The Seethingographer is a ‘compact and bijou’ anthology of some of the writing and images from the Seethingography blog, written by Seething Writers, or about Seething in some way (which of course, has no boundaries…). With contributions from Sharon Zeqiri, Sinead Keegan, Lisa Davison, Simon Tyrrell, The Historier, Paul Miner, Robin Rutherford and Katharine Scott.
This is an A6, full colour chapbook, published by Sampson Low Ltd, under the brand new Seethingography imprint, where more work by Seething Writers, or about Seething will be published in the future.
There will also be a Seethingographer launch at the Seething Writers Make Merry event, which is FREE, and takes place on Monday 5th December at the Museum of Futures in Surbiton, from 7.30pm – 9.30pm. Mulled wine will be served and we will be celebrating a successful six months of Seething Writers meet ups. Everyone is invited to bring a piece of writing or poems to share, with a festive theme if you would like!
Copies of The Seethingographer will be on sale at the launch for £2 each, or you can buy them via Sampson Low – look under Seething Chapbooks here
Huge thanks to Alban Low of Sampson Low for publishing The Seethingographer, and to all the Seethingers who have come and taken part in Seething Writers meet ups, walks and events, to everyone who has submitted work to this blog.
Special thanks also to Robin Hutchinson and Simon Tyrrell for suggesting I get involved…x
Ter Race number 12642 Runners hell. You, that’s who! Sweaty locks and discomfort. Trust in a few jelly babies for every emotional and physical response Found poem from 9 things you need for race day survival Runner’s roots Found: one trainer along the Portsmouth Road, rooted to its spot atop a wall. Lace tendrils carefully pruned, suggest a recent transplantation. Less is more, except when running, then two feet are always better than one. Run on. Circuit complete, the trainer remains. Pale circular roots have sprouted. It means to settle. And why not, since this wall is as nice as any, with its south-facing aspect and communal garden. It’s the sort of place that nourishes the soul; the sort of place that one might blossom. By Lisa Davison Lisa is running the Royal Parks Half Marathon to raise money for Children and the Arts Start Hospices programme. http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserPage.action?userUrl=LisaAndrews6&faId=728966&isTeam=false
Back to the future. It all started in the Museum of the Future. It had been a detective agency once, reminded him of one of the Douglas Adams novels, Dirk Gently Holistic Detective Agency or something like that. The whole area was known as the Wells, somewhere he had passed by many times but he had heard many interesting stories about it and now here he was. He looked up and even the clouds looked a bit different. Definitely something different about the place though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.
He started walking along the street, noticed a few road cones and a small yard with some hollyhock plants in it, then started walking along the main road near the river. A couple of cyclists went past, it reminded him that there was a big cycle race the following weekend, happened every year and always lots of people watching, some having picnics on the local village green or watching it pass by outside the local pub.
On past the local wine store and the Old waterworks building which was now a gym and student accommodation. He remembered the time the waterworks was still in use and even the slight smell from the old filter beds and looking around began to imagine what it might have been like back in the day. Now it was a wildlife haven, a few years ago someone had the idea of building floating houses there but fortunately that had been abandoned. So many stories he had heard about the area, about giants and caves and a mysterious goat-boy, wondering how many of them were true, maybe that was where the detective agency came in ..
He was brought back from his reverie by his friend passing by with his large but amiable husky type dog, he lived just round the corner and they chatted for a while, walking past the car showroom and the golf studio . After the man left he walked on towards the gated estate, no dogs allowed in the park there so just as well his friend had left by then he thought. He then noticed a cat was following him, as he approached the private garden, looked like a lovely place with large garden, shared walkway and small pond and fountain in the distance. He played with the cat for a few moments before it wandered back to where it had come from. Remarkable to think that the garden had once been a small reservoir, even Alan Titchmarsh hadn’t managed that big a makeover.
Soon be was passing the park where they held a community sports day every year, and then through the Wells estate on the way back to the Museum. There was definitely something different about this place,whether it was the distinctive appearance, the wild garden with the bee hives, and the back gardens of the houses near the Museum. Maybe it was here that the strange tale he had heard about the little goat boy who lived in a cave underneath the mountain originated, it all began to make a bit of sense.
Finally it was back past the old emporium shop with contented cat inside and back to the Museum
As he met up with his friends in the Young Sheep pub afterwards, he reflected, yes there was magic in Seething Town …
By Mark Badcock
Oh, little town of Seething Wells, how still we see thee lie – Meandering through our own waterworks, we risked being run down, by joggers or commuters we crossed at lights.
Tourists from another world, gazing in awe at blue painted railings, snapping brickwork and each other. Visitors gathering samples to take back to our craft.
Like schoolboys we searched our pockets for things to drop into a well, took photos of the sun, quenched by filterbeds.
Brave voyagers, we walked amongst the resting places of a thousand souls. Where were these creatures for whom water had been cleaned and towers built?
We called, yet no one answered, tuned instead to cobbled together tales of northern streets on glowing screens hung on walls where once their ancestors gazed benignly down. Good grace stayed our hands that longed to knock and wake them up.
Leave them to their slumbers, like Titania’s host, we must away, to pick through the gathered fruits, choosing which to eat and which to store away.
By Robin Rutherford
So, Seething Writers of the Third Kind, as it was billed on Facebook, became Seething Writers of the Walking Kind… our first foray into what I have been calling Seethingography, and this was it- a walk around Seething Wells for just over an hour. We met at the Museum of Futures and the walk began with a small reading from Phil Smith’s wonderful book ‘On Walking’, followed by the famous Walt Whitman lines:
It was great fun, and we were very lucky to be accompanied by Seething experts Simon Tyrrell and Howard Benge who have studied the history of the filter beds and Seething Wells water works, amongst other local history. It will be interesting to see what writing comes out of this psychogeographical exploration of the area.
The next Seething Writers meeting takes place on Monday August 22nd, from 7.30- 9pm at the Museum of Futures in Surbiton. There is a Facebook Group here or email firstname.lastname@example.org to be added to the mailing list.
The party is over, but the flags still fly Evening draws in, but thunder is nigh Lisa Davison www.thegreatpuzzle.co.uk
1st a municipal tanker truck’s hose douses flower baskets hanging from high street lamp posts, the excess pouring onto pavement, channeled along cracks and seams, pooling in the most deeply damaged places; in the morning, on the way to work, stepping over these 13th milling around outside the venue under a tarnished sky between the ceremony and reception, sporadic droplets and soured light harry the guests and photographer but have no affect on the smiles of the groom or bride 16th before, during, and after the heart attack, his shower head fulfills its function, water delivered through a constellation of holes as always, rinsing him upright, doubled over, collapsed, the flow still cleansing, washing, then washing away 30th easel poised on Kingston Bridge as the day ends, face to the Thames, back turned on traffic, a painter wielding canvas, brushes, and palette like fly paper, trying to catch, intact, what never ceases, reaching for everything that’s slipping beneath him