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VII London Poetry Festival 2018: October 14-17





  To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and pump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells.

To Autumn : John Keats

Poetry Month Special

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. At that time Macondo was a village of twenty adobe houses, built on the bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones, which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs. The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point. One Hundred Years of Solitude : Gabriel Garcia Marquez: Translation : Gregory Rabassa

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty days without fish the boy's parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unlucky, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish the first week. The Old Man and the Sea: Ernest Hemingway

Sth, I know that woman. She used to live with a flock of birds on Lenox Avenue. Know her husband, too. He fell for an eighteen-year-old girl with one of those deepdown, spooky loves that made him so sad and happy he shot her just to keep the feeling going. When the woman, her name is Violet, went to the funeral to see the girl and to cut her dead face they threw her to the floor and out of the church. Jazz : Toni Morisson

On an evening in the later part of May a middle-aged man was walking homeward from Shaston to the village of Marlott, in the adjoining Vale of Blackmore  or Blackmoor. The pair of legs that carried him were rickety, and there was a bias in his gait which inclined him somewhat to the left of a straight line. He Occasionally gave a smart nod, as if in confirmation of some opinion, though he was not thinking of anything in particular. Tess of the d'Urbervilles : Thomas Hardy

1801- I have just returned from a visit to my landlord- the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly, a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect misanthropist's Heaven-and Mr Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us. Wuthering Heights : Emily Bronté


The VI London Poetry Festival 2017: October 14-15: Saturday-Sunday at The London Notting Hill St John's Church

VI London Poetry Festival 2017: October 14-15

Let there be surging seas of weaving coral lights
Let there be flights of light-lifting choral songs
And sun-sure-rise of larks of sublime joys to seize
Let us meet and greet sit and read as all hearts
Blend in and mend on and mind our dreams

October 14-15: Sat-Sun: 19:00-23:00

Coming Together: Claire Askew

In the early days, when your feet still struggled,
each morning, to find themselves, you inhabited a city
that only made sense on paper. I, the flitting
white cane that guided you, steered us
through espresso daydreams on yawning streets,
beneath bus-shelters – we were both blind –
doe-eyed and awe-full among stricken gallery frames.

Fairies and Fireflies: Rachel Finn

Chariot-bearing heroes race the landscape
For this is make believe land
And you are my centre-piece

The world is essentially
A tableau of glitter
Of love and adventure, forever and ever
Where a feeling spans the universe
And you make my dream
I like to believe
I fall and I see

Water Cycle: Helen Long

vapours of the voice
formation and reflection
understanding parcels crystallise

kaleidoscopic patterns
of milieu emerge
memories and faith its self repeats

Out of Interwoven Mess: Kerry-Fleur Schleifer

Shadows mingle
and create an interwoven mess.

'I am your lover.' he said,
caught by the half shadow, half light.

'Will you wax and wane upon
my motionless

Floating beside shoulders: Philip Ruthen

To make you
of memory
is all I have
after being close enough
to kiss your tousled smile

Sun and Moon: Holly New

What am I supposed to say?
Cover it up by moving you in the way,
Then replace you when I’m afraid
Didn’t you know, I’m not the same

Serve me and do to impress,
But I praise only to repress,
You remind me of a love that was lost
I’ve been turned to ice, whatever I touch is frost.

Castle Rabbits, Edinburgh: Aiko Harman

Down the slope of castle crag, a family of cottontails
duck into the close of fallen rock, a warren
of underground homes. At dawn, as the tourist buses
line the castle-side of Johnston Terrace, the rabbits rest.

Jackdaws caw and peck at the after-trail of hare.
Men in dark suits sit at benches, face the fortress
on lunch breaks, stare blankly at mobile phones,
the last pages of a book – have forgotten the castle,
the rabbits, in all their daily toxic repetition.

East to Nowhere: Briony Dennis

Take me into the earth.
Smelling the dark soil.
Breathing the dew-damp dark.

Will I have left samsara then?
Every sign representing another
and another and neither representing
a real thing.

Take me back.
There is no going back
or forwards
or standing still,
there is no direction.
Merely correction,
rumbling in these catacombs.
The truth is now. This second. This instant,
the heart of mind, is brought home
in an instant, by the drowning of the telephone,
the destruction of the doorbell,
the demolition of 2.4 and the dinner party.
It's brought home for an instant…

Somewhere along the way to finding something,
to keep us from thinking about that which we should not lose,
whilst we distracted ourselves from that which we were losing.

We forgot to breathe.
To bring it home.

Sit, as the world wheels about you,
Ride the bus, as the universe flounders
and what will we leave?
Empty promises and shiny cars,
we didn't so much as look at the world,
or touch it with a curious finger.

|| September 19: 2017 || ά. The VI London Poetry Festival 2017: October 14-15: Saturday-Sunday: 19:00-23:00. Poetry and Music Festival. The Festival started in 2005 and went on for five years; the fifth being held in 2009. This year the Festival resumes its celebrations of the word and the poetry and music in it so much so that that it contains the perform for the human soul to give it room enough as to be able to flow like the Universe. This event is FREE to the poetry and music lovers but a donation will be expected to help support the necessary costs. The Festival's time is between 19:00 and 23:00 but actual readings and musical performances will take place 19:30 and 22:30. But Tickets MUST be Booked.

There is a Cafe within the Church where food and drinks are served. Those wanting to have a meal can do so at the Cafe. For all the poets, musicians, performers, musical groups and all those, who love poetry are invited to join us. Poets and musicians wanting to take part, please, get in touch: editor at Volunteers: The Festival needs volunteers. Join us and let us celebrate the word. For further on the Festival, please, visit the Festival Website. Normally, the Festival was held for four-evenings. Because we are resuming the Festival after a break, this year, the Festival is beginning with two-evenings. Readmore


For Stories Published in World Literature in || October  ||  November   ||  December  || World Literature Arkive Q-Delta 2017


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