'Live' Poetry Reviews - by David Pike

Please note: the Pulsar Poetry Webzine editor may not necessarily agree with the views expressed in poems, poems are the personal thoughts of the originators

The following is a slightly truncated report relating to a Pulsar Poetry Evening held at The Marlborough Oxfam Bookshop, High Street, Marlborough on 6th July, 2011.  The evening was a success with the usual recognised poets in attendance, poets who mainly come from the general Swindon area; the stalwarts.  It was slightly disappointing that no poets from Marlborough attended this rare event. Perhaps our publicity machine had fallen over at some stage - oh well. However, the evening moved on at a pace with with some really interesting work aired and with an occasional song and percussion instrument in the mix.  The evening was filmed for You Tube and links to videos can be found on the Pulsar Web Photo Gallery page, click on the following link:

I started the ball rolling and read a few of my poems including 'Spoon Fed' and 'Junior Troll.'  Junior Troll is about my love of bureaucracy, hierarchies, and the burden of input, when input is of little or no value.

Alan Fryer read poems and sang songs including, 'When My Jenny Comes Back,' and was accompanied by Rob Stredder on percussion.  Lyrics from 'When My Jenny Comes Back,' included, ". . . when she went off with Danny I was really awfully upset, you can see it won't last, I'll be there when she calls.  So I'm saving myself for the day when my Jenny comes home . . ."  It was good to meet and hear Alan.  This was his first Pulsar event.

Foster caring and (possibly) adoption, was the subject matter of Eve Kimber's poem, 'Who Am I.' Verse included, "All those times you said you were coming and I sat on the stairs, and I waited and waited, and you didn't come. Then I said when I'm old enough, I shall look for my father no matter how long it takes, and when I find him I shall say, 'do you know who I am?'"

John Richardson's poem, 'On Being Written Down,' was about a child's early attempts at writing.  Verse included, "O she writes, o after o, her first string of pearls, and then remembers her brother's admonition, places an inky finger between each battered moon, looks up between hairfall, hands streaked with felt tip . . ."

Tony Hillier came equipped with stage props, including a Tommy Cooper type Fez hat, and a striking multi-coloured gown. He also brought along a laptop computer.  This extra effort added to the evening and the sense of occasion.  Tony's poem 'Bassett Biker Brigade,' referred to an event that happened on Mothers' Day during year 2010, when 20,000 + motorcyclists rode through the small market town of Wootton Bassett to remember  soldiers injured or killed in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Verse included, "The sun rose high in a NATO blue sky, over bearded, balding and bum-fluff bikers, over Bassett.  Green zone Hullavington, locusts swarm from dawn; Harleys, Kawasakis, Royal Enfields, Triumphs from Caerphilly, Southampton, London, Luton, Leeds . . ."

In the past we've heard a few poems about about Barbury Castle, a lofty and ancient hill fort, near Swindon.  Rob Stredder's poem, 'September in Barbury Castle,' was about the pleasurable and innocent activity of kite flying. Verse included, "Watching people flying kites.  Crows skanking, steeply upwind.  Wellingtons on, kites in small hands, dreams of hot tea with biscuits.  Bodies swaying talking to beeches, rooks nesting there on the nearest high place, now that the elms have gone . . ."

All in all it was a good enjoyable evening; many thanks to the Marlborough Oxfam Bookshop staff for a warm welcome.  Hopefully we made a few quid for them.  DP.

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The following is a very short report relating to a Pulsar Poetry Evening held at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard village, near Swindon, on 17th March, 2011.  The evening was poorly attended with only myself and Armando Halpern reading poems, although a couple did turn up late, (with guitar), but appeared too shy to actually perform - which is fair enough.  We did have a reasonably sized audience so Armando and I went through our poetry repertoire. Some of the poems, (and my guitar instrumental), were videoed and have been uploaded to You Tube, see links below. The evening finished at the usual hour, just before pub closing time. The recently purchased new P.A. system worked fine and will allow for greater flexibility for other venues, (it's much lighter to lug around). Sad news: The Goddard Arms is now up for sale; who can tell what will happen when the sale eventually goes through.  This poetry evening could be the last Pulsar event at this pub - shame about the turnout.  DP.

Armando Halpern, above, performing at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, on 17th March 2011.  Click on the following link to You Tube to watch a video of Armando performing his poem, Breaking News: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNxdH6loLG4

David Pike, above, performed a number of his poems at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, on 17th March 2011.  Click on the following links to You Tube to watch videos of DP performing his poems / playing guitar:

To view a video of David Pike performing his poem, Spirits, click on the following You Tube link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3eTOZQtK2M

To view a video of David Pike performing his poem, Holiday Armageddon, click on the following You Tube link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BszTvaRPUQ4

To view a video of David Pike performing self penned guitar instrumental Dangerous Dog, click on the following You Tube link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QAsRlylMERk

To view other videos of poets performing at Pulsar events enter the Pulsar Photo Gallery page via the following link: and click on the links to You Tube, as shown.

The following review is a snapshot / abridged view of a Pulsar Poetry Evening held on 18th January, 2011 at The Carriers' Arms, South Marston.  As usual I give up-front apologies for errors of notation and omissions.

The Carriers Arms was a new venue for a Pulsar Poetry Evening.  With all venues the organiser has to think of suitability and convenience; you don't want to lug a heavy P.A. system for miles, together with all of the other required gear.  The Carriers Arms was a good, if slightly remote venue.  The landlords, Amanda and Didier let us use the function room which is a small dining area separate from the public bars.  The room was well lit, warm and splendidly suitable for our event, with a car park immediately to the side, with an adjoining door.  The event was well attended with some interesting poems / songs aired. 

Note: the evening was filmed and videos have been posted to You Tube, (with poets' permission).  You may easily view the videos via links on the Pulsar Photo Gallery page, click on the following link to reach that page:

As per the norm I started the evening by playing self penned acoustic guitar instrumental 'Locks Lane.'  I can play this effortlessly at home but tend to make clumsy errors when playing live.  This version was ok, after a clumsy start.  I then read a few of my poems including 'Crannell Trees,' which was about cross country running near Challow in the 1960s.

Robert Stredder's poem, 'Oxford Gardens Retrospective,' included, "Unafraid of ivy, with old bent green range roofs, by rose over stone carved doors, small hidden patios, rolled lawns healing the soil. . ."  Another of Rob's poem featured the picturesque Cotswold village of Coln St. Aldwyns, near Bibury - an idyllic view of a past time.  Rob also brought a percussion instrument with him, later provided musical accompaniment for Cristina Newton.

Keith Hilling and his brother also attended.  Keith read his poem, 'The Boxer,' which was written whilst in Lancaster during year 2009.  Verse included, "High above my outstretched hands the canopy of sky, the moon is heavy, punch drunk and stout, round as a flat skull. . ."  Keith's poem 'Precipitation,' was fittingly about the weather, "The red brick lines of houses, those shadows on each side of my street, look dark between precipitation . . ."

David Gill has been in the wars recently, slipped and damaged his ankle.  Was this the inspiration for his poem, 'Compensation?'  Verse included, "One spring morning, oh yes, gobbets of lilac blossom distracted my eyes from the can littered path 'till I almost ran into the old fellow, bowed and wheezing he was . . ."  David's poem, 'Holywell Music Room' referred to the famous Oxford venue which is acclaimed for its acoustic qualities.  The poem commenced, "Back bench, half asleep, I jerk back to consciousness as the cello saws . . ."

David Gill's son, Tom Gill was also present, was over on trip from his home in Japan.  Tom's poem/songs were witty and informative and persons present were invited to sing along, which we did.  The first poem was entitled,  'One Yen,' and referred to an incident in Yokohama.  Verse included, "All he had in his pockets when they found him was a bundle of till receipts for the cheapest type of whisky, and cheapest kind of beer, a losing ticket for the races, a button, a flower, a broken pen and a single one yen coin . . . all he had in his pocket was one yen."  Tom's other song / poem was entitled, Mr. Nakasone,' and verse included, "Mr. Nakasone is a good friend of mine, and he comes from Okinawa, he knows what he knows and goes where he goes, I want to go too . . ."

Hilda Sheehan's prose poem, 'Henry and Susie are Missing,' had a slightly ethereal feel to it, "Susie, this is the bed speaking, and I wanted moon blow broken kiss words, mostly blink spelt; soon an open window throws cold on the speaking bed . . ."  The poem 'Wooden Family,' included, "He was wooden or made of wood, she is and should made a child with five fingers on two hands, so solid, his body made not in love . . ."

Have you had a religious experience?  Michael Scott's poem, 'Opposite the Lima Sheraton. . . ' refers to a religious experience he didn't have; "bodily fluids cartograph sheets, sheet stains map the filth path crawl to get here.  Night blackens sudden, dark as a morning vodka bottle, impossible to reach, even stood on my own shoulders, a window slot . . . then I see him, Christ on his cross, gliding towards me . . ."  The poem, 'What's on Your Mind,'  referred to contacting long lost acquaintances through media such as Facebook.  Verse included, "Polish, skin tight, pretty, find friends let go the first time, postage stamp, a girl top right . . . "

Tony Hillier's poem, 'Honey on Elbow,' was a tribute to a recently deceased Indian lady who was an employee / strike leader at the Grunwick dispute which took place from  1976 - 1978.  Verse included, "Grunwick striker nails trade union, striking true today, "honey on elbow, smell it, feel it, can't taste it she said."" (Trade union support "is like honey on elbow.")  'Spit in Fire,' was about the aftermath of war, "never let a shattered soldier sit each day in neglected chair, never ever, sit with him, make him tea, let him spit in the fire . . ."

Cristina Newton sang a couple of songs in Spanish including, 'Vidalita de la Malena.'  Cristina's poem 'Battered Moons,' could be a metaphor about an ugly town that only receives second hand light; it relates to the Cassini Equinox Mission.  Verse include," . . . from Ithaca Joseph looks to Phoebe, with the ingrained loyalty of years he smoothly fulfils the agenda of watchman. . ."

Dr John Forster then gave a talk about the South Marston / Swindon Hammer Man poet, Alfred Williams.  Alfred Williams was ahead of his time, was a self taught scholar; an intellectual genius who wrote ten books of poetry and was much maligned in his time - was thought to be above his station.  Amongst other jobs he worked as a blacksmith at the Swindon railway works and wrote the telling book, 'Life in the Railway Factory.'  Alfred Williams died in poverty in 1930.  It is only now that his literature is recognised.

The following is an abridged snapshot of the Pulsar Poetry Evening held at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, near Swindon on 26th October, 2010.  As usual I give an up-front apologies for notation errors and omissions. DP.

It’s not advisable to pre-empt ‘live’ poetry events.  They tend to be an unknown quantity.  Will the venue be packed with poets / musicians or will there be a handful of people?  On driving to The Goddard Arms, using the usual route via Broad Hinton, we were dismayed to see the road from Broad Hinton to Clyffe Pypard had been closed for road works.  The black and yellow sign said ‘No Entry,’ but fortunately had a let out clause, ‘Unless for Access.’  We risked it, drove over the rough surface avoiding the raised iron work. 

On the way in I thought the road closure setback heralded impending disaster; how would poets be able to get to The Goddard Arms?  There aren’t many (obvious) alternative routes to Clyffe Pypard.  I needn’t have worried.  The Goddard Arms slowly filled with poets and before long we were nearing capacity with poets sitting on the floor because chairs were taken.  There was a family from York in attendance with young poet / singer song writer, Jonathan Taylor.  We also noted two German blokes, a Serbian guy called Boro Vukasinovic and a lady from Idaho; all attended to spectate only.

Note: the evening was filmed and videos have been posted to You Tube, (with poets' permission).  You may easily view the videos via links on the Pulsar Photo Gallery page, click on the following link to reach that page:  

I started the ball rolling; played self-penned guitar instrumental ‘Locks Lane,’ then read a few of my poems including ‘Drastic’ which has the hook line, “. . . it was a drastic thing to do. . .”

Chantelle Smith’s poem ‘Circulation,’ referred to an ancient civilisation and included, “Veins and arteries under the skin of ancient habitations are all hot with human energy, filled with the din of voices, the strong tide flows forth . . .” Chantelle also sang songs accompanied by Tallis Kimberley. See details under Tallis’s name, below.

The Poem ‘Exams for Romance,’ read by Jonathan Taylor highlighted teenage angst. Jonathan recalled taking an exam with a very fanciable young girl close by.  Verse included, “the clock ticks, each movement of the second hand echoing through . . . sharing a few seconds of our allotted time together . . . she sits just in front of me.  We were thrown together by the sheer coincidence of surname . . .” Later Jonathan sang his song, ‘Be My Doctor Who Girl.’  The tongue-in-cheek song was about fancying Doctor Who’s glamorous assistants, (and finding a suitable equivalent).  I think he was probably thinking along the lines of Billie Piper?

Moggies.  You either like them or are less than enchanted.  We have two cats by the way.  Rob Stredder’s cat has just given birth to four ginger kittens.  Rob’s poem, ‘Kittens,’ included, “It’s hard being a kitten, eating, slurping, pinning at the milk bar of the mother cat, rolling about fighting your brothers and sisters in paddy-paw play, spinning, mock war hunting . . .”

Tallis Kimberley referred to a recent trip to Devizes Museum and of viewing a stuffed lion lodged in a glass case, (the type of lion is now extinct).  The visit inspired the poem, ‘Horatio, the Probably Cape or Possibly Barbary Lion.’  Verse included, ‘Horatio, the probably Cape or Possibly Barbary lion, resides behind dusty glass, you’ll find him in the lecture hall and there are things he’d like to ask, “I may be extinct,” he’d say, “whatever my kind is . . . the point should be that there aren’t any more.  We’ve been shot for collections, for our teeth, for our hides, for trophies on the wall . . .”’   Tallis also sang her lilting song ‘Gathering Summer In’ and was accompanied by Chantelle Smith; “plum tree harvest, crumble cake, fruit to stew and fruit to bake . . .”

David Gill spoke of the rare phenomenon of a white coloured blackbird; his poem was entitled, ‘White Magic.’  Verse included, “Our neighbour, the classics professor, was surprised to learn that the white bird in her back garden was a blackbird.  “A white blackbird, who ever would have thought it . . . how lucky you are . . .”’

The poem by Keith Hilling entitled ‘Man Driving Heavy Plant,’ conjured images of a character, “he was the digger, he was a big loud brute of a man, with brick hands that smelt of turf and sod and his back was arched like a late October moon.  The green belt under his gut held him together . . .”

Andrew Barber aired his poem, ‘War.’  I thought the reading was particularly good, came from the heart and was emotionally charged.  Verse included, “. . . on Flanders fields or shot from European skies the two world wars created a power vacuum that the 60s were aching to fill.  And what defined the 60s? the rebellion, the outrage against war either cold or Vietnamese. The social change that would not exist without the working class moving into positions long closed . . .”

Hilda Sheehan said she’d recently been involved in an on-line music argument and as a result wrote her poem, ‘If Music.’  The poem, in full, read: “Since all the jazz dropped out of mind and made opera of high voice, and country music was the last thing he’d listen to, at night she took off with all the rock and he was left R & Bd, not knowing what could make a difference, so she sang what he liked and love blossomed in a pond of pop.”

The poem ‘Water Resistant to a Depth of 1000 Tears,’ related to an unfortunate gift received when the recipient had hours to kill in unfortunate surroundings.  Verse from Michael Scott’s poem included: “Insane, clinical fact, not words, you and the white coated girl said on my birthday when you gave me the watch that marked my madhouse minutes.  Surgical silver surrounded a nervous wrist tick covering cuts not wounds . . .”

The following is an abridged snapshot of the Pulsar Poetry Evening held at The White Hart, Wroughton, near Swindon on 10th June 2010. Note: a selection of poems / song / guitar instrumentals performed during the evening were videoed and posted to You Tube, with performers’ consent.  To view on-line visit the You Tube site and type the word PulsarPoet into the search box or simply visit the Photo Gallery of Pulsar Poetry Webzine and click on the links.  As usual I give the up-front apologies for notation errors and omissions. I started the evening rolling by reading a few of my poems including 'Between Minds,' and 'Tiny Fish. During the evening I also played two self-penned guitar instrumentals, 'Locks Lane,' and 'Skylark.' DP.

Katherine T. Owen read some of her poems including, 'Tempting Fate.'  Verse extract, "She tells me something good that's happened and looks around for wood to touch so as not to bring bad luck, and I reflect sadly of how we have a sense of fate hanging around, ready to pounce . . ."

Have you considered the world from upside down?   John Richardson did in his poem, 'Somersault.'  Verse included, "Will you do it I asked knowing I'd start a perfect synchrony.  Their knees bend, bodies tuck and with six small hands spread, my grandchildren take hold of the earth as if it were nothing . . ."

Jill Sharp read her angel poem, I think it was called, 'Leda Plucks a Swan.'  Partial verse only noted as follows, "she spent a lifetime . . . in a storm of whiteness . . . scatters his power of flight . . ."

Moving between places, logistics, travel and an impulsive need to be somewhere else;  Martin Malone's poem, 'Nightjar,' addressed the subject well, "On the spur of the moment I set out at midnight, riding the bad-land pleasure of quiet motorways 6 and 5, i-pod aglow on the dashboard like the embers of a camp fire . . ."

Tony Hillier said that there were plans afoot for him to donate one of his kidneys to his sister, tests are underway.  Tony's poem, 'Just Kidneying,' included, "What's at stake (steak) with live kidney donor, will he be a fully paid-up member of the pudding club or will he end up pastry . . ?"

Lucy Hannah's poem 'Luminariums,' made me smile, kids tend to look at their parents / grand parents as old and past it.  Verse included, "Mum, who thought a sense of history was great, was looking at me who raised my kids with Spiderman, who after all has no architrave or illuminated manuscripts - she might be right.  The kids who think old is rubbish and Mum is old, are looking at me . . ."

Cristina Newton read a poem and then sang a song in Spanish in the style of tangos flamencos.  The song was entitled, 'You no te he dao motivo,' and was sung unaccompanied and with great passion.

Another good evening at The White Hart, Wroughton  Incidentally, the landlord of the White Hart informed me that he is the bass player of the rock / blues band, 'Hamsters From Hell' - the Hamsters are a rocking good band who have been around for years on the 'live' circuit and appear in various guitar enthusiast / music publications. Anyway, I diverse.  Look out for the next evening, I'll be in touch.  DP.

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The following is a cut down snapshot of the Pulsar Poetry Evening held at The White Hart, Wroughton, near Swindon on 21^st April 2010. Note: a selection of poems read during the evening were videoed and posted to You Tube, with poets’ consent.  To view on-line visit the You Tube site and type the word PulsarPoet into the search box or simply visit the Photo Gallery of Pulsar Poetry Webzine and click on the links.  As usual I give the up-front apologies for notation errors and omissions. I started the evening rolling by reading two poems from my year 2007 book, In the Mix. The Poems were ‘Size Nines,’ (about sticking your oar in and giving advice when it’s not needed), and a poem titled, ‘In All Things,’ which ends with verse, “. . . at the end of the day, left the incentive for the leading question, how on earth did she end up with him?”  DP.

David Gill read a poem about a black tarantula talking to her children, verse included, “a black tarantula summoned her sons and daughters, raised a furry leg and began, today my children, in these bad times for spiders . . .”

Chantelle Smith’s poem, ‘Windmill Hill,’ was about reassessment and change.  Verse included, “On a cool Spring evening my soul fell still, I listened closely to my heart’s insight, embracing the past upon Windmill Hill . . .”

Volcanoes, don’t you just love them.  Ok, perhaps not.  Talis Kimberley humorous song was about the Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajokul – and how do you pronounce a name like that?  Lyrics included, “. . . I’m glad I’m not stranded in China or Zanzibar, Singapore, Delhi or Ghana or Malabar, given what’s happening who would go that far, how do you say it again?”  

Mo Needham’s poem, ‘A Dormouse in My Wellington Boot,’ included, “you cannot put your wellies on, with a dormouse in your boot, it’s not because the thing will bite, it’s because it’s far too cute . . .”

John Richardson’s poem ‘Learning to Tango,’ told an atmospheric tale, “come tomorrow I’ll find soft Italian cheese, green olives, bring a bottle or two please, and talk, we’ll talk the evening away.  If you were coming in the fall I’d have picked the plums, baked a pie, had a personal message written on the sky for you, I learned to tango, cut my hair . . .”

I wouldn’t personally have contemplated knitting used crisp packets but it seems a good way to dispose of litter.  Sue Chadd’s poem, ‘Knitting Crisp Packets in a Shed,’ is based on a true life experience and verse includes, “On the day of fair summer weather I found myself down at Fred’s shed, doing something so bizarre and so clever it really could do-in your head, I found myself down at Fred’s shed knitting skeins of recycled crisp packets . . .”

Martin Malone sang songs and played his acoustic guitar with skill and great passion.  The song ‘Carolyn,’ included lyrics, “People come and go, other just sigh and explode, so when the silk and amphetamines leathers and gin will not put you back together again, because I see what you see, the writing on the wall, when you seek out on the tightrope, one day then you’ll fall . . . Carolyn . . .”

Sad times.  Neil Brooks stated that his mother had recently passed away.  Neil’s poem, ‘I Forget Things,’ probably summed up how he was feeling at this time, “I forget my pen, I forget my P.I.N, my credit card, I forget being born, I forget the shopping and where I’ve been, wander aimlessly, I stand in a long line queuing to remember.”  Neil then read a number of short poems sprinkled with down to earth incite and humour – cheered everyone up.

I was good to see Victoria Slatter again, saw her years ago at a Pulsar session at the Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard.  Victoria’s poem, ‘Hello, Excuse Me,’ included verse, “please can you tell me in your moment of thought, that thing that is bugging me that thing you once taught, it’s hard to understand and I cannot explain it in words, you said that we should be creative, brave and kind and if you don’t mind, sensitive and attentive so that we should see the truth behind such an oddity . . .”

Hilda Sheehan’s poem, ‘Talking to You,’ included, “I love you, I do, it’s just that time is running out, it’s Sunday, ASDA will shut soon, do we need rice ? . . look up there where the bird used to be . . . Concorde . . .”

Katherine T. Owen read her poem entitled, ‘Wide Eyed.’  Verse included, “You say how can they behave that way, but they can, and when you no longer deny you lower your expectations, becoming hard, function well enough because this is just the way things are and even when life becomes easier you don’t let the love in because you know the grim reality behind it . . .”

Teresa Davey said she’d visited an old church in Purton and saw a hollow yew tree in the grounds that had reputedly been there for over a 1000 years, (much longer than the church). Teresa’s poem, ‘A Summer Yew Song,’ summed up her observations nicely, “my crowning glory flutters in the summer breeze, the church beside me, a Johnny come lately, endeavours to hide the pagan past in steeple shadow, my textured skirt, so beautiful to look at, so warm to touch.”   I liked the verse, “endeavours to hide the past in steeple shadow,” very evocative.

Cristina Newton sang a song in Spanish; I guess you’d call it a lament about the suffering caused by the Spanish civil war. Cristina then read a poem dedicated to mothers who have shouted at their children.  The poem was called, ‘Toy Wars,’ “I will close my eyes to your noise, the stampede of your bully grabbing shakes the beams from the room above, your toy wars go on without a truce . . .”

I mustn’t forget the fantastic acoustic guitar playing of Stevie Gilmore.  It’s best to view the videos we placed on You Tube to get a true feel for the resonance and sheer musicianship involved.  A great solo performance by Stevie.

Another good evening at The White Hart pub, Wroughton.  Don’t forget to come to the next Pulsar ‘live-microphone Event at the same venue on Thursday 10^th June from 8.00 pm.  See you there.  David Pike

The following is an abridged snapshot of the Pulsar Poetry Evening held at The White Hart, Wroughton, near Swindon on 4^th March 2010. Note: a selection of poems read during the evening were videoed and posted to You Tube, with poets’ consent.  To view on-line visit the You Tube site and type the word PulsarPoet into the search box or simply visit the Photo Gallery of Pulsar Poetry Webzine and click on the links.  As usual I give the up-front apologies for notation errors and omissions. I started the evening rolling by playing a self-penned acoustic guitar instrumental, ‘Clear Water,’ then read a few of my poems. DP.

Teresa Davey read her prose poem, ‘The Titanic,’ which was inspired by Ciaran Carson’s book of memoirs, 'Star Factory.’  The poem included, “. . . a Belfast built ship, sunk as midnight loomed on her maiden voyage on Sunday 14^th April 1912, heading for America with its triple cache of humanity, her beauty and size blinded men who should know better, to the possibility of calamity . . .  in memory of 1513 souls . . . Belfast has created the Titanic Quarter. . .”

Martin Malone’s poem focussed on a local landmark.  The poem was titled ‘Barbury Castle,’ and verse included, “Meet me at the earthworks in the small hours on the hill, up there . . . here beyond Swindon’s dirty ochre, power up the hearts deep electric and bring me your darkness, let me move towards its live wire . . .”

I hadn’t seen Hilda Sheehan for a while; I didn’t recognise her and called her someone else’s name, oops!  Apologies Hilda.   Hilda’s poem ‘Worst Weather,’ included, “her husband was the weather, made mountains with his frozen front, his cold condition.  If she sang for summer he’d holler out hail, bring black betrayed clouds to cry relentless rain for days and days.  “That’s this country Connie,” he’d scream . . .”

It was good to see Katherine T. Owen again and hear her poems.  Her poem ‘It Takes a Receiver,’ included, “. . . if you live in the modern world then all around you and going through you are radio waves, TV waves, microwaves.  How do you know this?  Can you see them, taste them, hear them?  It is out of faith in some scientist somewhere who said it is so . . .”  Also check out the Book Publication Information page of this web to view details of Katherine's recently published books.

Peter Farr read an abridged version of his epic poem, ‘The Bismarck,’ which he’d been inspired to write after watching a Ludovic Kennedy documentary on the TV.   The poem relayed the brief encounter between HMS Hood and the Bismarck and the tragic eventual results for both ships and their crews; “battle stations . . . spray whipped . . . guns went out to the night and waited . . . we come to maximum range in seven minutes . . . your captain speaking . . . sighted . . . one battleship and one cruiser . . . range finders call out your markers . . . 40,000, 35,000, 25,000 shoot!  The sea shuddered . . .”

Chantelle Smith read her poem, ‘My Painted Mask,’ with great passion.  Chantelle said it was a personal poem and explained that experimenting with makeup was a way of exploring and expressing herself.  Verse included, “. . . in time gone past I painted my face to hide my soul, to bind it fast.  The mask meant truth gave, gave life to lies, tethered, imprisoned my fragile youth . . .”

Television, I tend to watch too much television.  Neil Brook’s poem, ‘TV Poem,’ just about sums it up, “. . . in the dreary routine the heavy diet of television screens where pictures, sounds and imagery weave their way into our thought space.  In this cold short stimuli we feed our eyes as the hours drift by . . . our brains pummelled into passivity . . .”   It was good to see Neil's partner Katie as well, we had a good chat.

Talis Kimberley brought new songs and poems to the fore. The song, ‘When I Was A Mermaid,’ was inspired by comments made by her daughter, lyrics included, “when I was a mermaid, my daughter my dear and a long time before I had you, I lived in the ocean a long way from here and sometimes my stories are true . . .”  The song ‘Lowlands Pacific,’  tells of the perils of global warming and rising sea levels, “I need not walk to greet the shore, no place, no place for beast or man, the sea comes to greet me at my door, oh my poor drowned land . . .”

Cristina Newton’s poem, ‘Snow,’ painted a bleak winter picture, “. . . the weather that has followed us, the window facing north west and has found us still awake on this island of dank passages and cold mouths of mould . . . our souls stunned by the dark idle stains of snow . . .”

This was the second time that we’ve held a Pulsar Poetry Evening at this venue.  We were warmly received and the evening had a pleasingly informal atmosphere.  All-in-all a good evening with new, (new to Pulsar), and familiar poets in attendance. Note: As mentioned earlier, I later posted videos of poets performing to You Tube.  Visit the photo gallery page of this web site and click on the links shown, to view videos. DP.

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Greetings to all.  Below is an abridged review of the Pulsar ‘Live Microphone’ Poetry and Music Evening that was held at The White Hart public house Wroughton, near Swindon on 26^th November 2009. Please accept my up-front apologies for any name spelling mistakes or notation errors – you tend to only get a quick ‘grab’ of events as they happen.  The White Hart was a new venue for a Pulsar Poetry Evening and I was pleased with the overall setup and welcome received from pub staff and locals. The function room we hired was also, (for other events), the pub bowling alley.  In lots of ways it reminded me of the room we previously used at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard before the room was converted to back-packer accommodation. Note: a selection of poems read during the evening were videoed and posted to You Tube, with poets’ consent.  To view on-line visit the You Tube site and type the word PulsarPoet into the search box.

As usual I kicked off the evening by playing a self-penned guitar instrumental ‘Locks Lane,’ and then read a few of my poems.

Katherine T. Owen said she was fairly new to Swindon and appreciated the opportunity to attend ‘live’ poetry reading events; it was good to hear her work.  Katherine read her poem, ‘God is in the Closet,’ which included, “. . . a reality acknowledged by many - but ignored . . . let us live lives of quiet pain rather than recognise ourselves . . .”   Katherine’s poem, ‘Begin,’ was about self-belief, and about drive.  Verse included, “whatever you’ve chosen to do, begin . . . ignore the laughter of others . . . they are entitled to their opinions, begin . . .”

David Gill travelled from Botley, Oxford to attend; a round trip of about 80 miles – good on him.  David’s poem ‘Hearing Aid,’ confirmed a hurrah for the NHS.  Verse included, “. . . my plastic hummingbird lingers behind my ear . . . I should bless the NHS for this . . . keeping me in sound.” David also read his poem ‘Pikes’ which I published in Pulsar a while back.  David belongs to Burford’s Levellers re-enactment group and stores pikes for an annual festival; pike’s being long and deadly spear like war implements.   Verse included, “. . . I store pikes for an annual festival . . . so long they take up diagonal space in the garage . . . just props in a theatre of war.”  David then, in the same poem, related to his time in Africa, verse continued “. . . the Ugandan spear . . . hurls it at a tree where it sticks and quivers . . . no prop here . . .”

Peter Farr travelled from Bournemouth to attend, said his sat nav system took him directly to the location – here’s to technology.  Peter recalled David Gill’s poem that referred to Uganda and read his poem, ‘African Bandit (Uganda).’ Verse included, “. . . I knew first light . . . the tops of trees beside us tumble in the skies . . . our wild phoenix in the valleys where she goes to change the soils . . . wash and slap each cloud passing by . . . or cry to a continent . . .”  Some of Peter’s poetry readings were videoed and posted to You Tube – why not check them out.

Talis Kimberley is a resident of Wroughton and helped behind the scenes to generate interest in the event – thanks for your help Tallis.  Tallis is a renowned singer / songwriter and poet and has a busy tour itinerary; she is also a nifty guitar player. A few videos of Talis performing her songs have been uploaded to YouTube, view via PulsarPoet.   Talis’s song ‘Camel’ referred to the implications of climate change, lyrics included, “. . . my father rode a camel across the desert sand . . . I drive a Rolls Royce, it’s worth 400 grand . . “  Talis also sang ‘Appleby Fair,’ – lyric extract only, “ . . . on the way down from the lakes to Appleby fair . . . I’ll show you what the gypsy knows . . . come to me my dear.”

It was good to see John Richardson again and to hear his poems.   The poem ‘Keeping Me Sane,’ made me smile, “. . . I remember Fiona was my first kiss . . . I wouldn’t even blink . . . Hannah, the bitch said she’d take me to her bed but instead made jam . . .” The poem ‘Public Seduction,’ referred to a garden containing bronze sculptures by Henry Moore, “. . . visiting Henry’s garden yesterday . . . I see you lying there . . . my hand touches your bronze thigh . . .”

Teresa Davey’s poem ‘Man and Scythe,’ made observations of a painting, “. . . blind to the coming time . . . this man of the soil could be my blood . . . he plants his seed . . . he reaps . . . his long back bent to the curve of the land . . .” 

 Eve Kimber read a genuinely spine chilling ghost story, ‘Graveyard House,’ which was about the theft of a child’s doll from a grave and how the original owner of the doll came to haunt the thief, “. . . without my dolly how can I sleep.”  Eve also read a particularly effective poem about a no hoper or someone who made all the wrong choices in life, the poem was called ‘Dead Man Talking.’

All in all a good evening at a new venue.  I hope to spread Pulsar Poetry Evenings around a few different venues during year 2010, well see how things develop.  David Pike

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The following is a condensed review of the Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry, (and music), Evening held at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard on 12^th March 2009.  I now give the customary up-front apology for name, spelling, and notation errors in the following abridged summaries. Note: I only get one swift ‘take’ of poems as they are read, hence my brief reviews are best personal interpretations only, (as I see them at that time).  We also made a video DVD of the evening, for better or for worse!  I sent a free copy of the DVD to persons who expressed an interest in receiving the same.

Shaun Butler started the ball rolling, (no pun intended), with a poem about his football team, Rochdale FC and about watching them play at Exeter.  The poem was called, ‘And Them Some,’ verse included, “they came bare backed . . . Exeter scored, then did it again . . . we were rubbish . . . realities check . . .”   It was ever thus, the supporter’s lament.

John Plevin’s poem ‘Voices in the Dark,’ had an unsettling vibe, “hush, what’s that sound your hear . . . sound of water before the rain . . . the snap that becomes a broken heart . . . lines from a book no one’s read . . . the call of a swan lost in the fog.”  John also read his poem entitled, ‘Gifts,’ about faith which included, “in the comfort of his spoken prayer I learned to find what wasn’t there . . .”

Armando Halpern travelled a fair distance to attend, good on him. Armando’s poem, ‘Summoning the Dead,’ included verse, “. . . suddenly words visit me . . . sometimes I give up on life . . . I sit again by your coffin . . . in the dreams I never tell I leave a single flower by your grave as you would have done for me . . .” Armando mentioned he was interested in Greek mythology, read a few of his poems on mythological topics including a poem about a pearl earring that was dissolved in a cup of vinegar.

Neil Brooks initially read a John Cooper Clarke poem, which included, “let me be your vacuum cleaner . . . let me be your teddy bear . . . take me with you anywhere. . . ” Neil then read his own poem, ‘Someone Else,’ – “smoke a cigarette in the rain again . . . instead of cigarettes again we ate the stars   . . . it’s not rocket science . . . you do not need a PhD to write poetry . . .”

Ian Ross came equipped with an acoustic guitar and reeled off three excellent Jake Thackery songs.  The songs were titled, ‘The Hole,’ then ‘Leopold Alcocks,’ (I think it was called this - Ed?) and, ‘Three Lovely Daughters.’ All songs were hilarious and delivered in a professional manner; The Hole included, “. . . just a little hole in a doorway near the bus stop . . . shoved his finger in the hole . . . couldn’t pull it out again . . . stop fidgeting, what does it feel like with your digit in . . . sent for a special doctor . . . the patient is doing nicely but he’s got his finger stuck in a hole . . .”

Harold Webster had travelled from his home in the USA to attend, (and to sample British beer at The Goddard Arms – can’t blame him for that).  Harold read a number of poems including, ‘Ambush,’ – “the poem slinks like a stalking cat . . . like a bird pecking on a suet ball . . . jagged dissonance . . . like tomato slices on the thigh . . .” Harold also read a poem which brought about memories of a minor disagreement with his spouse, ‘At the Bar,’ verse included, “ . . . my glass makes slow wet circles on dark varnish . . . while the piano man plays what seems like an endless exercise in jazz . . .”  The poem ‘Flowage,’ was also read; this poem was published in edition #51 of Pulsar.   Another good evening in good company.  DP.

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The following is a condensed review of Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry, (and music), Evening held at the Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard. I now give the customary up-front apology for name, spelling, and notation errors in the following abridged summaries. Note: I only get one swift ‘take’ of poems as they are read, hence my brief reviews are best personal interpretations only, (as I see them at that time).  We did actually make a video of the 18^th September event; it turned out reasonably well and helped to provide feedback for the performing poets, (they were all sent a free copy of the DVD).

The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard village, near Swindon, Wiltshire; Pulsar Poetry Evening held on 18^th September 2008.

As per usual I (DP) started the evening by playing a self-penned acoustic guitar solo, then read a few of my own poems.

Neil Brooks, a Pulsar stalwart, read his bookish poem, ‘A book Worth Reading,’ which included, “. . . thoughts wait to travel like migrating birds . . . dusty books crammed in a shelf . . . waiting to be held . . . blare of their resurrection in your mind . . .”

Peter Wyton, (who I haven’t seen for several years), attended and kindly performed poems from his excellent new book, ‘Not All Men Are From Mars.’  The book is a poetry compilation celebrating women and all profits from sales go in support of Women’s Aid, (until women and children are safe), www.womensaid.org.uk  You might think that poems that cover the harrowing subject of domestic violence would be entirely grim and daunting to read.  Peter puts the message across in a subtle way and intersperses the reading matter with a few hilarious poems such as Swiss Army Wife which has verse including, “Another day, another plight. I have crashed my microlite on a lonesome Himalayan mountain top.  I’m hanging from a cliff, with my fingers getting stiff, above a sheer eight hundred metre drop.  The abominable snowman who is clinging to my Gucci shoe, keeps dropping titillating hints . . .” Although I featured a humorous poem I wish to stress this is not a throwaway read and covers a serious subject well.  £7.99 www.myspace.com/peterwytonpoet

Rob Stredder’s poem ‘Barbury Castle,’ spoke of the ancient hill fort that overlooks Swindon from a hilltop vantage point; “crows skanking steeply up wind . . . rooks nesting on the nearest high place, now that the elms have gone ... the wind biting your cheeks raw. . .”

David Gill travelled from Botley, Oxford to attend.  David read from his new poetry booklet, ‘May I Introduce?’ a personal gallery of people-poems.  I liked his poem ‘Albert Gill, Engineer.’  It would appear that Albert had the vital job, (no pun intended), of maintaining a sewage system, verse included, “He got to the root of things too. / Society stood or fell with sewage. / All progress ran on shrewd disposal / of rubbish and faeces: / no affluence without effluence / was his problem, his challenge. / All men were equal in his estimation/ - and from his rear-end perspective/ as sewage engineer.” 

The subject of global warming was covered in Dick Stewart’s poem which I think was entitled ‘Seventh Wave.’  Verse included, “watching the numbers and letters fall . . . melting, warming, drowning . . . seventh wave of a seventh wave . . . we are drowning in deep blue water . . . on a perfect dark blue sphere.”

The Goddard Arms continues to be a good venue with a warm welcome assured for all who attend.  DP.

The following is an abridged review of the Pulsar Poetry Evening held at the Oxfam Bookshop, Marlborough on 13^th November 2008, With usual up front apologies for name spelling wobblers and notation errors.  Neil Brooks drew my attention to this venue and did a lot of work in the background to make the evening a success.  The evening was well attended; a video recording was made.

I started the evening by reading a few of my participation poems including, ‘Drastic.’

Neil Brooks read a number of poems and I liked his observations in ‘Cat Fur and Dignity,’ which referred to his cat, Marmalade and how cats always seem to have a haughty / mysterious air, and tolerate humans. I thought the line, “. . . itching the fleas of feline humanity . . .” was very apt.

Claire Lewis explained she was a new reader but read her chosen poems in a relaxed and light-hearted manner. Claire’s poem, ‘Who I am,’ included, “. . . my laughter when I dance the tango all night . . . I stand tall and proudly enjoy as I laugh out loud . . .”

John Richardson’s poem, ‘Retirement,’ addressed the questions you are asked by associates after you’ve retired, “. . .  how long has it been, do you miss it? (work) . . .  what on earth do you do now? Reply: this! (poetry).”

Ian Ross played acoustic guitar and sang songs by Jake Thackery and Billy Connolly.  I particularly liked Ian’s version of the tongue-in-cheek song, ‘The Lodger,’ by Thackery where a male lodger is seduced by numerous female members of the household but eventually calls a halt when granny makes advances.  A good chuckle.

Rob Stredder’s wistful poem, ‘Memory Change,’ harped back to youthful years, “Sarah-Jane’s soft wet Welsh mouth, kissing me wantonly in swimming pools . . . lovemaking in barns, haystacks, anywhere . . .”  No wonder Rob remains of trim figure – it was all the exercise!

Jo Carol read a few of her poems later in the evening, I recall, ‘Ear Worm,’  “. . . creeping crochets into corners . . . club the thrum of drumming.”

The evening was well attended with many spectators.   A fair amount of cash was raised for Oxfam.  All in all a good result.  DP

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The following are condensed reviews of Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry, (and music), Evenings held at the Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard.  I now give the customary up-front apology for name, spelling, and notation errors in the following abridged summaries. Note: I only get one swift ‘take’ of poems as they are read, hence my brief reviews are best personal interpretations only, (as I see them at that time).  Sound recordings were made at the venue, with poets’ permission and have been placed as MP3 files on the Pulsar web for all to hear.

The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard village, near Swindon, Wiltshire; Pulsar Poetry Evening held on 12^th March 2008.

As per usual I (DP) started the evening by playing a self-penned acoustic guitar solo, this time I performed ‘Skylark,’ a piece of music I have been musing over for some time, now think I’ve perfected the ending!  I then read a few of my poems.

I recorded the following poems that were read by Michael Newman, Remembrance / Suburbia / Separation / Pub Encounter.  ‘Remembrance’ told of the silent (yet screaming) agony of bereavement, “. . . the day my father died you sought to embrace me, but I pushed you away . . . your eyes spoke across the null and void . . .” You may listen to Michael’s poems on the Pulsar web.

Neil Brooks read a number of poems including, Lost Continents of the Soul / Earth Pilgrim / Magical Poem.  Earth Pilgrim was a nature poem, verse included, “. . . that ache . . . a poet’s vision broken on your tongue . . . smiles reform before my eyes . . . the river is waking on its journey . . .”

It was good to see Ian Sills again, he’d travelled from Bristol to attend.  Ian read a number of his well known poems such as Oscar’s Grouch / Response to the Wind Beneath Your Wings / S.A.D. and a new poem, Rock-in Chair, Led Zeppelin at the O2 Arena.  The Led Zep-esk poem made me smile; Ian sang the same in (ageing) Led Zep fashion, “. . . got to get back to his dressing room to see his supply of oil of Olay . . . been a long time since we did a gig . . . been a long time since we sang these songs . . .”

David Johnson had also travelled from Bristol and read a number of interesting and amusing poems including, ‘Grumpy Old Poet’s’ Manifesto,’ which included, “. . . we who are IPod less . . . I.T. inept . . . whose ears are tired by poetry yelled . . . and beat boxes vibrate our dentures . . . let us raise funds . . . support poetry from the heart . . . that takes more than a bus journey to write . . .”  Incidentally David has a brand new book out, ‘Bombazine,’ price £7.99     ISBN 978-0-9548117-5-4, details thro’ e-mail: bombazine@paralalia.co.uk

Sue Chadd’s poem ‘Totem,’ recalled a chance encounter with a fabulous animal, “. . . out during March in the sun filled lane . . . engulfed in birdsong . . . around the bend she comes . . . a bay brown hare . . . lolloping gait . . . she rises on her hind legs to taste the air . . .”  

It was good to hear some self-penned songs from singer song writer Ellie Chadd; (I’m not keen on cover versions).  Ellie brought along an acoustic guitar and the haunting blend of guitar and voice rang out in The Goddard Arms.  The song, ‘Same Mistake,’ included, “. . . your voice revived the ache in me . . . the northern wind amongst the trees . . . whispers of the distance . . . still I miss you . . . I always seem to make the same mistake . . .”

Maddie Lestrange’s poem ‘Scum of the Earth,’ pulled few punches, “sometimes they might glimpse you as they move past . . . you behind the bullet proof glass of a limousine . . .  arms dealing . . . back-handers allow airspace and landing  . . . I sing in praise of the scum of the Earth . . .” 

I was also good to see George Wade again.  George has not been too well of late but still made the effort to travel from Bristol to attend as a spectator.  A diamond geezer.

Another good evening at The Goddard Arms, our ‘live’ spiritual home. DP.

The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard village, near Swindon, Wiltshire; Pulsar Poetry Evening held on 6^th June 2008.

I (DP) started the ball rolling by playing ‘Locks Lane,’ on my acoustic guitar and then read a few of my poems.

Steve Feltham read some of his work including a poem which initially seemed controversial, the poem was titled ‘Asylum Seekers.’  Verse included, “. . . come in their thousands . . . don’t pay taxes, don’t’ pay rent . . . are they going home or going away? . . why do they come, why do they go? – swallows.”  I know that Steve is an ardent bird watcher, (twitcher), there is very little he doesn’t know about bird life, always interesting to hear.

Neil Brooks read two new poems, ‘Watching Swifts in the Rain,’ and ‘The Egret.’  I liked the poems and asked Neil to send them to me – they are now published in this edition of Pulsar.  It pays to attend a Pulsar ‘live’ event, if I hear something I like, I publish, (DP).  Neil’s poem, ‘Status Anxiety,’ included, “everyone wants to be on TV . . . obsessed with celebrity . . . apprentices suck up to Alan Sugar . . . at the post party, they ask me what I do . . .  I am between jobs . . . I have no income, I am a bloody poet.”

I was good to see Sean Butler again.  Sean cycled to The Goddard Arms from Swindon; there you are then, an eco friendly poet who used pedal power to cover the approx 14 miles round trip, fair play.  Sean’s poem, ‘Hair of the Dog,’ made me smile, “my mate John used to play naked statues in a shed with his girlfriend,” (a confession made at a Swindon pub).

Michael Newman won the year 2007/08 Pulsar Poetry Competition with his excellent poem, ‘English Riviera;’ the poem is published in this edition of Pulsar.  Michael read the winning poem and later read, (and sound recorded), his poem ‘Remembrance,’ which may be heard on the Pulsar web.

Susan Richardson travelled with her husband from Cardiff to attend; a fantastic effort. Susan has a new poetry book, Creatures of the Intertidal Zone which is available now thro’ Cinnamon Press, ISBN 978-1-905614-16-5, price £7.99.  Susan recited most of her work from memory including the poem ‘Metamorphosis,’ which was recorded and may be heard as a Pulsar Sound File on the Pulsar web.  Metamorphosis, (from Susan’s book), was about living in the frozen lands of Scandinavia and transforming to become a penguin.  Verse included, “To begin with, nothing drastic / the odd cold bath, air con on max /  the utter absence of shivers . . .” Final verse, “I make a nest from the last / strands in my hairbrush and what I once / knew as pencils, and string. / Soon I must force / this hard new truth between my legs / and hatch it.”  Susan’s book is about journeys through lands of ice and snow and includes references to Scandinavian heroines, Gudrid and Freydis. An interesting read. 

The following are reviews of Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry, (and music), Evenings held at the two venues named below. I now give the customary up-front apology for name, spelling, and notation errors in the following abridged summaries. Note: I only get one swift ‘take’ of poems as they are read, hence my brief reviews are best personal interpretations only, (as I see them at that time). 

The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, near Swindon, Wiltshire on Thursday 18^th October, 2007

I started the event by playing ‘Locks Lane,’ (a self penned instrumental tune), on my acoustic guitar; this seems to be the norm now for Pulsar events.  I then read some of my poems.

Elizabeth Boyd read a poem that I think was entitled, ‘The Ballad of the Blind Man,’ which was about standing in a bus queue in Westminster London with an unknown blind man present and feeling the need to engage the man in conversation but being, perhaps, too reserved to do so.  Verse included, “. . . the buses came but not the right ones . . . I wanted to speak . . . silent and tired we stood in the queue . . . the bus didn’t come . . . the cold wind blew.”

Steve Feltham’s poem ‘Names in the Sand,’ hinted at the frailty and fleeting nature of human life, focussing upon the incessant action of the sea to emphasise the insignificance of our lives in the grand scheme of things,  “. . . why are we all here . . . the waves . . . washing all the names in the sand, away forever . . .”

The poem ‘The Cloak of Motherhood’ read by Crystal Butler spoke of depression and the non glossy side of motherhood, “. . . low self esteem . . . the cloak lay dirty on the floor . . .”  This is where the therapeutic side of poetry (and writing) comes to the fore.  Writing about how we feel helps to put things into perspective, a kind of cleansing of the psyche – to come back fighting.

John Richardson was on good form.  John retired recently and was looking chilled – retirement obviously agrees with him.  The poem ‘Taking the Rain,’ referred to an old acquaintance, “. . . sitting on the bus . . . memory’s a one trick pony . . . were you my first lesson . . . we did meet on a bus in a different era . . .”

Tony Hillier’s ironic poem, ‘Miss World,’ made me smile, “We’re wearing sashes . . . not Miss World . . . but if you don’t follow our example about climate change you will miss world.”

Val Evans, Steve Anderson and Joe Packer are a local, (unnamed) vocal / acoustic band who plays acoustic guitars, mandolin, mouth organ and tin whistle.  The band played a number of laid back folk songs including, ‘Crazy Man Michael,’ a haunting song that I think was previously performed by Sandy Denny? (amongst others).  The band also performed Simon and Garfunkel standards such as ‘Homeward Bound.’  All songs were expertly performed with soothing harmonies.  All in all a good evening.

The True Heart Inn, Thursday 22^nd November, 2007, Bishopstone village, near Swindon, Wiltshire. This was a new venue for Pulsar Poetry Evenings and it was nice to receive a warm welcome from Brian and Mandy who are owners of this free house pub and restaurant.  This is not a typical backwater village pub, the joint was literally jumping with people queuing to dine in the restaurant area.  The evening went well considering this was an unknown quantity, (from our point of view), and that we were (probably) unknown in this region of Wiltshire.

I started the evening by playing acoustic guitar, (a self penned untitled composition), and then read poems from my new book, ‘In the Mix.’

Michael Newman travelled from Bishops Cleeve near Cheltenham to attend.  Michael’s poem ‘At the Seaside,’ spoke of past holidays in Cornwall.  Verse included, “. . . the seventh wave sweeps away your Wellingtons  . . . discarded plants fail to reach Georgia but land on a Cornish shoreline . . .”  Michael later read a poem entitled, ‘The Loner,’ which was about the mystical creature, (and in my view fabulous creature), the hare.  Verse included; “stark against a lunar landscape . . . soon it will be dusk . . . now I have been spotted . . . assessed as hostile . . .” Incidentally, I recently revisited Michael’s paperback poetry book, ‘Clutching Straws In A Hurricane,’ which was published in year 2002 by Kite Modern Poetry Series, 80 pages,  ISBN 0 907759 33 5, price £6.95 plus postage and packing.  Well worth a look, I’m a fan of Michael’s work.

‘Annie, (pride before a fall),’ was a nonsense poem read by Elizabeth Boyd.  Tongue-in-cheek verse included, “on a Friday I once heard a woman say that pigs may fly . . . she stroked her long wavy hair . . . friendly folk helped her along . . . is it true she really slept . . . or was she so adept . . . place a peg upon her nose . . . causing an enormous snore . . .”

Mervyn Penny from Shrivenham is a fan of Thomas Hardy and William Barnes and brought books containing work from these poets to read. Mervyn also recited a self penned poem from memory which noted the various qualities and charms of such beauties as Nell Gwynne, (but these lookers could be overlooked), “the one I would pick would be the one who made me spotted dick  . . . what I call the good ’uns . . .” Mervyn was of course referring to the excellent pudding, (which I guess is now probably considered to be bad for you).  I remember as a child being served steam pudding on which we poured large spoonfuls of syrup, delicious – I could eat one of those now). 

June Wilmers poem ‘Bluebells,’ included, “. . . who upset the blue dye over the hillside . . . in stark contrast with the green grass and dark green of the fir trees . . .” You could almost see the dazzling short-lived display from these plants.

The evening went well.  We were warmly received and as a bonus the Swindon Advertiser did us proud with colour photographs of the event in the newspaper and on the Adver web.  Nice one. 

The True Heart Inn, Thursday 24^th January, 2008  This Pulsar ‘Live-microphone Evening,’ was a different prospect from all previous evenings as it included ‘live’ stereo MP3 recording of poets performing their work, (I’ve recently purchased a new gizmo to accommodate this). The landlords had kindly set-up the lounge area to suit, with an alcove at the end of the room set aside for our use.  The space we were allotted was close to the dining room and it soon became apparent that other customers were keen to get in on the recording act by making infantile and moronic noises, (it was ever thus, and we were, after all, in a pub).

Poets that performed, (and recorded), included Steve Feltham, Maggie Lestrange, Tony Hillier, John Richardson, Rob Stredder and myself.  All-in-all, despite of the intentional noise interference we still managed to record some reasonable (sound) quality MP3 poems, (some of these have been posted to the Pulsar web and may be selected thro’ the following web link: http://www.pulsarpoetry.com/Pulsar_Live_Sound_1.htm ). 

Brief summary: Steve Feltham read a number of his poems and I particularly liked The Old Mill which was about the coming of World War I and the forming of the PALS.  Maggie Lestrange read a few personal poems about a male character she knew.  Tony Hillier recalled his recent trip to India and experiences gained therein; Tony’s poem Birthday Power related to slightly officious hotel staff.  John Richardson’s poem subtitled Niagara was also aired and recorded.  Rob Stredder’s poem Night Boat to Cork made you feel slightly queasy, (sea sickness wise). Another good evening at a friendly venue.  DP

Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry, (and music), Evening(s) held on, Wednesday 7^th March 2007 at The Nine Elms, Shaw, West Swindon and Thursday 5^th April and Thursday 27^th June 2007 at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, near Swindon, Wiltshire.  I now give the customary up-front apology for name, spelling, and notation errors in the following abridged summaries.

The Nine Elms, 7th March 2007

John Richardson’s poem ‘Coasting,’ referred to his imminent retirement, (in 10 days time), “. . . take it easy they said . . . so, I’ll be 60, burning rubber . . . perhaps I’ll live for ever . . . coasting.”

‘War Wound 1943,’ was a poem that recalled John Plevin’s childhood encounter with a wasp.  John’s verse included, “I loved the siren sound . . . calling a sleeping class to shelter . . . I loved the helter skelter plunge to dark regions  . . . tasted the bliss of missed lessons . . . the sharp sting of an angry bomber . . . my cry . . . and the bringing of the box . . . a circle of faces watching an artist paint my leg blue . . . the walk home . . . swagger . . . wounded . . .”

Steve Feltham read ‘The Hospital Window,’ a poem about boredom and anxiety, “looking at the pipes . . . considering new pyjama stripes . . . out of the darkness a foreign hand grasps mine, taking my pulse . . . eyes and thoughts fixed on the window . . . the afternoon drags, then the evening . . .”

Rob Stredder’s poem ‘Iffley Lock III,’ brought memories of the Thames at Oxford to light, “I missed Spring completely . . . sleeping squirrel-like . . . wind blown waves turning the Thames to the sea . . . a mallard and her little yellow brood . . . Iffley Lock is blowing in the wind . . .”

The poem, ‘Busting Stereotypes,’ read by Tony Hillier reversed the viewpoint about teenagers and anti social behaviour and referred to a north Swindon youth club he’d attended to give a presentation; “. . . guessing it’s excitement hormones . . . there’s a buzz in this place . . . this underground . . . a place where teenagers give a bad name,” (to other teenagers), through being well behaved.”

Editorial note: poets who live outside the Swindon area have mentioned they’ve had difficulty locating the Nine Elms pub; (located at the end of a cul-de-sac off of a side road in the maze that is West Swindon). We may need to re-think this one. DP.

The Goddard Arms, 5^th April 2007

Gill Clancy’s amusing poem, ‘Letter to My Daughter,’ touched upon the tension that is raised as teenage expectations grow and parents are required to sate the need, “. . . choices for the future . . . now starting to earn. . . L plates on . . . and Dad wants a gun . . .”

Michael Newman’s poem ‘Remembrance,’ highlighted the silent agony of bereavement and the way we cope, (or struggle to cope). “The day my father died you tried to embrace me but I pushed you away . . . I had nothing left to give . . . we passed a silent evening shrieking with unspoken words.”

Gyms, don’t you just love.  No! Neither do I. John Richardson’s poem ‘Health Club Gig,’ just about summed it up; “. . . all daps and sweat . . . picking up the pace I’m a blues man on speed . . . the muscle-bound Mary’s giving me the eye . . . oh bugger, the treadmill’s stopped and I’m still running.”

Tony Hillier started off with some banter, said, ‘I’m an extractor fan! I used to like tractors.  Tony then read a poem dedicated to a recently deceased local, (likeable) character, Michael O’Sullivan; “nobody had a face-wide smile like Michael . . . cycling past my Walcot window . . . always on the go . . . he was a worker . . . he was class . . . a passionate campaigner for true Labour values . . .”  ‘Interlude,’ made me smile with the cry, “Byron, get one free.”

Keith Hilling began by reading formal poems and later recited, ‘Brain to the Planets,’ which included the deadly (non poem word) orange. Verse included, “oh my oh my, orange is man’s juice . . . I raise my arms in two Vs and sing a siren song . . . said Brian to his inner brain . . . no words rhyme with orange.”

Neil Brooks poem ‘Morning,’ spoke of the numb feeling after the night before, (when your tongue’s like a piece of leather and you vaguely remember what you did), the poem included, “. . . a stiletto shoe lay in the hallway . . . her tights nestling by the sofa . . . my socks still on my feet . . . no conversation in the morning.”

The Goddard Arms, 27^th June 2007

David Gill, (Pulsar Poetry Competition Year 2006/07 Winner), travelled from Oxford with his wife Irene to attend. David read a number of interesting poems including the humorous, ‘Parrot.’ Verse included, “tumult in the street . . . teenagers talking their heads off . . . next door . . . a parrot . . . he’s the mob screeching back . . . but catch his eye and he hangs his head . . .”   David also read a series of poems which came under the general title of ‘Language Drills,’ and covered language usage with particular focus on tenses, example, ‘Had Been,’ included, “. . . Portuguese . . . think of history . . . had been the triumphant days of the caravels . . . had been days of extraordinary man . . . had been the days of rich returns . . . had been days of drowning . . . perfect days, perfect past . . .”

Neil Brooks poem, ‘Make Sense,’ had a bitter-sweet feel to it, “the stitches of their words will not justify their pain . . . we are a handful of dust / we have grown into the people our parents warned us about . . .” 

‘My Computer,’ was the title of one of the poems read by Pamela Fentiman and included, “god I want to scream . . . bring back my old typewriter . . . carbon paper . . . duplicator,” then repents, “sorry dear word processor . . . you do so much for me . . . I apologise for the fuss I’m making.”

It was good to see Jean Macmaster again and to hear her poems. Jean’s opening poem was ‘New Baby,’ which read as follows: “I’m not someone else’s happy ending, I am my beginning.” There was also a tongue-in-cheek poem, ‘Don’t Even Thinks It,’ which included, “. . . inside your head is an evil thought . . . if God tunes in you could get caught.”

Kate Orchard read a poem by David Davies which I think was titled, ‘True Golden Burrows.  The Alchemist, Part I.’ The poem had a surreal almost ‘Lord of the Rings,’ type feel and included, “. . . reconnect to the circle . . . three stone circles . . . find your reflection . . . a song of your soul . . . time balances within . . . everything is joined by six-pointed stars . . .”

Mancunian poet David Davies recalled the influence of his much loved and recently deceased grandmother, someone who encouraged and inspired him.  David’s poem, ‘Let Me Be With Her Tonight,’ was really a prologue to another poem and included, “. . . ninety years old, waiting, praying   . . . no longer in control of her body system . . . being controlled by alarm bells / through the doors . . . the other ancients . . . our flowers of rebirth . . . she remembers disconnected thoughts.”

For the record, at all events, I read some of my own poems and played a few self-penned instrumental tunes on my acoustic guitar. DP.

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry, (and music), Evening(s) held on, Thursday 28^th September 2006, at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, on Thursday 19^th October 2006 at The Calley Arms, Hodson and on 9^th January 2007 at The Nine Elms, Shaw, West Swindon, Wiltshire.  I now give the customary up-front apology for name, spelling, and notation errors in the following abridged summaries.

The Goddard Arms, 28th September 2006

It was good to see Dorothy Burbidge again, together with a Chippenham contingent.  Dorothy started with a controversial poem called ‘Reconciliation’ which posed the view that Satan acts as a target for guilt thus letting mankind off of the hook, “ . . . Satan, it was only man who wanted to dominate others . . . so they took you . . . and on you they piled the blame.”

Victoria Slatter travelled over from Highworth by taxi, made the effort, (for the record, Victoria is a wheelchair user).  Victoria’s poem ‘Frustrated,’ included, “. . . can’t do what I want to . . . frustrated . . . can’t go anywhere quick. . . . I think I’m medically stressed . . . can understand how others may think, ‘obnoxious cow.’”  Victoria also read, ‘Hello, Excuse Me,’ and a poem called, ‘Change,’ which referred to the upheaval of leaving Plymouth.

Neil Brooks aired a new poem titled, ‘The Truth of Spirit,’ which spoke of creative thought and inspiration, “. . . in a tenth of a second clarity appears . . . an imagination seed grows . . . change is good as a promise . . . an infinite dance . . .”

The poem, ‘Bed of Salt,’ by Jill Carter pursued culinary aspirations,“. . . oh God, how I dreaded placing the knife through the silver sea bass . . . never again to rest on its bed of salt . . .”

Sarah Singleton read a poem by, (I think), a poet named Johnson? The ethereal  poem was titled, ‘The Common Weeds of Elfland,’  included    “. . . drab hair tied in a sensible knot . . . the tiles must be clean . . . the char looks down, washes the tiles . . . humans die for the strangest reasons . . . frail as bee’s wings their quick hearts give up . . .”

Tony Hillier read a selection of ‘pub sitting’ poems which were written when Tony was sampling various Swindon watering holes.  One poem, titled, ‘Glupes Odyssey,’ was about a Swindon pub called The Glue Pot; verse included, “can’t do somersaults or loop-the-loops at the Glupes . . . in Glupes you get verbal gymnastics.”  Tony then went on to mention a well-known multi-national corporation that appears to be taking over local pubs, (and transforming them into theme pubs of a given ‘plastic’ format),              “. . . treasure now The Glue Pot, could be ‘x’ in a week!”

John Richardson referred to a recent back injury and the work of a female physiotherapist, “. . . her hands are warm and I dream, not as instructed, of chicken and boiled rice . . .”

Michael Newman’s poem ‘Fahrenheit 100,’ conjured images of the smouldering summer, “. . . the shapes of the hills dissolve as mirage . . . under threat of wilt . . . you shy away from my shirt soaked embrace . . .”

A poem titled, ‘The Ballad of Adonis Kebab,’ was aired by       Robert Webb.  The poem related to a male poseur, someone who was, (shall we say), very keen to be seen, “. . . a Greek God called Eric . . . there’s always one . . . a nutter by nature . . . in freshly cast bronze . . . as the temperature rose, (and people fainted), more sun tan lotion was applied . . .”

Hilda Sheehan’s poem ‘The Seal’ was of an amusing, (and surreal) nature, “. . . each day the seal from next door borrows my bathtub . . . his wet behind moves up and down . . . I don’t know why he comes, we are not lovers . . . he’s a seal and I just live here . . .”

David Ladde, (apologies if the surname is wrong), began by referring to John Betjeman and of the late poet’s particular penchant for women of a certain build, built for office life, tennis or posh society . . .  All-in-all Betjeman was an astute observer of ordinary life and was, perhaps, frowned upon by the poetry hierarchy because his work was both humorous and accessible, (and we can’t be doing with that)! David later read a humorous poem, ‘Weather Forecasting,’ which included, “. . . and sometimes their right when there’s frost overnight but sometime their wrong, and when pressure rises in Frome or Devizes.”

Touring American poet Rose Solari, (www.rosesolari.com), made a big impression on the Goddard Arms audience. Rose read from her new book, ‘Orpheus in the Park.’  The poem, ‘Elegy for the Virgin,’ told of early feelings of attraction (and of crushes), “When at seven, I watched him rising, shirtless, from the blue corrugated circle of his parents’ pool . . . I ran to my older sister’s room, to tell her the ultimate thing had happened: I had fallen in love. . .”  The poem referred to a time of innocence, “. . . and all I wanted on this earth, to see Brian Fugel, eleven years old, in his chopped, low-rider Levis, standing in the apple-less Eden of his mother’s rose-tree garden, a bearer of mystery, but no despair.”  This book sold well at the event, and deservedly so.    DP

The Calley Arms: 19th October 2006

Joanne Brooks, (Jo), gave a new slant to being environmentally friendly with her poem ‘Gone Green,’ which included, “. . . my son has seen that the government wants all cars green, so that’s what he did . . . took a can of spray paint . . . my car is now as green as grass.”

Robert Webb’s poem, ‘New Gunslinger in Town,’ focussed on AIDS and the danger of infection through blood transfusion, “. . . ghosting past blood bank guards . . . the stakes are . . . the tumbling dice . . .”

The poem, ‘Tom Brown’s School Day,’ by Steve Feltham told of feelings of anxiety felt when his young son attended school for the first time, “. . . it seems only last year he learnt to walk . . . his little hand held mine in a vice-like grip . . . it felt like leaving him behind . . . time went slowly . . .”                              

Neil Brook’s poem ‘Beneath the Poem,’ included, “. . . ignorance is squeezed like washing . . . beneath the poem you exist in seashore shells . . . where your mind delights in words . . . to reach the place a child dreams of . . . infinity . .”

I didn’t catch the title of Keith Hilling’s poem but verse included,   “. . . girl in a clean coat . . . magazine smile . . . danced the nights into days . . . new jeans . . . dreams . . .”

Talis Kimberly accompanied herself on acoustic guitar as she sang, ‘Jam Tomorrow.’  The song took a sideways, (tongue-in-cheek), stab at politicians in general, lyrics included, “. . . well I’m a leading politician so I’m better off than you . . . collectively we’re stupid but alright on our own . . . I read somewhere we reap what we’ve sown . . . petrol in my Jaguar . . . and plenty of jam for tea . . . unsustainable and foolish . . .”

Emily Wicks was a first-time ‘live-microphone,’ reader, (although you wouldn’t have known it). Her poem ‘Good Morning,’ referred to the futility of all warfare and recalled the ultimate sacrifice that was made by thousands in the First World War, “. . . Good morning, good morning the general cried . . . and at the end of the day it’s back to the trenches, (those who remain) . . . we gave up our tomorrows for your today . . .”

David Murgatroyd borrowed Talis’s guitar and sang a few double-entendre songs, you’ll get the drift from ‘Chandlers.’  Lyrics included,“. . . well I was disappointed . . . when I heard a sound . . . of the Chandler’s wife in bed with a man of enormous size . . .” Oh heck!

The Nine Elms: 9th January 2007

Kaycie Chilcott’s poem, ‘Alison,’ was about friendship and the value of being able to rely upon someone, “I see now . . . have opened my eyes . . . you never judge me . . . you are a true friend . . .”

Touring Irish poet Ruary OSiochain travelled from Cardiff to attend. I particularly liked the imagery conjured in his light-hearted poems. Here’s an example about a staring competition, ‘Living the Life of Riley’s Bull,’ – “There’s a bull in the field next door    . . . we’ve been eyeing each other . . . a mean smug look from him and I begin to lose it . . . “dog meat I call,” letting myself down . . . the cows having seen it all before, chew on . . . it’s boy’s stuff . . .”

Victoria Slatter’s poem, ‘Happiness,’ included, “. . . why am I smiling so much? . . . I am smiling all the time . . . he’s in my head . . . it’s so easy loving you    . . . ultimate perfection.”Traffic lights, don’t you just love them! 

Steve Feltham’s poem summed up the pain of the long distance commute, “I can see them smirking at me as they make me wait . . . and in the leafy lane, temporary lights . . . although they have sensors . . . they ignore me, knowing I’m there . . .”

Alison McLeod was a first-time ‘live’ poetry reader; she started by giving an up-front apology and said “I’m really scared!”  She needn’t have worried, was soon reading like a good ‘un.  A few of Alison’s poems covered the escapism of nightclubbing and the rare commodity of having time for yourself.  The poem ‘Tune’ included, “thoughts are turned into harmonies . . . the DJ works his magic . . . beats that pulse through . . . mean everything to us at that second . . .”

Shaun Butler’s gentle poem, ‘Word Play,’ spoke (perhaps) of thwarted hope, “Look at me / So? / What d’ya see? / Not a lot/ Am I young? / Maybe/ Good lookin’ / So-so / Man of you dreams / Ah. Now you’re talking / What’ll he be?

Vicky Walker was another first-time ‘live’ reader and sensibly opted to savour the ambience before electing to read, (realised it’s not quite as scary as first thought).  Vicky made a good job of reading here work.  An untitled poem included, “. . . make me lonely . . . make me miserable and I’ll miss the friends I’ve had . . . but ask me to talk and I won’t shut up . . .”

For the record, I read poems at all events and played acoustic guitar, (mainly folk / blues), and on occasion accompanied poets on guitar.  DP.

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry, (and music), Evenings) held on, Tuesday 21^st February 2006, and Thursday 25^th May 2006, at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, near Swindon, Wiltshire.  As usual I now give the customary up-front apology for name, spelling, and notation errors in the following abridged summary!

Michael Newman drew upon interesting work from his collection including the poem, ‘Release,’ – ��. . . just now the celandines are at smile . . . there are not enough smiles to say how I feel . . . when we kiss it is like the rain touching the celandines, gently . . .” I feel that Michael’s poems are quietly understated  and evocative; a pleasure to hear.

Neil Brooks started with a retrospective poem, ‘Into the New Year,’  “. . . I smoke a cigarette with satisfaction . . . with the woman I love . . . it was beautiful . . . by January 1^st a hangover . . . the usual thoughts . . .” The poem ‘adjusted,’ was succinct and to the point, “I used to be well adjusted, until I came out of the womb.”

Sarah Singleton’s poem ‘Rat Trap,’ covered the juxtapose position of being annoyed by a rodent and at the same time wanting to ‘discourage’ it humanely; “some people hate rats . . . but I like them . . . live and let live . . . a humane trap . . . one mouse dead  . . . rats everywhere, in the bins and barrels . . . poison bait . . . eight months of peace . . . then, they’re back . . .”

Dorothy Burbidge read a poem covering an ecological theme; the poem (written in 1988) was entitled, ‘Summer Sum;’ – “. . . keep going, make progress, persevere, the city needs you / meanwhile great Pan is living, but only just  . . . Capital, what is capital ? . . an unpolluted sky . . . warmth in our heart towards other men . . . have we completely fouled up our ancient springs?”

Yvonne Joseph’s poem ‘A Charter for the Workplace,’ hit home; verse included, “. . . do not disagree with anyone, turn a blind eye to any form of abuse . . . in fact, join in . . . always remember to conveniently forget. . .”

Talis Kimberley took a tongue-in-cheek tilt about mainlining on tea, (her only vice). The poem I think was entitled ‘The Bag Lady.’  Verse included, “. . . Tetley is a Yorkshire boy . . he’s the one you want when your world if falling down   . . . when you’re cold and wet and miserable . . .”

Dave Clements from Winnipeg, Canada made a guest appearance wielding a well travelled acoustic guitar. Dave is from the Canadian folk band, Dandelion Wine.  Dave said he loves Britain’s history and later sang, among others, a haunting Archie Fisher tune which carried the verse,            “. . . pale was the wounded knight that bore the rowan shield . . . riding with the brindle hound at heel.’  Dave later sang, Fantasy Song, “. . .  deep in the forest      . . . Michael the crazy man was walking . . . met a raven . . . soon they were talking.”

25^th May 2006, same venue as above, as follows:

Andrew Barber read his poem, ‘Money God,’ which included,  “. . . for I am the money god . . . I am the foot beneath the noose that kicks the chair . . . I am the money god, immortal, divine . . . my empire grows with each child that is born.”

Tony Hillier came armed with props - a cloth cap and neat t-shirt advertising Brunel 200 events, (celebrating 200 years since the birth of Isambard Kingdom Brunel).  The poem ‘Swindon Poet Proud,’ summed up the large amount of work and time that Tony has put into the community on the poetry front. Verse included, “. . . proud to be a poet in Swindon . . . but keep it under your hat . . . but is doesn’t matter to me . . . but we’ve made Richard Jefferies visible . . .” On a lighter note the following made me smile, “poets for sale, poets for sale, Byron, get one free!”

Hilda Sheehan’s poem ‘North West,’ had plenty of northern grit,    “. . . walk to the spa Leyland lass . . . get pie and beans . . . wade through smoke . . . wade through the shite of your life . . feed the meter, feed the kids, feed him when he comes home from the pub . . .” The poem reminded poets present of a Monty Python sketch, a few shouted, ‘luxury!’

Neil Oliver, (originally from Durham), sang a few well known North East folk standards including ‘The Lampton Worm,’ plus ‘Fog on the Tyne,’ (a well known Lindisfarne number, also a not so well known Paul Gascoigne cover version).  Neil sang on valiantly although he was obviously the worse for wear for a deep seated chest infection.

Ryszard Gajolc, (complete with cool dark sunglasses), had an off-the-cuff comedy routine where he reminded the audience that, “most students initial preferred choice of academic institution was either Oxford or Cambridge, colloquially known as ‘Oxbridge;’ failing this they either went to Durham or Exeter, known colloquially as ‘Durex.’”  Ryszard then went on to tell a series of jokes of Russian? origin, including ‘Igor’s 24 hour clock.’

For the record I also played acoustic guitar, (an instrumental titled ‘Locks Lane’), and also read a few poems.  DP

Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry, (and music), Evening, Thursday 1^st  December 2005, held at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, near Swindon, Wiltshire.  As usual I now give the customary up-front apology for name, spelling, and notation errors in the following abridged summary!

Neil Brooks, started the ball rolling and during the evening read a selection of poems including the cheerful almost pizza-like,  ‘Express Delivery,’ about the rapid birth of his daughter; “. . . the infant couldn’t wait for the delivery room or midwife experience . . . no gas, air or epidural . . . on the line, “control her breathing,” . . . express delivery, a daughter . . .”    

George Wade’s poem ‘Mum’s Like a Lighthouse,’ relayed feelings of a warm and calming influence, “you speak to me like boats that wander the surface of the sea . . . thank you young girl for being you . . . thanks for that steady beam of cogent thought . . .”    

Ian Sills recited a seasonal poem entitled ‘CD CD,’ which was about a time when his sister requested a Celine Dione audio compact disc for her Christmas present, (Ian not being a great fan of Celine); verse included, “. . . which CD would be the selection for her collection . . . a short list of just one, The Best of Celine Dione . . . So I walked into the store, face aglow, shunning eye contact with mankind . . . her voice emerged from every speaker . . .”          Do other Pulsar readers have any musical pet hates?  I have a thing about the song, Tie a Yellow Ribbon Around the Old Oak Tree; to me it just grates, a bit like finger nails screeching down a blackboard.   

Helen Gregory’s poem, ‘The Feet,’ relayed childhood memories of Christmas Eve when anticipation was tinged with feelings of trepidation at the possible discovery of being found awake, “. . . eyes shut tight . . . lest I might be discovered . . . the first creak of a foot on the stairs . . . I would listen as the feet came closer . . . trembling at the pause of the feet . . . in the darkness behind my eyes . . .”                               

Alex Williams aired a poem about his late mother and her love of cigarettes, (fags); the poem was entitled, The Fag Tree, “my mum smoked all her life and died at 73 . . . they served her well . . . she told me of a dream . . . she was lying under a tree and all the leaves were lighted fags . . . they remained her friend until she died . . .” Alex also played a ukulele to accompany a jaunty  poem about the most common complaint heard by GPs, “I’m aching all over and tired all the time . . .”

The poem, ‘Before Sleep,’ by Michael Newman was succinct and cleverly understated, “clad in the negligee of night . . . our fingers clasp, our lips cling . . . this utterness of knowing, interpreted without speech . . .”  The poem ‘Reflection,’ felt ephemeral, “. . . in the lake the woodland ripples . . . . now the water steadies . . . and the mirror man stands still.”  Look out for Michael’s poems in this edition.

During the interval I played electric guitar to accompany Ian Sills in a rendition of a punk-like poem by Ian Vickers entitled, ‘Mirror on the wall,’ (it seemed to go ok).  All-in-all another good evening at the much altered Clyffe Pypard pub, The Goddard Arms, (now converted to a back packer haunt with new rooms for over night accommodation). DP

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry, (and music), Evening, Thursday 22^nd September 2005, held at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, near Swindon, Wiltshire.  As usual I now give the customary up-front apology for name, spelling, and notation errors!

Ian Sills started the evening in a confident and accomplished  manner.  The poem, ‘Crime Against Humanity,’ made the audience smile, verse included, “I shun the obvious rhyme, most of the time . . . the writers of the lyrics of blues, have a fixation with their shoes . . . I shun the obvious rhyme, most of the time . . .”

Sarah Singleton’s poem, which I think was entitled ‘Skull Holt,’ featured, “ . . . a bone disc . . . two thirds river worn . . . a young man 3000 years dead . . . thought, lust and fear, long gone.”

Helen Gregory read a poem entitled, ‘What Do You Do?�� which covered the in-built need we have to feel all-knowing, and (possibly) a tad superior.  The poem about a female cleaner ran, “. . . she was tender, slender, walnut skinned . . . a crackling of energy you thought you had to smother . . . she cleaned . . . scrubbed their toilets ’til they shone . . . who are you? . . . As a child you travelled with Tibetan monks . . . as she cleans she sings . . . was an artist, cook, mother friend . . . what do you do?”

It was good to see Neil Brooks and his girlfriend Katie.  Neil���s poem ‘Getting up for Bastard Work,’ hit the spot, “. . . saw a bit of war on Channel 4 . . . outside a blackbird croons like a saxophone . . . I wonder where ghosts lurk as I have to get up for bastard work.”  Poem, ‘Me and the Goldfish,’ spoke of feelings of isolation and depression, verse included, “. . . me and the goldfish . . . I have TV, the goldfish has stones . . . perhaps the goldfish needs therapy?”

Jamie Rowel’s poem ‘Mysterious Ways,’ covered feelings of angst and how, perhaps, too much is expected of others when associates move on.  Jamie’s verse included, “. . . hey God tell us again . . . to like one another . . . I’m not a good toy . . . he works in mysterious ways . . .”

Dickie Llewellyn informed the audience that work had recently taken him to Cornwall where he joined a writers’ group in shall we say a, ‘big town’ Cornish library.  It appeared that the group discussed the technical intricacies of poems, dissected each section into minutia – and missed the whole point.  I’ve attended similar groups, where message, meaning and passion are left at the door along with the entrance fee.  The general feeling is, ‘we are quality assurance inspectors; the Haynes manual for poetry must be adhered to down to the last nut and bolt,’ resulting in a kind of poetry bleach that smells nice, but you wouldn’t want to drink it.  Dickie’s verse included, “I tried to listen to their technically perfect writing . . . they spoke of stanzas, syllables . . . their wave length, (I wasn’t on) . . . change this, then that around . . . I was left with just a title . . . which was strange because it was untitled.”

Becky Cook’s poem ‘Garden Greetings’ summarised the naff world of   garden ornaments, “blank eyes stare back . . . you just sit there with your fishing rod . . . no wonder garden gnomes went out of fashion . . .”

George Wade was on good form.  I particularly liked his hard-hitting poem, ‘The Poem Has No Title,’ which covered the vagaries of  add-water and stir instant poetry, the sort of gushing you hear on radio when people respond to competitions, (immediately), with the incentive of winning a prize such as a CD of the latest rumblings of someone’s beer-belly, or similar.  George’s poem included, “. . . I’ve written so much . . . I’ve written on a bus . . . I wrote this on my bike . . . a string of words that sound like turds . . . but no plopping as they fall . . .”

Nicky Holden’s poem ‘Responsibility,’ was about relationships and included, “I was never responsible for leading you on . . . and you chose to blame me . . .”

Alex Williams read from a recently published book, ‘A Collection of Poetry,’ edited by John Grohol, ISBN 1-4116-4150-7, $12.95.  All proceeds from sales of the book go to a mental health charity.  The poem, ‘Sight,’ was pleasingly optimistic, “Something has happened to my sense of sight  . . . suddenly I’m seeing old people, young . . . I can’t help smiling . . . something’s happened to my sense of sight . . . but I like it . . .”

During the interval, (as is the custom), I played my acoustic guitar. Unfortunately I plugged the lead into the wrong P.A. system connector, so I guess most of it went unheard, (but I enjoyed it anyway, so there).  All in all an excellent and particularly well attended evening.  David Pike

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry, (and music), Evening, Thursday 14^th July 2005, held at the Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, near Swindon, Wiltshire.  I now give the customary up-front apology for name, spelling, and notation errors!

I started the ball rolling, read a few poems and later played acoustic guitar.

Jamie Rowel was very nervous but needn’t have worried.  The poems he recited were interesting and were read in an accomplished manner.  I particularly remember Jamie’s humorous poem ‘Aisle 7,’ which suggested that whenever you ask for directions in a supermarket you are always instructed to go to aisle 7, (this rings true to me). Verse included,     “. . . where are the eggs? . . aisle 7 . . . where are the weapons of mass destruction? . . . aisle 7 . . . but there are only 6 aisles!”

Becky Cook’s poem ‘Smile’ included, “. . . I’ve seen your smile . . . the one that I can’t help but smile back at . . .” In ‘Prom Night,’ Becky was in a reflective mood, “. . . boys in tuxes . . . does this make having a ball such a ball . . goodbye to those we won’t forget . . . distant smiles for those we wished we’d met.”

Lynne den Hartog aired a few raunchy poems. ‘Energy in the Graveyard,’ was about a couple making love in a cemetery, verse included,  “. . . two figures lie where all can see . . . strong fingers glide through jet black hair . . . but why this place he cries? . . . she replied, I’m honouring my father’s last words to me . . . that boy will have you over my dead body . . .”

Alex Williams read a few thought provoking poems including ‘The Ranting Man,’ which was about a person who could only communicate by putting everyone and everything down; verse included, “. . . take me away from the ranting man . . . he hates beer, he hates wine, hates having a good time . . he hates his children having fun . . . he hates vicars, hates priests, hates the war, hates the peace . . . hates himself . . .”

Ed (only name supplied), read a number of poems including, ‘Youth and Young Manhood;’ verse sample, “. . . temporary love . . . struggling to find the one . . . it’s natural to feel weak when all you see on TV is strong and tanned . . .”

Tony Hillier has been involved in an excellent Swindon community project that involved Tony riding his bicycle around the Parks and East Walcot area of Swindon, (population approx 13000), and asking passers-by for their views about the area they live and about poetry in general.  Tony then assembled the thoughts and views of the populace into poems and published the same in a neat booklet titled, ‘Courtney’s the future she is,’ – to be reviewed in the December edition of Pulsar.  Tony read a poem from the booklet entitled, ‘Courtney Climbs a Lamp Post,’ verse included, “Courtney, aged 5, climbs a lamp post . . . look at her she’s just put litter in the bin . . . Courtney’s the future she is.”

Panusha read a poem, (I missed the title); verse included, “the span of man’s wit . . . come with me now, in passion, in heat . . . the search for the black pearl . . .”

This was a well attended evening at a popular and friendly venue; there were other supporters / students / onlookers present. They helped to make the evening a buzz.  It is likely that we will hold the next live event at The Goddard Arms; please view the Pulsar web for news / dates / times.  David Pike (DP)

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Pulsar Live Poetry Evening held at the Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, near Swindon, Wiltshire on Monday 18^th April 2005.  The following is a condensed overview of the evening with up-front apologies for name spelling errors and notation ‘wobblers.’

It was good to be back at the Goddard Arms where a warm welcome was provided by Landlady, Libby.  The pub is currently undergoing major building work and the previously used event hall is being converted into a back-packers short-stay hostel.  We set-up in the two-level lounge which was set aside for our event only.  It made a good and cosy venue with a log fire spluttering in the background.

Keith Hilling started the ball rolling.  I liked the imagery, (and title), of Keith’s poem, ‘Chav Buying a New Dress.’  Verse included, “. . . if not, why not, if not, why not . . . her knot of hair playfully copies the magazine she holds . . . the cashier watching the time . . .”

It was good to see Michael Newman again; Michael has been a bit under the weather health-wise, of late, but I noticed this thankfully hasn’t put a stop to his writing, some excellent poems were aired, including ‘Mouth Music;’  “your face illuminates text as you read to the children . . . I watch your eyes come alive . . . the tail of some passing comet under your control    . . . you are stardust . . . I reflect in your glory . . .”

Neil Brooks read a Bukowski ‘remembered’ poem entitled, ‘Thinking of You Hank.’ Verse included, “. . . the words are pissed again . . . the inspiration is squalor . . . I’m thinking of you Hank . . . and of all the romantic liars . . .”

John Richardson was in an ethereal mood as his poem ‘Haunting,’ revealed; “. . . lately the ghosts of my old lovers have been going through me . . . shsss . . . that’s you they insist . . . haven’t you put on weight . . . knowing that the fixtures and fittings will survive me. . .”

Becky Look (or Leek) and Rob Dunn came mob handed with a large group of student supporters in-tow; unbridled enthusiasm is infectious, good for them.  Becky’s World War I poem, ‘Marriage,’ had telling lines,      “. . . one by one a million men signed the registry . . . when there came a certain threat . . . a million men fixed bayonets . . . England, with her red dress of poppy fields . . .”

Rob Dunn recited a poem from the TV series Blackadder, (World War I), ‘The German Guns,’ “Boom boom boom, boom boom boom.”  Rob later read a poem about the advantages of being Welsh and the numerous disadvantages of being English, although Rob conceded there are one or two English people who are ok, (all very tongue in cheek and well received).

Simon Lester read his poem, ‘Weak.’  Verse included, “. . . what people think of you . . . skinny . . . fat . . . driving an old banger . . . people who think you are weak, are weak . . .”

For the record I read a few poems and read/played a blues poem accompanied by acoustic guitar.  All in all an enjoyable and well attended evening. DP

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Pulsar ‘Live Poetry Evening, Wednesday 9^th February 2005 held at the North Swindon Library.  The following is an abridged view of the evening with usual up-front apologies for any ‘faulty commentary’ that may ensue.  The evening was not hugely attended and there were apologies received from various quarters.  It was nevertheless an interesting event held in a studios environment.

Clive Oseman: aired a few poems about loss and survival.  The poem ‘Broken’ gave a bleak outlook, “. . . the surging words of sorrow grew stronger everyday . . . she feels it now the searing pain . . . the sight of him hanging there.” Later Clive aired the poem ‘Scorched,’ “. . . the blaze of your reality . . . the ferocious flames inspired by your uniqueness . . . my soul . . .”

Steve Feltham’s poem ‘The River,’ included, “. . . the river flowing down . . . streams to the sea . . . is it relieved on getting there? . . running into streams and reservoirs to be used by man . . . the story of life and its struggle.” The poem ‘Oncology’  posed the question, “how can this place be so full of death and yet so alive? . . the optimism and laughter will still be here . . . but the faces may not be the same.”  Steve’s poem ‘Avebury’ had an ethereal quality, “like ghostly old soldiers left behind . . . the silent voice of dignity . . . standing.”

Terence ‘H’ Hutchins read a few poems including, ‘Extravaganza,’ which referred to school parents’ evenings, “. . . the frosted air of well groomed hair glistens . . . parents agonise . . . the evening proceeds, stronger by the minute  . . . act after act glides seamlessly by . . . look to the future, just begun."  H then read a poem entitled, ‘Ooh!’ which he called a mono rhyme, first verse as follows, “I woke at three, it may be two/The duvet on the bed askew/I groaned and after much ado/Tried to sleep and dream anew.” I must admit that this poem was ‘not my cup of tea,’ but there you go, horses for courses and all that.

I also read a few poems during the evening but won’t bore you with them here.  The evening evolved into a general discussion about poetry, poetry publishing and small presses.  We also discussed venues for holding Pulsar Live Poetry Evenings.  The conclusion regarding venues is that there is no conclusion.  Pubs are good, poets can perform their poems and air outrageous work, if they wish to – but then there is the drunken rowdy element, boo boys and idiots. Libraries are ok, but there is a slightly inhibited feel to such places.  Perhaps we should seek a library with a bar!  David Pike

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Pulsar ‘Live Poetry’ Evening, Wednesday 6^th October 2004 held at the North Swindon Library, Thamesdown Drive, Swindon, Wiltshire, (in the orbital shopping complex area).    The following is a condensed summary of an excellent evening in a new setting; I give the usual up-front apologies for name/spelling errors or errors of notation.  The general, pre-National Poetry Day theme was ‘food,’ although this was not vigorously adhered to. 

Steve Feltham’s poem The ‘F’ Word led the listener to initially believe Steve was talking about expletives; “. . . you hear it on building sites and alas by me,. that four letter word I’m talking about is ‘food.’”

Lachlan Robertson mentioned street preachers and wondered what they may exclaim when saying grace, “. . . let the lard come into your life, you may despise malted bran . . .  for pepper and pepper, ah-Bisto.”

Mandy Christie’s poem, Invitation to a Throwaway Society delved into the hidden reaches of her cooler box, “. . . at the back of the fridge sits an orange, knitting a coat of furry design. . . ”

Mick Leigh recited Spirit of Australia, a poem close to his heart,  “. . . I am the lean hungry dingo . . . song of the cicadas . . . the blood red heart of Uluru.”

Clive Oseman’s poem Childhood Memories was bitter sweet, “her dying so young through smoker’s lung . . . the weekly food, fish and chips . . . and bread to cover the crisps . . .”

Tony Hillier is/was currently the Swindon Evening Advertiser poet in residence.  Tony read, amongst others, a few ‘Adver orientated’ poems including, A Big Reception, “finding 100 Victoria road . . . faces-off against the brick-bound post office . . . a blue carpeted reception . . . a big breasted reception, photographs of Melinda . . .”

John Richardson read a poem called Benediction which was about a food-type I am particularly fond of – cheese; “let us give thanks for cheese . . . to the smell of baking bread . . . for all those love songs sung alone to the solace of cheese.”

‘T’ Hutchins poem Post Christmas gives an inkling of festivities gone, and hopefully, to come, “. . . all that food hangs heavy in my gut, my face is wan/and now that prayer I mentioned – Thank God they’ve gone!”

Joanna Ryan’s poem Who Wants Bread refers to a conversation/shouting match she heard bellowed at children through an adjoining wall, fish-wife style, “. . . who wants bread? you - you – you? who wants jam? you – you – you?”

Rob Stredder was on good form. Rob’s poem Gone Before included, “she smoothed her hair with an automatic hand . . . time sprinkled like sugar on cornflakes . . . walking sideways through various subconscious strata . . . waiting for some café-like conversation . . .”  Rob has a new book, (just in time for Christmas), details follow: A Year In Oxford, poems and colour pictures, A4 size, spiral-bound, 36 poems and 73 pages. £6.00.  Give Rob a call to order a copy, telephone 01793 725206.

Jackie Habgood read a few poems by poets such as Blake Morrison, including, Against Dieting, “. . . I don’t want less, I want more of you . . .”

All in all a really special evening.  I would like to personally thank the following, (unseen), people for going out of their way to make the event a success; Gilli Brookes-Palmer, (North Swindon Library Manager), Lyn Carter, (Swindon Library Services), Shirley Ludford, (a good friend and publicity dynamo), and the Swindon Evening Advertiser.  DP

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry (and music) Evening, Monday 16^th August 2004 held at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard near Swindon, Wiltshire. I now give the customary up-front apology for name/spelling errors! 

David Johnson started the ball rolling with a memorised poem which related to an ‘A’ level year and an infatuation with a girl who could only relate to maths.  Verse included, “. . . I looked for a sign from her, she gave me a tangent . . . all she wanted to do was put down square roots . . . I wanted a ratio of 1 to 1; she said the probability was none.” Later David recited a poem which included, “. . . women looked askance at the dandruff in my underpants, until I used Head & Groin, which I purchased for a few coins.”  There was another poem about a hoarding seen from a train near Cheltenham which reads, ‘Balls Grinding.’  David posed the question, who would seek this unique and perhaps rather painful service?

Steve Feltham read a poem titled, Two Pens about ever-ready (though disposable), items which are taken for granted. Verse included, “. . . two pens dancing together on A4, never been out of their blister pack, one red, one blue . . . don’t just discard them, pens have feelings too.” Steve also read a poem about the modern innovation/curse of mobile phones; “they walk around like zombies, they walk around like clones . . . and what does happen to all of the radio waves?”

Nic Stevens recited a poem about the Trans Siberian Railway; the St. Petersburg to Moscow stretch; “. . . three towers emerged from the mist . . . St. Petersburg, raised on the bones of its builders . . . in the Stray Dog Café the poets gather . . .” Nic later read a Goddess Poem which had a sci-fi feel to it,   “. . . first the void, the unseeing immovable void . . . light, magnetism . . . the serpent, Secha . . . after fire and frost will come the hanging night.”

Heather Brown read a poem about school-yard bullying, (and the power trip that inadequate persons inflict on others); “one little lad alone in the crowd . . . a kick on the leg, a punch on the arm . . . all will show bravery.” The truth is that bullies are cowards.

For the record I read a few poems and played a blues poem, ‘Not Blues,’ and accompanied myself on acoustic guitar.  The evening was better attended than, perhaps, the readers of this article might gather.  A poetry group from Chiseldon attended to listen, and I guess, to suss out proceedings. There were also other persons who came along to listen, and in the future may read. DP

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry (and music) Evening, Tuesday 20^th April 2004, held at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard near Swindon, Wiltshire. The following is a condensed overview of the evening. As usual, I now give the customary up-front apology for name spelling/notation errors!

Dick Llewellyn started the ball rolling with his poem, Free Beer, “I fear no beer, though no beers fears me . . . the one with the name too derogatory to put out before granny for tea.”  I guess Dick is referring to the beer that is named after a part of a dog’s anatomy!

John Gartland read a poem called A Startled Muse, (or are you taking your workshop too seriously).  Verse included, “. . . try to relive the hush of a library . . . my brow is now strategically furrowed . . . if you don’t shut up soon you insensitive baboon, it could end in fighting . . .”

David Van Cauter aired a poem entitled Lost, which referred to a TV remote control device.  Verse included, “control was a word he didn’t use, dobbing with his dobber . . . her wand of relaxation . . . sick of asking he tied it to the sofa . . . she was gone within a week.”

Keith Hilling aired a poem about fitness and self image: The Poet Runs like a Hamster on a Wheel, “I keep running, going nowhere . . . but the LCD says differently.” Keith’s poem, How to Be, was about the initial feeling of alienation experienced after moving to another town; verse included, “how to be accepted . . . how to think for yourself, think for friends . . . alone.”

Mick Leigh started with an Australian story entitled The Animal Trainer, which was about a man who had a knack of training various creatures and who ended-up training blow-flies to sing – the scheme came to grief when the flies collectively lifted off the roof of a church from inside, when they should have been singing as a choir – and blew away their mentor’s bid for fame. The poem Language Please was about Australian slang, verse included, “I like the Australian slangness . . . much better than posh/ take a Captain Cook at my poetry book.”

Tony Hillier had recently run the London Marathon and arrived complete with medal, (I believe certain charities will benefit from Tony’s endeavour – well done).  Tony read a number of marathon orientated poems but I found his poem, Tit For Tat, to be of a more haunting nature; “ten bombs on ten trains, if you do this I do that . . . the big hit stick . . .”

Rayman played guitar and sang interesting lyrics.  Rayman and his lady friend play in a local band; we’d like to know the name of the band, it would be good to attend a gig or two.  Rayman played two original songs, namely The Bucket and later, Jim.  The lyrics of both items were clever, the words/guitar of Jim had, (I think), an ethereal feel; “. . . walking the land on a grass green meadow . . . Jim said this could be your last chance . . . sitting on the bank of an English river . . .  hell, there’s nothing we can do . . . I talked to Jim, he told me everything . . .”

David Johnson recited a poem about DNA.  Verse included, “it took fifteen years and 3 million symbols to sequence DNA . . . they think they’ve found a gene that will give me good luck . . . but not one that will let me come round to you. . .”  Later David referred to the time before the wearing of car seat belts in vehicles was mandatory, “the days before seatbelts . . . the hump-back bridge . . . faster, faster Dad . . . today I prefer to be strapped in the back.”

Helen Gregory recited a poem entitled, Little Girl.  The little girl in question turned out to be a bit of a nightmare; “Mummy won’t let me play with Barbie anymore, since the incident with the saw, I thought her heart had stopped so I opened her up to explore . . . Mummy said it is not very funny to give helium to a bunny . . . can’t you just sit and watch the fishes, taxidermy is not for little . . .” Priceless.

Ian Sills concluded the evening with a punk poem which focussed on the recent exploits of ex Sex Pistol, (stage name Johnny Rotten), who appeared on the reality TV programme, ‘I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here.’  The question is/was, had this star of previous anti establishment notoriety sold out and become main stream?  The answer to this, in my view, is an emphatic, yes.  Ian’s poem, (read in Sex Pistols mode), included: “I’m anarchy, don’t get me out of here . . . I wanna be, a celebr—ity . . . I am an aging punk . . . I didn’t expect to get pecked on the bum . . . I wanna be, a celebr—ity . . . I am punk royalty . . .”  Right on.   DP

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry Evening, Tuesday,  20^th January2004, held at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard. The following  is a condensed, (you could say compressed), overview of this well attended evening. The usual excuses apply regarding an up-front apology for name spelling/notation errors!

Keith Hilling was on good form and provided a high speed delivery of his poem, ‘Size XXL.’   I know how he feels, it’s the ‘weight/size thing.’ The final verse included, “. . . shrinking the meat . . . I’ve banished the spell, I’m down to XL.”

Neil Brooks made me smile with his poem, ‘Getting Up For Bastard Work.’  I particularly liked the line, “. . . later a blackbird crooned like a saxophone.”

John Gartland (from the Poetry ID group, Hitchin, Herts.), read a humorous poem, (I missed the title), about famous literary figures taking a holiday together, (perhaps club 18 - 30 style?): “. . . Walton has taken his rod to the jetty . . . Lear is paying ping-pong with Shelley . . .Eliot and Wordsworth have gone to the pub . . . Coleridge is having a smoke . . . and Hardy is telling his joke. . . Dante never complains. . .”

Tony Hillier’s poem ‘She’s No Sucker,’ was about his daughter’s excellent musical ability: “. . . a minute ago she had a bottle in her mouth . . now it’s a musical instrument . . . she reads already . . . sight reads clefs and all the mystery marks . . . top marks . . . top girl.”

Rob Stredder read his atmospheric poem, ‘Autumn.’  Verse included, “. . . gold times . . . mist coagulated haze . . . trees say goodbye to use . . . tumbling laminated leaves . . . in this rotting land . . .”

Michael Newman’s poem ‘Bonfire With A Difference,’ referred to our reluctance to dispose of old tat and our guilt, on bonfire night, for taking the easy option; “ an unwieldy non-geometric pile of chairs . . . too large for a car boot sale, too diseased . . . our obvious guilt and our release . . .”

Steve Feltham read a poem which referred to the carnage of the First World War; the poem was titled, ‘The Beauty and the Beast;’    “ . . . a white butterfly on a gun barrel . . . to pacify the beast . . .”

Helen Gregory read ‘The Pimping of Winnie the Pooh,’ - neat title. The tongue-in-cheek verse included, “. . . one hundred years of eating honey (huney) in the shelter of the 100 acre wood . . . they came in the night . . . bundled them into Tinsel Town trucks. . . left with a penny to his name he asks for honey and received scotch . . . owl is off his tree . . . piglet’s off to detox.”

Andie Langford-Woods (correct spelling of Andie), read a poem about a romantic female and dysfunctional male, (I missed the poem title).  Verse included, “. . . she was used to beds . . . was svelte, sensuous and smelt of vanilla . . . he was unchallenged by cleaning agents, soap . . . she did not partake of his nocturnal flatulences. . .”

Ian Sills’s poem ‘The Sound of the Under 10s,’ was about the current state of the music industry where stars are created on image alone - without actually having to achieve anything to gain initial adulation.  To me, this poem rocked, “. . . who needs substance when you’ve got style . . . button pushing  perfect Barbies moving around . . . easy come means even easier go . . . the age of the instant hit.”

Ali Wade recited her poems entirely from memory, (I wish I could do that). Verse included, “I’m trying to create . . . the one thought to speak . . . but I’m ambitious . . . the perfume of the bloom is little more than ambition.”

Dawn Gorman read a poem which I think was  titled ‘Under Swami;’ “. . . she smiles with plausible innocence . . . the Swami teaches the fish, cobra, with gentle smiling eyes . . . “relax the feet, relax the limbs,” he chants unfamiliar words . . .”

Touring Australian poet Mick Leigh read poems about the ancient civilisation of his homeland.  The poem, ‘My Dreamtime,’ created a vision of simpler, perhaps more innocent times; “I once walked on a beach . . . I’m sure I saw children in the creek. . . I thought I saw women talking about the things they had made"  Mick said that Uluru, (Aires Rock), has now rightfully been given back to the Aborigines - but said that tourists still insist on climbing to the top of the rock, to the dismay of its guardians.  Mick said imagine if tourists were allowed to climb, unchallenged, ‘say,’ up the outside of Salisbury Cathedral, there would rightfully be an outcry; a salvo of ‘stiff letters’ would be sent to the powers that be.  Why should Uluru be any different?  Check out Mick’s web site: www.mickleigh.com

Raymond, (only name supplied), played an acoustic guitar  to accompany two songs/poems.  Both songs were amusing and had a rock  n’ roll feel to them.  The first poem/song featured an urban sewer rat that kept popping up at unexpected places to offer sage advice - all very tongue-in-cheek, (and hilarious).  Good stuff.                                                                                                                                                                                   DP

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry Evening, Wednesday, 12^th November 2003, held at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard near Swindon, Wiltshire. The following  is a condensed overview of the evening. As usual, I now give the customary up-front apology for name spelling/notation errors!    

Susie White started the ball rolling and explained that she had recently moved to the Swindon area from Huddersfield.  Susie’s poem, ‘The Settee,’ had a familiar feel, “. . . I’ll settle on my settee another night . . . I’ll open the red wine, rather  than write poems - although the inclination is there.” Another poem, (I missed the title), tackled the age-old problem of in- laws, “his mother eyes me with suspicion as she pours the tea. “What do you do?” she enquired.  “I’m a writer.”  Followed by, “no, what do you really do?”

Martin Cook read a poem entitled ‘Thruppence,’ which drew upon his memories as a child during war years, “. . . he came out of the Surrey pines and asked for wasser . . . I was too young to understand . . . he thanked me in a foreign tongue . . . gave me a thruppenny bit . . .”  Later Martin read, ‘How to Feed a Cat,’ ��. . . I could not understand why he wouldn��t eat Kitty Kat or Whiskers . . . waved chunks in front of his nose . . . his eyes closed to capture dreams . . . until I bought Chum . . . his rowdy enemy devoured . . . wouldn’t eat fellow felines processed into cans . . .”

John Plevin aired a poem, entitled, ‘A Kind of Living,’ which had a rap-type feel and was, perhaps, a modern interpretation of the stereo-typical dysfunctional male, “. . . he slipped into life, a knife in the heart, . . . neat, finds his feet, youth, uncouth, teen, between, strong, along . . . a chancer, disco dancer . . . the sorrow of wasted days . . . he blunders through living, loving  . . . a loser, perfect boozer . . .” John also recited his poem, ‘Tribute to a Namesake,’ which recalled the strange and untimely death of a Malmesbury ale-house serving maid.  Hannah Twynnoy, (at 33 years of age), was killed by a tiger on 23^rd  October 1703, (the tiger belonged to a travelling circus (or similar)).  John posed the question could local girls named Hannah trace their names back to the tiger’s victim? “trace your namesake name, . . . she prays on the White Lion floor . . . tomorrow he comes, her prince of old . . . empty arms though iron bars . . . little girl, give her a passing sigh.”

Neil Brooks read a poem entitled, ‘Composed,’ “. . . like pensioners, pens are drawn like swords as the race to William Hill’s is on . . .” Later Neil recalled his tongue-in-cheek poem, ‘Do You Belong in a Thong?’ Verse included, “. . . is your bum perfectly shaped? . . sheer lace, spandex . . . you can Triumph in a thong . . . misbehaving thong . . . thong, going, going gone.”

Keith Hilling spoke of a friend who became a heroin addict, (the person is now deceased).  Keith then read, ‘The Heroin Addict,’ “. . . some talk about a thin dark line on the horizon . . . but today the land met the horizon . . . what have I become? . . thin as a ghost.”  Keith later read a poem about a door-to-door salesman, verse included, “. . . it was half-past six and he’d knocked ‘x’ number of doors already . . . a woman opened a door, exclaimed, “I don’t want it!” . . . she invited him in . . . showed him numerous other items she’d purchased earlier, but didn’t need.”

Tony Hillier read a topical/controversial poem expressing his personal views, the poem was entitled, ‘Dr. David Kelly,’ verse included, “. . . leak, play the blame game . . . let it be him . . . expose him to weapons of media destruction . . . done to, spun to . . .”  Tony also read an amusing poem entitled, ‘Supporting Artists,’ which recalled appearing with his daughter as ‘extras’ on the set of the soap opera ‘Casualty,’ words included, “ . . . acting casual-like, pretending to be an interesting chippie bloke who’d kebabed himself . . . acting casual.

For the record: during the evening I read a few poems and played acoustic guitar.   DP

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry (and music) Evening, Wednesday 13th August 2003, held at The Ghost Train, Purton near Swindon, Wiltshire. The following is a condensed overview of the evening. As usual, I now give the customary up-front apology for name spelling/notation errors!    

Michael Newman started the ball rolling; I particularly liked the imagery created by his poem ‘Badger Watch,’ “. . . strobing the dark fantastic they emerge . . in the late and midge infested evening . . . a night by night routine of paw to mouth.” The poem ‘Swan Song,’ included, “. . . he inherits the sea legs I longed for, my son . . . the stench of diesel . . . a landing stage duckweed green.”

Jean Macmaster informed the audience of the recent death of one of her friends, (the lady died in June).  Jean read a poem, ‘Last Days Together,’ “. . . you were reinventing your wardrobe to encompass a colostomy bag . . . last gift, a lavender bear . . . I met your relatives . . . unknown friends comforted me.”  On a light hearted note Jean read, ‘Wish I Were Here,’ “. . . I went to the peak district . . . my poetry went to Italy.”

Ted Skinner has suffered ill health of late but seemed in good form on reading his tongue-in-cheek poem, ‘My Secretary;’  verse included, “I found my office in such a mess, my wife said, ““you need a secretary Ted.””  Ted’s son was also present in the audience, said he would bring his acoustic guitar to the next poetry evening.

I read a few poems, then asked Neil Brooks to read Ian Vickers’s poem ‘Mirror on the Wall,’ – I accompanied Neil on electric guitar.  It seemed to go ok, Neil gave a ‘punk sneer,’ to the verse.  Ian Vickers’s poem was featured in the September 2003 edition of Pulsar Poetry Magazine.

Keith Hilling returned to the fold after touring New Zealand, Australia and the USA: on returning to England he was promptly given his job back by his former boss – jammy or what!  Keith revisited part of his tour of the USA in his poem, ‘Junction Texas.’  Keith recalled a bus journey, “. . . the automated voice said your journey will take 48 hours to complete . . . at the back of the bus a man said, “so boy, where in England are you from? . . . have you met the queen? . . . have all you guys got bad teeth?” I nodded vigorously.”

Neil Brooks poem ‘Through The Automatic Gates of Roche Court,’ (at least, I think that was what it was called), contained interesting verse, “. . . the time-table sits in autumn shade . . . along the dotted hedgerow . . . the river slate has been quarried for the invention of words . . . a rash of ideas are spurned on by a stinging nettle that stung my foot.” Neil then recalled the trauma and elation of the recent birth of his offspring, the poem was aptly titled, ‘Express Delivery,’ and included, “. . . then the waters broke, there was no gas, no air, or epidural . . . I dialled 999 . . . another push, then she arrived . . . an express delivery, quicker than  a pizza.”  Neil later read a ‘follow-up’ to his famous ‘Knickers,’ and ‘Pants’ poems.  The poem was entitled, ‘Do You Belong In A Thong,’ and verse included, “. . . is your bum a perfect shape . . . you could try a Pretty Polly jolly thong . . . a fiver (for cash) discount thong . . . an edible thong . . . a cherry blossom thong . . . do you belong in a thong?”   David Pike

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry (and music) Evening, Wednesday  14^th May 2003, held at The Ghost Train, Purton near Swindon, Wiltshire, (the Ghost Train public house and restaurant was formerly the hotel for the long since defunct Purton railway station). The following is a condensed overview of a pleasant evening with many new and returning poets present. As usual, I now give the customary up-front apology for name spelling/notation errors!    

Lachlan Robertson started the evening with his poem, ‘Cribbs Causeway,’ which was about a large shopping mall situated on the outskirts of Bristol, (for readers who are unfamiliar with the area).  Verse included, “. . . gunmetal skies . . . sterile bees throng to the hive . . . loud clad models . . . lights, noise . . . grey rivers . . . a plastic Avebury. . .”  In the poem, ‘An Inspector Calls,’ Lachlan received a shock, “. . . a new audit team named OFFYOU . . . we’ve come to inspect you . . . I didn’t earn as much as expected considering the state investment in my education . . .”

John Plevin referred to images shown on TV of wars in distant lands.  John’s poem ‘Sighs of Grief,’ showed how we, as viewers just watch, then switch-off from something which is, perhaps, beyond our comprehension; verse included, “. . . black scarf . . . the woman cries her grief . . . we don’t scream for our unseen dead, ours is a sterile mourning / everything in its place . . . dimension to grief . . . ours seem small . . .”

Bob Mee read a number of humorous poems including, “The Dinner Party;” “we are not supposed to know that Wilf has an alternative wife in a corner shop in Warwick . . . we are not supposed to know he scratches eczema in his sleep . . . how could we know, as Wilf pours another glass of red . . .”  In ‘Elvis, Vegas 2001,’ Bob stated, “he’s at the bus-stop in Paradise road, he’s not fat, not on drugs, (Elvis entered an Elvis look-alike competition, and came fourth).”

Neil Brooks was on fine form.  Neil’s poem ‘The Hermit,’ included, “. . . dogged by destiny . . . stuck in strange times . . . fondling through the filth to find that all is still dirty . . . everything is intensified, acute . . .”   I missed the title of one of Neil’s poems but still enjoyed the lines, “. . . got up for bastard work  . . . a blackbird croons like a saxophone.” In, ‘That’s Not A Poem It doesn’t Rhyme,’ verse was recited as follows, “. . . stars with bras . . . I have a spine and I stand here fine . . . if not I’d be a mollusc . . .”

Jean Macmaster’s poem ‘The Army,’ referred to playing piano for the Salvation Army; “. . . ranks of blood red chairs . . . at the front a piano . . . the chosen hymns . . . wide optimistic intervals . . . nature of song . . . battle run and won.”  Jean’s poem, ‘Thank God I’m Different,’ made me smile; ���how could I have thought that you are one of us . . . I hope I’ll leave you less embittered when I’ve pointed out the error of your ways.”

Michael Newman’s emotive poem, ‘To Deirdre with Motoneuron Disease,’ included, “. . . her silence conveyed the sonnets she never wrote . . . her carers would recite her poems in a voice from business school, but could not disguise her talent.”  The poem, ‘Party Member,’ was about suppressed ambition,    “. . . rising at the crack of 10.00 he ogles the face in the shaving mirror . . . now sidelined, reduced to mailing lists . . .”

Joanna Ryan’s poem, ‘Old Bat,�� illustrated the mixed blessings of aging, �����. . . she bites into a pear . . . juice runs down her chin . . . nearly 90 years . . . her man, a fainter kind of beast died 20 years ago.  “What die?�� she says, when I have just learned to live!”  Joanna later read/sang an amusing ‘folkey’ poem about a Cornish vicar who became a merman, “. . . there in the midst of glittering waves he administered a sermon . . . on the rocks he lay for a week and a day . . .”

For information: I also read a few poems and during the interval played blues guitar, (for my amusement and to the angst of all others).  The Ghost Train certainly seems a good venue with an excellent area for poetry, (which also doubles as a skittle alley in the winter).  Also, special thanks to the landlord, Martin Tolley for making us welcome.    David Pike

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry (and music) Evening, Thursday  27^th February 2003, held at the Riffs Bar, Greatfield, near Swindon, Wiltshire. The following is a condensed overview of this well attended ‘live’ poetry evening, (with usual up-front apologies for name spelling/notation errors).   

Paul Davis started the ball rolling with a gentle poem, My Little Rosebud Maggie: “. . . my only true love rose . . . sweet lips beguile . . . a touch so deft . . . arms I yearn to own . . .”  Paul followed with a tongue-in-cheek rap style poem, “she’s a big woman, can’t you see . . .” leading to, “my high school graduation, breaking all the rules.”

Annabel Banks read a selection of interesting poems.  In ‘No Pets Allowed,’ Annabel examined the small print of her accommodation lease, “no pets allowed . . although my contract and lease deny . . . I kept a kitten anyway, (furniture claw-marks and all).”  Tricky relationship scenarios were mentioned in, ‘Clearing the Air,’. . . “she caught him staring at my hands . . . I’ll whisper in his shell like ear . . . and feed him beer. . .”

John Plevin referred to a simple but effective invention which tends to be taken for granted, (or simply overlooked), but was a major step-forward in road safety, when first introduced.  The poem was entitled ‘Eyes,’. . . “always there for me, lighting the way. . .  cat eyes . . . then men came, to prise them from their sockets. . .”   In ‘Heaven’s Gate,’ John relayed the unspoken words of a medieval, (or earlier), cadaver whose burial mound was unearthed from beneath a local cinema; “. . . they promised me peace, good food too, all I could eat . . . with the smell of wet clay . . . nothing to do but wait . . . I was glad when the lights went out.”

Rob Stredder: after making anti war soapbox statements, Rob did actually read some poems. ‘Always,’ which was about the modern irritating habit of constantly playing with mobile phones; “fiddling with their mobiles, sitting in pubs . . . no longer free . . . text messaging, calling, searching . . . the umbilical cord to the brain.”   Editorial comment:  why can’t mobile phone users implement straightforward telephone ringing tones? DP.  In ‘Cherwell Boat House,’ Rob referred to an easy day down by the river, a time for relaxed observation, “flotsam, blossom, and me . . . a man with two dogs . . . why does he need two? . . .”

Nick, (surname?), read a poem by ___ about, a tradesman named Sam Osthelwaite (spelling?), which was a humorous recitation with biblical connections.  Verse included, “Sam was a craftsman who followed his trade in Bury. . . where black pudding is made.”  Sam was later hired to build Noah’s ark and negotiated with Noah “. . . 3½p per foot . . .”

Atherton Gray made the point that poetry does not have to be political, it is not the only type/genre.  Atherton’s verse included, “flings in our face the bitter dialectic . . . but please don’t squabble . . . you write best what you must . . . and we will read.”   ‘America IV,’ relayed a feeling of alienation, possibly referring to the sheer vastness/diversity of the continent, “. . . the cities, the wilderness, the dream, the weird (and scary) . . . a bridge over awful; why, I needed to ask you . . .”   Unfortunately Atherton was heckled by an inebriated member of the audience.

John Richardson read ‘Benediction,’ which is one of my personal favourites; “. . . let us give thanks for cheese . . . a sea breeze blown on warm summer nights . . . love songs, sung alone - to the solace of cheese.”  John then read a very short poem entitled, ‘Boils Law,’ “Don’t squeeze them.”

Tony Hillier displayed anti war banners and made soapbox statements; ‘War Never, Peace Clever,’ and ‘Un UN Inspected,’ “. . . 500 march to Fairford . . . even the cold war gave its respects to these marchers.” To me it came across as though we, (the audience), had been isolated from news media, and hence needed to be informed, having just returned from Mars. Oh well.  Also, it seems the current vogue to shout into a microphone – why?  Later Tony did read some poems, verse included, “I wish I was my Dad, taking me to piano lessons . . . but he never recovered from D Day shell shock . . .”

Lachlan Robertson was on form and read a poem about fish ‘seemingly’ moving in a tank and the observer’s need to guide the fish by mind power; “. . . fish swimming in a tank . . . will deviate from a common line . . . I must direct their flight . . . they may crash . . . (about air traffic control).  In the poem ‘Miss Galloway,’ Lachlan referred to an array of special objects left by a deceased lady, “the effects of the deceased show how the past was richly better . . . a pocket watch as gold as the finches that once belonged to Miss Galloway.”

Neil Brooks read a number poems including one which I think was called, ‘The Beauty of the Smile.’  Verse included, “. . . a caterpillar doesn’t want to turn into a butterfly. . . the sculptor gets lost in the curves.” Neil also read his well known ‘Knickers,’ poem.  Unfortunately, later in the evening Neil was reduced to shouting into the microphone – far too much alcohol consumed.   Football score summary: Beer 10, Poetry 2.

Michelle, (a lady from Ohio, USA), read Mike Cumiskey’s poem ‘The Artist’s Game,’ - a poem which was published in the March 2003 edition of Pulsar.  Verse included, “Vocabulary seen but now not spoken slips the syntax leash, the debt of talent spent before the dark.” 

Keith Hilling informed the audience that he was flying to New Zealand the next day and would remain there, to work, for approximately two years.  Keith had also imbibed a fair amount of falling-down-water but was cheerful rather than disruptive.  Keith, among others, read, ‘Blotting out the Days,’ “. . .  sip sip sip sip, glug, drink . . . temporary abandonment of inhibition – be a fool.”  Apt?    Football score summary: Booze 10, Poetry 4.

 I would like to thank Riffs Bar management for allowing us to use their public address system, and for giving us a warm welcome.  David Pike

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry (and music) Evening, Wednesday  27^th November 2002, held at the Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, near Swindon, Wiltshire. The following is a condensed overview of this ‘live’ poetry evening, (with usual up-front apologies for name spelling/notation errors).    Note: twelve persons attended.

I started the evening and played electric guitar accompaniment for Heavy Shopping, a track from my CD, Tow-path.

Gary Pike read a poem entitled ‘Alley Cat,’ (ode to my beloved).  Evidently Gary’s wife is a keen skittles player, lines included, “. . . she is no random chucker . . . skill is incidental, the match plays second fiddle to gossip and intrigue.”  In a poem, ‘Twinkle Toes,’ Gary referred to an over enthusiastic member of a dance troupe who is a tad too extroverted for the powers that be, “. . . how does he do those moves? He has an urge to break the rules . . . ‘twill not do the committee said . . . two verbal warnings . . . he could be relegated to the back.”

 Neil Brooks performed a poem called ‘Jazz’ and was accompanied by Keith Hilling who played acoustic guitar.  The poem was tongue-in-cheek humorous and spoken with a laid-back ‘jazz’ drawl. Verse included, “Jazz - bees buzzing in the hive . . . finger pop, non-stop percussion, . . . the jazz vibe to be alive, burning . . .”  Neil later read a poem called ‘Pants,’ which appears to be a good match for his well know poem ‘Knickers.’  Lines included, “. . . Kelvin Kline’s, dressed to the nines . . . no Superman pants . . . Homer Simpson can of beer-in-the-hand pants . . . bottom performance pants . . .”  Incidentally, Neil also read  the poem ‘Knickers,’ and was later ribbed by the Bassett Trio, (see below), who asked him how he knew so much about female undergarments?  Neil replied by saying, “I am wearing knickers now.”

Keith Hilling’s poem, ‘Ode To My Grandfather,’ referred to his deceased relative who had been an accomplished guitar player.  Lines included, “. . . A- minor, he would say, is a sad chord . . . now he is no longer with us in Winchester . . . he focussed on a life of music. . .” (after the trauma of Dunkirk).  Keith then read, ‘Saturday Night Nico,’ which gave a humorous view of a ‘jazz’ cat.  Verse included, “Jive a figure of eight, four legged great and skids across the kitchen dance floor . . . This aristocrat of a cat has rhythm in his tail, swing . . . jive . . . jazz . . . asks to dance once more . . . we open the kitchen door.”

The Bassett Trio, (an un-named contingent of lady poets) combined to read poems on stage.  One poem was a tongue-in-cheek ‘swipe�� a Neil Brooks poem ‘Knickers.’  Lines included, “. . .     the boobs are pert, we know you want us . . . then we move on . . . we have been test-driven many times, and have passed. . .”  All good fun.      David Pike

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry Evening, Wednesday  25^th September 2002, held at the Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, near Swindon, Wiltshire. The following is a ‘condensed��� overview of this well attended poetry evening.

Keith Hilling’s poem, ‘Internet Surfing,’ was about internet relationships, “. . . picking little fragments of earth and turning them to seed . . . I see planes flying above and want to pull them to me, to you . . . as we ride these waves together.”

Peter Reade read a poem entitled the ‘The Outing,’ which referred to a 1930s day-trip to the seaside: “. . . Dad’s in a terrible mood . . . we reached the coast around midday . . . Granny has us in stitches, has tucked her breeches into her knickers . . .” 

Ian Sill’s poem, ‘Procrastinate (or I’ll think of a proper title in a bit),’ included, “oh why do I procrastinate, my talents are dither and delay, . . . I always mean to lose weight . . . why is this poem incomplete?”

George Wade said he didn’t really understand Haiku but offered, “road rage breaks, (or brakes), winging the mirror in passing,” and “traffic jam, heated and congealed - sticky mess.”

John Plevin was in a reflective mood.  John’s poem,” In Praise of Content,’ included, “childhood dreams are ended in a day . . . joy is kin to cold dismay . . . perhaps and maybe become the ruler of the bold.”

Gary Pike read a poem about the clandestine felling and removal of plain trees from Devizes town market square, (a fairly recent occurrence); “I am old and I am weary . . . they say I am a plain . . . my stump is arthritic to the core.”

Jean MacMaster’s poem ‘Telephone,’ referred to an argument, “I said I won’t speak to you again until I get an apology, and slammed the phone down – which was heard at the other end as a tiny click.”

Neil Brooks read his popular and humorous poem about women’s lingerie, “yo-yo knickers, who are you going home with tonight knickers? . . . Sunday afternoon dreamy knickers . . .”

Michael Newman’s poem, ‘Dance of Death,’ highlighted the need for caution: ‘heavily breathing her apologies, she moved on to the next disco partner . . . next morning they found the body, still warm.”

Jill Miller and Hazel Stewart travelled from Frome to attend.  After initially performing a poetry duet they proceeded to read their own poems. Jill’s poem, ‘The 1 in 9,’ referred to the trauma of breast cancer; “there’s a fine silver line where my breast used to be . . . but what about you when you said get them out for the boys . . . a scar that runs deep.”

Hazel’s atmospheric poem, ‘Enticing Light,’ was charged with autumnal imagery, “I walk into another world . . . a mantle of frost heavy dew . . . mist drips sing rain music.”    David Pike

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry Evening, Tuesday  16^th July 2002, held at the Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, near Swindon, Wiltshire.  We returned to the Goddard Arms following a short break after providing ‘live-mic’ performance opportunities at other Wiltshire venues – the general idea is not to get too bogged down at one geographical location.  Photographs of poets performing may be viewed by clicking the following links: photographs

 To be factual this was probably the least supported of all Pulsar Poetry Evenings to-date with approximately twelve people in attendance.  It was, after all, the height of the holiday season.   I guess most people were wandering along the beach at Weymouth, (or wherever), with handkerchiefs tied to their heads wearing shirts showing the legend ‘I Want To Operate,’ – Monty Python fans will know what I’m rambling on about.  The evening was nevertheless thoroughly enjoyable with interesting work aired.  As usual I apologise up-front for notation errors.

Michael Newman read a number of considered poems.  One poem titled, ‘Kenwick Sands,’ referred to a holiday at The Lizard, Cornwall and included, ‘. . . beach balls double as footballs . . . the Smith Family Robinson play continuity cricket . . .”  Michael mentioned, in passing, that his poem ‘Granny Watch,’ had recently won the Cheltenham Poetry Competitors Group Prize.  Anyone who has heard or read Michael’s poetry would not be surprised to hear this news.  Good taste wins through.

John Richardson’s poem, ‘Scarborough 47,’ provided an evocative picture of a non-existent childhood family photograph where the father image is partially hidden, or perhaps air-brushed out?  Verse included, “Scarborough 47 – written on the back of a crinkled print. . . sea breeze has moved your hair and hides the face that is my father. . . there is no print, it is how I like to imagine us – father is unknown.”   In ‘Still Afraid of the Dog,’ John recalled childhood terror caused by a relative’s four-legged fiend.  Lines included, “. . . he’s not too bad, it will only be a nip.” Don’t you hate it when they say thing like that, it would be different if the person making the bland statement was on the receiving end of ‘not too bad’s’ canine incisors!

Jean MacMaster, among others, read a poem with the tongue-in-cheek title, ‘Look Back In East Anglia.’ Lines included, ‘childhood was a myth. . . her upstairs, in pastel colours. . . chipping away the distance between her and her childhood.’   The poem ‘Counselling,’ recalled the subject matter of the poem title, (after a nervous breakdown); and included, ‘She said, “I’m not a religious person myself.”  And I thought, thank the Lord for that!’

Paul Davis’s initial poem had a controversial title, ‘Tampons, Chocolate and Beer.’  The verse was as seen through the eyes of an infant and included, “. . . my best mate’s Mum is an alien . . . my best mate says she’s a lunatic, but only once a month.  My best mate would sit there sucking a dummy - when he didn’t have her tit in his mouth. . .”  Paul later read a poem entitled ‘Ant Abuse,’ which recalled a childhood fixation which drew him, (as a child), to continually kill ants – in recent years discussed at length in a therapy session.

Sue Simmons read a poem written when in Whitby.  The poem, ‘Hall of Mirrors,’ was written whilst sitting in a parked van during a rain shower, “raindrops reflecting . . . they said do you hear voices as well?”  A myriad of tiny windows to look through, miniature people rushed along the quay . . . perfect squares within a teardrop, windows within windows and that ever fading song .  . .”  Sue has not been too well of late but struggled to attend – good on her.      David Pike

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry Evening, Monday 6^th May 2002, held at Riffs Bar, Greatfield, Nr. Purton, Swindon, Wiltshire.  This was a happy return to a pub which was a regular haunt for Pulsar ‘live’ poetry in the past under its former guise, the Butchers’ Arms.  Riffs Bar, (as in guitar riff), is owned and run by musicians and has been renovated to include a stage area with built-in house amplification, special lighting. . .  The place has bags of character and includes CCTV coverage of performing poets, so customers in the adjoining bar may relax and view poetry proceedings via TV.  This Pulsar event was included in the Swindon Festival of Literature programme.

 The event was well attended and proceeded at a rate of knots. As usual I apologise up-front for name spelling wobblers and errors of notation:

John Plevin read a few thoughtful poems. ‘The Perils of Pauline’ referred to a B-movie queen, Pearl White, whose acting career involved being rescued by dashing, (and seemingly perfect), heroes; “. . . below the safety net . . . men look up your skirt . . . leading men with foul breath . . .”  The poem(s), ‘In Praise of Doubt,’ included, “. . . in a world of black and white he chooses grey . . . he clutches both rose and thorn.”

Janie Thomas aired a poem entitled, ‘Tsunami,’ which included, “please learn to swim I said . . . I urge them, coax them, cajole . . . we fear the beach will wash away, but standing still we stay . . .”

 Michael Newman’s poem ‘Brockhampton,’ gave an alternative view of the Cotswolds, “. . . woldstone and shy reservoirs . . . a Sunderland flying boat crashing down through self made turbulence . . . there is more to Cotswold than the parochial . . . mowing the lawn.” Michael’s poem, ‘Sartorial Elegance,’ made me smile, “I’ve got me a designer shirt, I can wear it to the pub and be mistaken for youth . . .”

Lachlan Robertson focussed upon the names building companies utilise to make their brand new housing estates sound upper class and swanky.  Lachlan noticed that poet names are back in fashion, “a builder has named his house the Coleridge . . . within these walls . . . through sashless windows I behold The Keats, . . . and onwards, half a league to The Tennyson . . .”  ‘The Manager’s Song,’ was sung by Lachlan in Gilbert and Sullivan mode, “. . . now I am familiar with transaction analysis . . . a performance will judged on your ability to flatter me . . .”

India Russell has a penchant for poems about suburbia.  India initially read, ‘Muzak of the Spheres,’ which was about noise pollution and droning sound,

“. . . they cannot bear to be without background noise.”  The poem ‘Neighbours’ referred to an unscheduled visit from a neighbour with news to impart,

“. . . I wanted you to be the first to know.  What, was his barren looking wife alive with life? . . . I’ve sold the car . . . he turned and limped into the dusk . . .”

Pam Cox  read her poem ‘Nothing Easy,�� which contained telling final words, ���we called those remembered hills the Humpty Dumpties in the early days . . . you fed me fairy stories, myths, anything but the truth . . . we made love on top of a hill, you said somebody was watching, probably God,  that spoilt it for me.”  Pam’s poem, ‘Obsession,�� included, “. . . nothing complicated, no opaque emotional stuff here, each morning her image in the mirror lied . . . it is the exception which interests the Devil . . .”

Jacqueline Day’s poem ‘Hidden Agenda’ referred to image conscious onlookers and how they match people to their partners on appearance alone, not realising, (or wishing to realise), the shallow nature of their observations, verse included, ���. . . they wondered what he saw in her, so short, so fat, so stubby . . . but how he loved her wobbly walk and itzy bitzy capers . . .���  The poem, ‘Small Print Horrors,�� was inspired after returning from a visit to a solicitor’s office; “. . . no hint of what it’s all about . . . I can’t work out the scene . . . for I am stupid, just like you . . .”

In a poem which I think was entitled, ‘Space,’ John Richardson referred to a space probe which was sent into the endless black void carrying a standard image of humanity, (images of a vacant looking man and woman), as if this could be interpreted by aliens as something meaningful!  John suggested that the message that would be returned to Earth would be, “. . . for God’s sake get a sense of proportion . . . we are amused at your struggles to comprehend . . . like us you dust and afraid of the dark . . .”

Tony Hillier recited, (at high volume), a poem called, ‘You Lazy Bar-steward,’ which included, “. . . yeah I’ve got a job, a job to get up in the morning!”  Tony  said that his poem, ‘Refusal of Artificial Respiration,’ was about no longer being depressed; “ . . . making up for lost depressive winter time . . . who can I hit?”  Tony’s earlier offerings could be described as ‘pyrotechnic poems,’ he performed them whilst holding lit sparkler fireworks.

Paul Davis, read, among others, a poem titled ‘The undertaker’s Friend,’ which included, “. . . why do men have nipples . . . they won’t tune-in the radio, no matter how I try . . . whilst truth is just a distant mammary.”

An enthusiastic young bloke named CJ, recited, (or sang), a number of very loud spontaneous rap ‘type’ poems.  One of the recitations was called, ‘Wasted Rock Ranger;’ as mentioned earlier this seemed, (to me), to be high on volume/enthusiasm but perhaps low on content?  However, this could in fact be me missing the whole point, who knows – the old Git syndrome?  I remember the phrase, “. . .Guns and Roses,’ – but not much else.

Mary Smith’s poem, ‘The Haunted Garden,’ included, “. . . where the slow worm sleeps . . . a transient shadow lingers, then is gone . . .” In a poem, ‘The Wasps’ Nest,’ Mary provided an alternative viewpoint, “. . . this is a most desirable residence . . . we live peacefully and hurt no one, unless they hurt us . . . we are immaculately turned out.”

I apologise to Steve and Kevin, (surnames unknown), who are, I think, Riffs Bar regulars? They both read interesting and considered poems, the contents of which have become a bit fogged in my notes.  With this in mind Steve’s poem, ‘Spare Part Surgery,’ seems appropriate, “. . . my memory has been severely impaired, since they took my brain away. . .”  Kevin read a poem, ‘Hold Me Tonight,’ which was about caring and giving, (a couple of lady poets mentioned to me they liked this poem).  The poem was clever and non-mushy.

To summarise:  well attended, and enjoyable with a broad cross-section of poets/poems.  Knebworth amplification!  Thanks to everyone at Riffs for making us welcome and for allowing us to use the house equipment.         David Pike

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry Evening, 12^th February 2002, held at The Suffolk Arms, Brinkworth, Nr. Wootton Bassett, Swindon, Wiltshire.  This was our second event at the Suffolk Arms and was, perhaps, achieved in a cosier atmosphere with a more conducive microphone / seating layout. Subdued lighting helped, this is a fancy way of saying we used candles!  The reliable stalwarts were present and as usual I will apologise up-front for name spelling errors and errors of notation.

Ted Skinner, although unsteady on his feet, (being very ill of late), started the evening by reading one or two introspective poems about human physical frailty and how the psyche continues to work through daunting times.  In the poem, Do They Realise, thoughts of mortality combined to give a rebellious though fearful standpoint, “. . . I breathed the Devil’s breath.”  Ted had to leave for home not long after reading his poems; he was too poorly to continue. 

Michael Newman read a number of interesting and well crafted poems. In Granny Watch, Michael referred to the direct, perhaps, unthinking approach aging relatives often adopt, there are few embellishments, they say what they think, (and then some), “. . . got a girlfriend yet?  You’ll die lonely and broken! . . . piped music, Abba?  I believe in angels . . . She talks to memories, a gaga language . . .”  In, A Complete Write-off, Michael referred to his twenty year fight to lose weight, “ . . . you name it, I’ve inflicted it upon my body . . . the pounds on my hips have remained constant, the pound in my pocket has

fluctuated . . .”

Sue Simmons recited a poem about observing pub life, the comings and goings. Sue literally crawled on her hands and knees to the microphone, it wasn’t worth using crutches to negotiate the short distance, (Sue has a mobility ailment, is partially disabled).  Sue’s poem entitled, The Snug, contained the descriptive lines,

“. . . particles of ash drift in and out . . . here in my corner I observe life contained within peeling gold, translucent glass . . . the traditions of the public house change little . . .”

Lachlan Robertson’s poem, Just Around The Corner, made chilling references to the holocaust, a moving poem, “. . . on the edge of vision I have seen shadow things . . . faces without number, so distinct and yet forgotten . . . I move uneasily through towns . . . I see their absence in those hollow places.” 

In the poem, The Law of Averages, John Richardson surmised that people write poems in the shape of their bodies; John set the theme, “it’s like this, I’m only going to be your average lover . . .”   In Fromage Free, John conveyed a ‘state of mind’ poem based on the subject of cheese, “ . . . let us give thanks for cheese . . . a sea breeze on a hot summer night . . . for cheese . . . for all those love songs, sung alone . . . for the solace of cheese.”  Deliberately cheesy.

Pam Cox read a poem which instantly won my vote.  The poem was about the bonkers-maddening habit of failing to put film in your camera, and then using the camera.  I did this deed at a Goddard Arms poet group photograph, took a while getting everyone together, clicked a few considered snaps, (well at least Jill did), to later discover - zilch, nothing . . . no film within.  Pam’s poem was entitled, On The Shelf, and contained, “I left the film in a yellow box on the shelf . . . the indent of your boot in sodden grass . . . the milky haze over the lake . . . all lost!   The poem, Mask, was about a hidden persona: “. . . on certain days you hide your face from others . . . the sun’s white sands shine through you . . . other days you are caught, sectioned . . . a nothingness imprisoned.”

Vicky Treby read a poem which I think was titled, Inspired, (apologies if not so).  Lines that come to mind are, “. . . her eyebrows arch in derision . . . some say she is self-centred . . . who is this girl? . . . most are happy at seeing fake joy.”  A poem about the image we project to others and the way others perceive us, or are conditioned to perceive - a stereotypical smiling person.

Tony Hillier recited a personal poem about his father, a traumatised ex-paratrooper, “. . . pale faced para troopers, khaki clad soldiers for the use of . . . fast out by the static line . . . bodily scars count for nothing compared to the scars of morale . . . isolated, traumatised, my father watched as life passed him by.”

John Wolf’s poem entitled, Waiting For A Bus, was seen from the perspective of a PSV, (public service vehicle), driving seat - John is a bus driver and musician.  The lines rang true to this listener, “. . . blustery day . . . a diesel approaches, only to draw away . . . freezing cold stood out here,” and later,

“. . . I have no change, he said, I’ve only got a fiver, these words filled me with dread, you see - I’m the driver . . .”

The Suffolk Arms is proving to be a good venue. It takes a while to assess the best ways of utilising the space available, to retain an intimate atmosphere.  I personally felt that the revised microphone / seating position did the trick; the rapport was there – an enjoyable event.

The next Pulsar live-microphone poetry evening is/was lined up to take place on 6^th May at Riffs Bar, (formerly the Butchers Arms), Greatfield, near Swindon, and is/was part of the Swindon Festival of Literature.  This event will be reported in the September edition of Pulsar.    David Pike.

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry Evening, 28^th November 2001, held at The Suffolk Arms, Brinkworth, Nr. Wootton Bassett, Swindon, Wiltshire.

We thought we’d give a new venue a try-out, to stop live events from becoming routine. I feel confident The Suffolk Arms, (like The Goddard Arms), will become a good poetry venue, with excellent accommodation, namely a large purpose built room to the rear of the premises, a cosy place which is removed from the main activity of the pub, unwanted noise etc.

The evening was well attended. Poets travelled from as far afield as Frome, Cheltenham, Bristol, Malmesbury, Marlborough, plus Swindon . . .  I’ll give an up-front apology for errors of notation, name spelling mistakes; the usual cop-out.

Sheila Simmons got the evening off to a good start. I liked the dry humour of her poem, ‘After Mills & Boon.’ The opening lines lulled the listener into a saccharin state, ". . . he’ll feed her with strawberries and ice cream, she read it in a book," then reality ensued, ". . . his sweaty socks, underpants dropped on the floor."

Peter Wyton reminded the audience of the sad demise of the entertainer Rod Hull who died a showman’s death a while ago, (he fell from the roof of his house while attempting to adjust a television aerial when a high profile football match was being televised). Peter’s poem, ‘One To One��� focussed on an obituary which linked father to son, ". . . your stint as a sweeper-up in a glue factory . . . your brief career as a purveyor of burial plots . . . not your obituary, your son’s . . ." In the poem ‘The Tsunami Dines Out,’ Peter highlighted the fact that tidal waves do not discriminate and drown everything in their path; ". . . expanding in-shore out of the blue, . . . making a meal out of seaside bars and chandlery . . . not turning up its nose at slums, sewage plants . . ."

Peter Woodcock’s opening poem which I think was called ‘Bucolic View,’ had a slightly Monty Python-ist ‘luxury’ approach, ". . . do you remember when tickets were made of real cardboard." In the poem, ‘Merely’ Peter gave a hint of life without royalty; ". . . no pomp and pageantry . . . no decorated barge    . . . no reporter’s ledge . . . no HRH . . . no polished sabres . . . no hip-hips."

Neil Brooks began with a thoughtful poem which is untitled? . . "in splits of laughter, we cried. We age with every page we write, becoming more sentimental . . ." Neil then read a poem which he wrote a while ago, ‘I Left A Message,’ which was self explanatory but also suggests that the message leaves the sender’s presence - a stain: "I left a message on your machine . . . I left messages of love on plaster of Paris . . . I left my warmth on your seat." Perhaps the poem is about the need for permanence, something to hang on to?

Jill Miller’s first poem, ‘Unrequited Love,’ was about the awkward mawkishness of, (you thought), an adolescent girl chasing a seemingly god-like male; "I walked past his house today . . ." (and on meeting him) - " . . . a dribble of incoherent words began to flow," Later her illusions were shattered, "bugger off, I don’t fancy you . . . I didn’t appeal with no bust and no bra . . ." later, "practised for a moment of glory, a prolonged snog with a surprise victim." Then the clincher, "I’ll have to get a grip, I’m nearly 43!"

Another poem covered the discussion certain women had about a known male’s special feature, (and how large it was). Jill continued, the point of focus was of interest, " . . . but it wasn’t the main attribute to look for: it’s preferable to have something in common, to be able to understand and talk to each other. . . . ." Excellent delivery, gritty and amusing material.

Hazel Stewart’s poem ‘Love Cycle,’ gave a hint of selflessness, and what is expected of us, and what we inturn hope/expect; ". . . my father was charming, debonair . . . with my father’s example I yearned to love beyond reason . . . my turn for love beyond reason." Later the listener received mixed signals from Hazel’s poem, ‘There’s A Man On The Bus.’ A feeling of tension pervaded; ". . . muscle power, a solid clenched fist, is he dangerous, is he drunk," but then the signal changed, remedies, ". . . things which are not PC (politically correct) . . . lurid fantasies." Hard-hitting though subtle material.

Jean Hemming read poems for the first time and was understandably nervous. The items which drew my attention included an autumnal poem; "red amber and gold leaves . . . an old lady puts aside her bicycle . . . searches for mushrooms on the ground . . ."

Jay Dunn’s poem ‘Yon Tangled Woods,’ was read bringing a strong Wiltshire accent into play, there was, perhaps, a pagan undercurrent: " . . . it’s evil souls that revel in their past . . . no sacred icons . . . nor could he write prayers, softly spoken . . ."

John Plevin began with ‘Kind of Living,’ a poem that gave a brief resume of modern dysfunctional life, or how it may be stereo typically portrayed, from birth, onwards: ". . . he slips into life, a knife in the heart . . . food processor on legs, he begs for more . . . the perfect kid for a day that bombs into youth . . . king of the quick fix . . . a loser . . . perfect boozer."   I enjoyed, ‘Menu of the Day,’ a subtle poem, ". . . an old man leans into the wind, accepts its blow, muttering words of a song I do not know . . ."

Sue Chadd’s poem ‘Father’s Shed’ relayed the special, almost religious significance people place on such areas of private space: "his work space was always tidy . . . to mistreat a tool was a crime . . . you my love have no such hang-ups, your strong hands, easy . . ." I don’t know if it’s only a British trait but sheds occasionally take on something other than a purely functional role; they become bastions of peace, retreats, hidden home brew emporiums, kid free zones . . .

Keith Hilling read a single autobiographical prose poem, (or short story), entitled ‘1,2,3,' about a harrowing time when he was singled out for attack and robbery by a local thug, after winning the jackpot on a slot machine at an amusement arcade. The poem is the stuff of nightmares and diminishes the feeling of the invincibility of youth, we are mortal, ". . . an arm on my shoulder . . . vacant eyes . . . the man said, ‘can I have a cigarette,’ . . . gave him the packet . . . struck with the force of a gunshot . . . a sudden rush of pain . . . I was blind . . ."

I was pleased to meet Michael Newman for the first time, you may have noted I have published a few of Michael’s poems of late. ‘Doing the Promenade,’ was a poem about a local busker / skilled musician who was moved on to be replaced by the vacuous din of modern life: "yesterday they took away the busker from outside Cavendish House . . . he made a living . . . his training gone . . . the street is silent with car horns . . ." In ‘Quiz Night’ Michael highlighted the serious nature of such pub events, he had anticipated light, topical questions about soaps, Coronation Street, Neighbours, news. Instead obscure questions were asked, possibly to show the intelligence of the inquisitor, with no hope of answers being given?

Julian Wade made the audience smile from the very beginning of his set by announcing himself as ‘a bit of a performance slapper.’ However, with that said he went on to perform poems from memory in a seemingly effortless though entertaining fashion, singing at one stage. A warm poem about childhood memories of his father, (George Wade), comes to mind, " . . . the smell of home . . . the feeling of joy in your eyes . . . hands so big that when they smacked me I’d fly . . . I loved the hands . . . the kids thought you were so cool."

Ian Sills is another accomplished performance poet, his material has a fresh and bitingly humorous flavour to it. He is also not afraid to sing - he did during his performance, (eh - what’s going on here). A tongue-in-cheek poem about a catalogue of health/hypochondriac orientated disasters made me chuckle, the poem was titled, ‘How Are You?’ It included, "a new replacement hip . . . with a cold sore on lip . . . caught impotence from a rabbit," and later, "the side effects of pain, more pain . . ."

George Wade’s poems are of a gentle and thoughtful nature. Another poet who recites, (mainly), from memory. ‘Utopia,’ presented an idyllic lifestyle, "no need for politics . . . all cavil is transcended . . . each person acting on their own but knowing each other . . ."

Atherton Gray made the observation that when on holiday we are relaxed and look at things differently and refine our thoughts, to later provide pure tourism in Polaroid poems. A poem which illustrated this view was, ‘Homage to Patagonia,’ where Atherton initially mentioned the sheer strangeness of finding sea shells half way up a mountain, to realise the entire landscape had once been submerged under the ocean. Other lines which remain in my memory include, "wild-west skies . . . hardly a bird or tree to soften your stern embrace . . . show them next your cage of stars."

Alan Drage read a poem about an aircraft bird-strike incident which he witnessed at the 1999 Fairford Air Show; ". . . a seagull was hit by a chubby little airplane, the plane continued to move but was leaking oil." All eyes were on the aircraft, which landed safely, with the seagull forgotten. Alan made the point that the seagull had more of a right to have been where it was, but paid the price, to be forgotten as it fell to earth.

Review by: David Pike

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Pulsar ‘Live-microphone’ Poetry Evening, 27^th September 2001, held at The Goddard Arms, Clyffe Pypard, Nr. Broad Hinton, Swindon, Wiltshire.

Once again I’ll give the usual up-front apology for possible errors of notation.  The evening was well attended with a sprinkling of new faces, returning poets and bedrock supporters. 

Keith Sherwood started the event by reading a poem about child mortality through the unfortunate status of being born in the wrong place, “. . . emotion appears within . . .  dealt a poor man’s hand . . . no food to swallow.”

We were pleased to see the return of Ted Skinner. Ted has been seriously ill of late, but battled to attend.  At hospital Ted was asked by a taxi driver to write a poem to place in the back window of his vehicle, some of the resulting lines read,  “. . . I live on the corner of attitude street but the road is clean and the grass is neat, not far from temperance green . . .”

Janie Thomas informed the audience of the sudden and unexpected death of Colin Forward.  Colin was a respected and liked member of the Malmesbury Writers’ Circle.  Janie said she will miss his twinkling presence, his Welshness.  Dylan Thomas’s poem, ‘Death May have No Dominion’ was read by Janie and conveyed the feelings of the audience. 

I met Colin at a few literary functions and spoke to him briefly.  On each occasion Colin was affable and enthusiastic  – a nice bloke.  A sad loss. DP.

Atherton Gray read a poem based on a woodcut illustration of a winter scene.  Pleasingly descriptive lines included, “. . . a crack as the frost gives way . . . crows lifting and landing . . . black crochets.”  Atherton then read a summer poem entitled ‘Oxfordshire,’ words included, “. . . a lemon sunset on a distant rise . . .”

Neil Brooks read numerous poems including Adrian Henry’s humorous/ poignant poem, ‘Love Is,’ . . . “love is when you don’t put out the lights . . . love is when you have to leave at dawn . . .” Neil later read Roger McGough’s poem about poetry evenings which possibly infers that he, (Roger McGough), would probably rather not attend such functions.  The words of this poem are humorous and undoubtedly true, but to me the poem also has a smug stance, possibly, ‘I’ve made it, so now I can pee on the small guys.’  On the plus side I liked one of Neil’s own poems which included the lines, “ . . . my fingers pulse with the need to write . . . I spoke softly on paper. . .”

I remember when Keith Hilling first nervously read poems at the Butchers Arms a few years ago.  At the time the audience was pebble-dashed with urban images – but perhaps a point of focus was lacking?  In my view the situation has changed, the poems that Keith now writes are tuned and more accessible.  Keith read a poem ‘Turning Point,’ which was about self assessment, perhaps a journey through feelings at a given point in time, to view how life had evolved and was evolving; ���. . . I find myself pondering . . . harbouring feelings of change within . . . the answers to life remain unknown . . .”  (but are considered nevertheless).

Lachlan Robertson explained he was interested by the oration of street preachers; not particularly focussing on the subject matter but on the way messages are conveyed.  Lachlan’s subsequent poem, ‘New Grace,’ made me smile and was based on food, “. . . may the lard come into your life . . . let your friends believe in the power of roughage . . . for pepper and pepper, Ah-Bisto.”   A Henry Normal poem about a mime artist also raised a smile or two, “ . . . a mime artist tried to steal a piano I haven’t got . . . found him in the morning trapped in an imaginary box . . .”

Sue Chadd mentioned she had visited the Picasso exhibition at Lucerne, Switzerland and was fascinated by photographs of the artist himself, images of the last days of his life.  Sue’s poem ‘Picasso,’ included, “. . . Picasso, I love you . . . sure you have a love affair with the circus . . . you live with a goat and three dogs . . . like me you are untidy . . .” Sue also read a poem which stated that the Celts had a  penchant for wall building and were “wall mad.”

Cliff Caradis aired a poem, ‘Contentment,’ which offered the question, “. . . why do we always want to be where we are not . . . we can’t abide the time a toddler takes to walk . . . we wish our lives away.”   In a later poem Cliff referred to a British military cap badge that had recently been found in a garden in Belgium, “. . . not a burial ground.”  It made Cliff think of his friend, Doug Payne, (spelling?), who still suffers from shrapnel wounds received at Arnhem: Doug had been a para, (para trooper).

John Plevin read poems on the subject of sirens.   The first poem actually entitled, ‘Sirens,’ had a slightly surreal feeling to it, “dressed in black, the old man makes his way across the park, on roller blades . . . I watch him . . . he moves to the Siren song of youth . . .” In ‘Know Your Enemy,’ John referred to childhood memories of responding to an air-raid siren and later being stung by a wasp,  - “. . . on the way to the air-raid shelter . . . the hum of aircraft . . . the clatter of feet on wooden stairs . . . the hiss of smutty jokes . . . the sting of a black and yellow bomber. . .”

Tony Hillier conveyed a personal poem about the death of his brother, John, who recently passed away when in a diabetic coma at Cairo – a text message poem, “. . . he tried for all he was worth . . . he never found a door to open.”  Tony later read a poem which conveyed his personal views about the terrorist incident at the World Trade Centre in the USA. 

Eleanor Brooks read a finely crafted poem, ‘Advent’ which was about a care home resident, “. . . you’ll find him in his room the care assistant says . . . he rocks and rocks . . . he speaks, ‘I’ve got a card for you,’ . . . but there were consequences . . . he broke your rules, rules that were not his.”

During the interval I mentioned to the audience that Blair Ewing (from Clarksville, USA), had been in touch just after the World Trade Centre / Pentagon attacks were reported. Blair asked me to convey his feelings of kinship for Pulsar Poets.  John Plevin later referred generally to the scene of decimation, and said, “what can anyone say, the events are beyond description.”   Let’s hope Blair will be able to visit again soon, and give another reading.  Note:  Pulsar Poetry Evenings remain free of charge and are open to all.    David Pike

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‘Purely Poetry,’ live poetry evening at Wootton Bassett Library, held on Thursday 13^th September 2001 to celebrate the library’s tenth anniversary.  The event was organised by Chris Moore, (Community Librarian), and Pulsar Poets plus Devon River Poets (from Exeter), were invited to attend and perform.   The audience comprised of approximately twenty-eight people, excluding additional library staff etc.  The Pulsar Poets who read were India Russell, Sue Simmons, Lachlan Robertson and myself.  The Devon River Poets were:  Elizabeth Rapp, Julie Sampson and James Turner.   As for all live-performance reviews I apologise in advance for name spelling mistakes, wrong notation . . . Due to the shortage of column space I will only mention a few poems/lines that particularly register in my memory. 

I started the ball rolling and was followed by Elizabeth Rapp.  Elizabeth’s poem ‘Ice Garden’ was about failing relationships, “ . . . I begged him for a garden, he gave me a grotto of ice . . .” Sue Simmons started and finished on a humorous note.  Sue’s poem ‘The Cherry’ was about a glacé cherry found on a field during  Glastonbury Pop Festival, whilst camping.  Sue explained, -

“ . . . someone lost their cherry there, surely they weren’t the only ones to do so . . . ”  if you get the drift!  

Julie Sampson read, ‘Outside There Is A Green Tree,’ (Ashton Church), and wove her words round Lady Mary Chudleigh’s poem, “. . . I see but cannot, cannot ease the pain.”  Julie explained that Lady Chudleigh was a long since deceased member of Devon gentry – someone who was obsessed with death and dying.  The second half of the evening commenced with India Russell reading from her collection.  ‘Muzak Of The Spheres’ struck a chord and covers the annoying modern-day curse of background noise, “ . . . thin tinny wind chimes, sold to tourists without souls . . .” James Turner read a number of interesting and occasionally amusing poems with an Exeter flavour.  I liked the poem ‘History Is,’ which included, “. . . a strata graphic straight-jacket, . . . dead cities hemmed in by hills . . .”   Lachlan Robertson was on good form.   His interesting poem ‘Giants’ was about ancestry and tracing roots back to the Isle of Skye.  Lines included,  “ . . . thin hair froze in failing light . . . The bitter, threatening narrow seas . . .”

I would like to thank Chris Moore for organising the event and for the warm welcome we received from library staff, namely Pat Hughes and Joan Washington, and of course from the good people of Wootton Bassett.  (  David Pike