News

Change of Venue  -  to The Village Cafe, The Old Coach Yard, East Coker, BA22 9HY

For many years the poetry group has been based at the Helyar Arms in East Coker.

Unfortunately some difficulties have arisen due to the rather limited car parking available.  Also the recent changes to the Apple Loft have meant that seating now restricted and less flexible.  This makes it less suitable for meetings and also difficult to accommodate the number of people who come.  We thank Patrick and Claire at the Helyar Arms for their support over the years and we have all agreed that a new venue is needed.

The Village Café in East Coker will be our venue for the meeting on 24th September 2019.  This is an excellent venue with ample seating, a lovely ambience and good location near the school in the (rather sprawling) village of East Coker.  The café is licenced and so a glass of wine can still accompany the poetry!

There is plenty of parking space available in the car park behind the café as this is not used by the other business users in the evening.  Extra parking is always available in the road outside the café.

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Poetry by Ama Bolton and Handmade book exhibition

On Friday Aug 30th at 7pm there will be a performance of a sequence of poems by Ama Bolton, titled "A Conference of Trees", with fourteen readers and two musicians at ACE arts in Market Place (The Old Town Hall), Somerton TA11 7NB.

There will be another chance to hear this in Dove Meadow in Butleigh on Sat 28th September, during Somerset Art Weeks 2019.

There will also be a small exhibition between 6 and 8pm of hand made books about the 13  trees in the Ogham Tree Circle by the ABCD group, with extra research material including framed prints etc. 

This exhibition is also open during the day between 31st Aug and 7th September at ACE arts.

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Bridport’s Apothecary Group presents New Ways of Seeing: Visualisation and the Spoken Word at the Literary and Scientific Institute in East Street,  which is presented by as part of the museum’s Turner inspired season.

Tuesday 20th August.   7.30pm   Free entry/donation.   

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Rosie Jackson's poem  From Langport to Muchelney- Midsummer  written at the Langport Moot in 2018, has won the Hilly Cansdale award for a local poem at Wells poetry festival.  Here is her poem:-

 

From Langport to Muchelney: Midsummer

Here you go, over the singles only footbridge, 
past sighs of nettles and a river so greedy 
it sucks up blue to last through the emptiest winter. 

A heron, indignant at being disturbed, white clover 
like cotton balls, cows under a tree, hogweed, sweet camomile, 
marguerites, water-lilies the colour of saffron. 

And you remember the time you walked here 
when you were married: the same sky of blue and white
scumbled streaks, flights of swifts, birdsong. 

So many years since then, and still you can’t quite
get used to walking alone. Wind rustles the rushes, 
damsel flies draw you to the water’s edge, fish stay hidden.

The gate creaks by the inlet sluice, and when you reach the bridge 
at Muchelney, you see that what you thought was scaffolding 
over the church is a yew tree stretching sideways. 

Bincombe Farm, a stuffed straw horse, foxgloves, 
roses, gravel. Tourists fanning themselves on the Abbey ruins, 
another monument to Henry VIII’s vandals. 

Monks lived here once, fasted, prayed. Sometimes 
you too dream of a simple cell, with a table, a view,
poems that flood the room till they reach the ceiling. 

Here’s the roof inside the church, angels with cheeks 
puffed out, as if they would blow the world faster.
Some have wings but no bodies, and hang there like bats,

painted by some sweating Tudor artist on a day as hot as this,   
when he would rather be walking the levels with his sweetheart,
picking elderflower, making babies. You crick your neck - 

‘All ye nations of the world, com up hether. Flye to mercy. 
From the rising of the sun to the setting of the same’. 
And in the Bible on the lectern, by faded yellow carnations, 

‘Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire.’  When you walk out, there’s a dazzle 
of sun on parked cars and your head swims. Iridescent beetles shine 
on the path like tiny turquoise beads. You’re thinking 

of your husband still, his flesh long since retired, wanting to believe  
you will see him again, floating down the River Parrett in a bath tub, 
his knees white and defiant in the no-ghosts-here sunshine. 
 

Rosie Jackson