets of her generation.' Thomas Lux
She is now a freelance Creative Writing Tutor Her fourth and latest collection, City with Horns, is published by Salt and examines the life and work of the artist Jackson Pollock.
Katy Evans-Bush was born in New York City. At the age of nineteen she moved to London, where she now has three children and a no-pets clause. An editor in the not-for-profit sector, she writes essays and reviews as well as poetry, and is a regular contributor to the Contemporary Poetry Review.
'These poems enact this whole collection’s achievement: to ‘join together’ elements oft-considered mutually exclusive for a funny, serious, intelligent whole.' Magma
She teaches courses for The Poetry School and her blog Baroque in Hackney is regarded as one of those must read sources if you want to keep up with the modern poetry scene in the UK. Her first collection was ‘Me and the Dead’; it was followed this summer by , ‘Egg Printing Explained’, also published by Salt.
Tuesday 22nd November, The Punter, Open Mic floor spots, books for sale. Doors 7.30pm Readings 8pm. Tickets on the door only, £4/£3.
Guggenheim Museum, Venice
Just when I think nothing can move me,
room after room of Tintoretto, Veronese, Bellini,
the Virgin granting me her doleful eyes,
her pearly tears,
I enter a cool white palazzo,
find his huge canvas, which shows me the truth
of water and fire, in this place
of canals and candlelight, a city he never saw.
What he made was a world
in perpetual swirl, violent red, yellow bile,
the way the galaxy might look to a man stranded
in space, before science and logic takes hold.
And I stand before this picture,
the man who painted it
dead, like the masters shut away
in these palaces of art, their works their tribute;
wanting to pin beauty to the canvas,
dusty and flightless. But this picture lives, black
against the midday sun, legions of day-glo tourists
bobbing along the canal,
and I feel tears
welling up before I can make them stop.
I don't know why; I'm tired,
vulnerable in my light summer clothes,
he and I foreigners to a faith
which isn't ours: Christ on the cross,
the martyrdom of the saints, spelled out in
blood and gold.
Portrait of Ida
Attentive and green, she sits alone,
wife of the painter,
daughter of the blue and the rose:
their ghosts. She immerses her spoon
and stirs her coffee, watching
her husband, the painter, paint her. Her cup
gives a glow with its pink palette.
Interior, With Coffeepot
The other chair is pushed away
as if the artist had been sitting on it;
a coffee pot hovers on the table.
There is a woman there, and one cup.
‘Not only is the artist,’ he says, ‘a child.’
‘He is an only child.’ His wife sits by herself.
He sits by himself. They are joined together
by the two ends of the brush.