Launching Linda Lamus's A Crater the Size of Calcutta, 30 October 2015

It was a splendid evening on Friday, 30 October at the Boston Tea Party on Park Street in Bristol. Many of Linda's friends and family came to celebrate the publication of her collection, A Crater the Size of Calcutta, by Mulfran Books, and ten of us read a poem each. Thanks to Karen Hoy for these photos.

 Dikra Ridha reads "Ghazal."

 

John Terry gave a wonderfully exuberant performance of "Signor Floretto's Italian Flea Circus."

A full room, with some audience members following along in their copies of the book.

 Madeline Gittus reads the title poem.

There will be a second launch of the book in Cardiff on Thursday, 5 November as part of the First Thursday series at Chapter Arts Centre. 

The Centenary of International Women's Day

is marked by the Guardian with its list of the top 100 women, with 16 in writing and academia. Bath Spa University, where I teach, is in the midst of a week of interesting events, including two Women's Poetry Hours I organised. One will be at Bath Central Library tomorrow at 6 p.m., with myself, Dikra Ridha, Linda Saunders, and Ruth Sharman reading, Nikki Bennett hosting; the second will be held Friday at one p.m. in the Michael Tippett Centre foyer on the Newton Park campus, with a mix of local, MA, and staff poets: Daisy Behagg, Nikki Bennett, Zoe Howarth, Dikra Ridha, and Mimi Thebo, and myself hosting. Both readings are free and open to the public.

Dikra Ridha's "Ordinary Evening"

Iraqi-British poet Dikra Ridha has an MA in creative writing from Bath Spa University; I'm proud to say she was my student. Here is a sample poem from her first pamphlet, There Are No Americans in Baghdad's Bird Market, published this month by Tall Lighthouse.

Ordinary Evening

The sound of a small spoon stirring cardamom tea clings

to the walls. When a hijacker in a filthy helmet opens

the door with a weapon you don't know, you become

an insect in your own home. Incapable of rushing,

unable to scream. You shiver, shake, welter

in the shell of your house. The second he steps

over your slippers and night gown, your smell changes.

A new sweat shields your body, limpid--foreseeing

the end of your prosperity; you existed a moment ago,

five thousand years ago, and diminishing. The hijacker

silences chatter in your ears and blackens the light

in your eyes. You're not dead yet but sure your death

is approaching. Afraid to blink for the weight of this belt,

you choose patience. He checks you out with his boots,

the foetus curl; your last security. He prods, knocks

you over; you fall to your side. He curses at you then turns

and roars his head to the ceiling and laps up your sky.

He takes the water from your bones. Your gold

ring is in his stomach. But wait. Wait.

Dikra Ridha

To order a copy of There Are No Americans in Baghdad's Bird Market, please order it from the publisher here.

Bath Launch of The Tethers, 11 June 2009

I'm unsure whether this picture really conveys how packed it was, perhaps because some people had left for a cigarette, etc. In the foreground, Lee Harwood, Kelvin Corcoran, and I.

At the book table, dutiful MA poet James Evans.

Facing away from him is former MA poet Dikra Ridha.

Lee Harwood