Programme for 2014
CB1 Poetry continues at The Boathouse but moving to the fourth Thursday of the month, and we have a fantastic programme lined up for 2014:
Thursday 23rd January 2014 -- Emma Danes, Rebecca Watts and Adam Crothers plus open mic floor spots -- The Boathouse, 8.15pm, £5/£4
Thursday 27th February 2014 -- Sarah Howe and Fran Lock plus open mic floor spots -- The Boathouse, 8pm, £5/£4
Thursday 27th March 2014 -- Ann Drysdale and Caroline Gilfillan plus open mic floor spots -- Royal Cambridge Hotel, 8pm, £5/£4
Thursday 24th April 2014 -- Tara Bergin and Julith Jedamus plus open mic floor spots -- The Boathouse, 8pm, £5/£4
Thursday 22nd May 2014 -- Emily Berry plus open mic floor spots -- The Boathouse, 8pm, £5/£4
Thursday 24th April -- Tara Bergin and Julith Jedamus
From April onwards we return to The Boathouse, with two brilliant Carcanet poets reading for us on Thursday 24th April.
Tara Bergin was born and grew up in Dublin, moving to England in 2002. Her poems have appeared in the TLS, Poetry Review, PN Review, Poetry London, Modern Poetry in Translation, Best British Poetry 2012, The Forward Book of Poetry. Her debut collection, This is Yarrow, is published by Carcanet.
Julith Jedamus grew up in the mountains of Boulder, Colorado. For the past sixteen years she has lived in London. She began writing novels, switched to short stories, and now writes verse, some of which was anthologised in New Poetries V. Her first collection, The Swerve, was published by Carcanet in 2012.
Thursday 24th April, The Boathouse, Open Mic floor spots, books for sale. Doors 7.30, readings 8pm. Tickets on the door only, £5/£4.
AT THE GARAGE
Ask me: have I fallen in love with the mechanic? Perhaps - perhaps, for a moment. He doesn’t know what it is. It’s his hands - so thickly black with engine oil, so hard-working, and in such high demand. Ask me: is there violence in the dirt? Perhaps - perhaps, for a moment. Like a criminal’s thumb which gets held firmly by the prison officer and is then rolled hard onto gummed paper so that we know, we know, that he is done for - and even the back of the mechanic’s hands as well as the palms, are all inked black, and everything they touch will be evidence of him - the keys, the white receipt, my own hand or cheek were he to touch it. Ask me, ask me how that makes me feel! My cheeks turn pink with the thought of it, while his blushes, if he had blushed, would be hidden behind grease - a soft deep dirt that is soft and thick like the ink in tins that etchers use. It makes the whites of his eyes whiter, and the blues bluer - Yes, perhaps I am almost in love with the mechanic. But it is terribly awkward, face to face. It is terribly awkward to be in such close proximity to the mechanic, and the dirty girl on the calendar who is always there, just visible from the small window where I go afterwards, to pay.
In Memory of the Photographer Wilson ‘Snowflake’ Bentley, Who Died of Pneumonia after Walking through a Blizzard Near Jericho, Vermont, December 23, 1931.
Beauty was, for him, cold, hexagonal, perfect in all its parts, beheld once and once only. Locked beneath his lens, light-spun and light-refracting, flecked with coal dust and pollen, his flakes shone with lunar loveliness… And we can see, in these hundred-year- old prints, plain evidence of his attention, care, and chilling confidence: in the manifold world, its willed evanescence, its subtle signs and wild and blinding storms. Did it surprise him, to be killed by a surfeit of white - a blazing increment of stars, ferns, wands and bright escutcheons, an argent army of perfectness? Look, and see his wind-bent back, his boots caked with ice, his glazed eyes… Did he have, in his last seditious delirium, one brave black thought: did God murder us all with too much love?