Come along and enjoy poems and drinks in the cellar venue of the historic Flying Horse pub – apparently, the last on Oxford Street, on Saturday May 20th! David Russamano, who has graced Seething Writers meet ups on a number of occasions, launches his first chapbook, (Reasons for) Moving, and we would love you to come and join us to celebrate!
(Reasons for) Moving is published by Structo publishers (read what they say about it here), the wonderful team who publish the Structo literary magazine, which, if you haven’t read it, is really a beautifully produced journal of writing worth seeking out.
What people have said about (Reasons for) Moving:
This is an impressive and enjoyable collection of poems. Russomano deserves readers.
— Wendy Cope
Russomano is an intriguing new poet I expect big things from, based on the poems here, which seem intelligently poised between American and British poetic stances. At once exotic, historical, melancholy, and well-made, these elegant, thoughtful poems of place and change have unexpected outcomes – slipping off into new, submerged possibilities, like the house on the frozen lake, that is not, well, really all that solid. An impressive debut.
— Todd Swift
Russomano combines a serious wanderlust and wonderful evocations of place, with a careful consideration of the value of home. Perfect ingredients for the pull and push of poetry, these poems beautifully dovetail diction with structure. A true delight to the eye and the heart.
— Lucy Furlong
David Russomano’s (Reasons for) Moving records a widely travelled life. ‘Writing Home from Quepos’, ‘After the Revolution: Kathmandu, 2006’, ‘Ankara’, and other vividly compelling poems about distant places interweave with poems located closer to home, such as ‘What Begins and Ends with Water’, the delightful and mordant ‘Saint John’s’, or the chilling ‘Cutting Corners’, about a mall built on the toxic site of a former brake pad factory. Beautifully evoked, this varied and memorable collection only gets better and better with each rereading.
— Ann Fisher-Wirth
I bear glad tidings and sad tidings:
Sad tidings: I am no longer able to give Seething Writers the time and energy that I would like to and have, since its inception in June 2016. This is simply due to other commitments, and there not being a time machine readily available to squeeze everything in…
Glad tidings: I am delighted to say that Sharon Zeqiri and Simon Tyrrell will take over as organisers and facilitators, so that Seething Writers can continue! I am so pleased to hand over to two great people, talented writers in their own right, who have been active members of Seething Writers from the start.
Thank you all for being there and for enthusiastically taking part and trying out all the writing activities; for walking and talking and sharing your work and words- it has been an absolute pleasure- and I hope I will be able to pop in and say hello and come for a pint at some point, and maybe persuade you into another walk sometime!
Next dates for Seething Writers meet ups at the Museum of Futures:
Something wonderful is about to happen…
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
I was suddenly transported, wondering where the thought had come from, why it had just now come into my mind.
The Lost Gloves of Seething are all at once sad and amusing but there was nothing amusing here, no wreaks and nobody drowning, in fact nothing to laugh at at all. There it goes again, my mind inappropriately lightening the mood.
But this was real, all too real. I shook my head to clear the thought and leapt back to reality. I tore my gaze away from that tiny child’s shoe with its slow trickle of blood, stark red against the blue plastic.
And through the smoke and the rubble, the noise and charred crumpled bodies I ran to be of whatever little help I might be.
By Roger Hayes
(originally from Seething Writers writing prompt: Ready, Steady Write)
(originally from Seething Writers writing prompt: Ready, Steady Write)