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Write Angle Poems





Ash Dickinson - 20th September, 2011

Three years now he has survived solely upon original poetry
He has no home, no possessions - relies upon the goodwill of poets
Stays with the hosts of venues - trusts that poetry alone will sustain him
And it has - and it does - as he weaves his wordspells among villages
speaking those necessary spells that awaken the sleeping
from allowing others to control, dictate and abandon the living.
He sings to the spirit of the young in schools -
showing their lives as abandoned bicycles
which can be restored and repaired
to take them further, or to remain mobile where they are
He speaks to those who have given up -
revealing the false gods of fashion and cynicism
Directly to their art he will be heard via wordwongs
that lift up and enlighten-seek him out via FACEBOOK and web
he stands and delivers in communities that listen
who see poet as a verb, and life as the only artform



audi maserati - 20th September, 2011

Magician of the ukelele-refugee from Manchester-in Petersfield one evening
called upon by the host to read a poem-he sits..Silence...tension
then he bursts into song! Tonight he plays his ukelele like a sitar
or some Japanese koto-when asks to play,he begins with jokes
then flashes to a John Cooper Clarke style Mancunian rant
holding the audience to ransom and only releasing them after a wordstream
slows to a drizzle. He smiles and sits down,Zen.
Genius magician/musician/wordman - he has come to Write Angle to play
with the assembled poets who know him as theirs
He has found a home in their arts. He shows me to my car - we laugh
with the wordjam released for another evening/he can dream
Mancunian humoring in another fine Petersfield WRITE ANGLE scene




If your words, your poems are round and bouncing,
It's time for you to stand and take the call,
Time to take a breath and fearlessly take the floor.

If your words, your poems slither like melting buttered things,
if they drip and flick and spark with excitement
Eager to escape from the tip of your tongue,
It would appear to even the most closed by ordinariness untrained ear,
That what you have got is something really hot.
And does it reallly matter if some jaded wit says that it is not,
Not a masterpiece of style, your poem dismissed as inconsequential.

It's your words, your thought, your poem, your poetry
Something to contemplate, something to share,
Not something that painlessly fills the silence for a little while,
But something that forever may open a window in the sunshine,
Make you feel just how fabulous it is to be alive,
Make you feel in your heart how good it is to simply be a poet.

It may not be an epic, but your words could change the world.
So let them dance with pleasure from your lips.
Send them passionate and soaring, send them gentle and discreet.
Send them loud and proud to thrill and stun the crowd.
Speak of excess and sobriety; speak of how you see the world;
Speak of love and pain and how your heart was broken;
And how maybe someone came along to fix your heart again.
Make small things seem important because they surely are.

Be as vocal as you want to be, put big things in their place.
Talk about the things around you, let words escape your face.
Let your words, your poems launch like technicolour rockets
To orbit forever in the fabulousness of free and open space.
Silence may be said to be golden, precious time to listen.
Sometimes silence, that valuable learning, thinking, sorting out time
Sometimes silence heals, restores a wayward perspective.

But sometime silence needs to be overwhelmed by poets
And poems that lilt and slink, sizzle, pop, and buzz, and somehow fizz.
Sometimes we need to sway to the words' gentle rise and fall.
Truth is, as far as I can tell, poems are, poetry is, important.
If your words, your poems are round and bouncing,
It's time for you to stand and take the call,
Time to breath and fearlessly take the floor.

audi maserati


Write Angle - 16th November, 2010

What a night we had at Write Angle
A poetic maelstrom, a lyrical tangle
Of different voices, content, styles
Some thought-provoking; some brought smiles.

Dave is obsessed with the bodies of Misses
But Tony’s the one who is attracting the kisses.
We’ve talked of war and the weakest link
And we’re near the end so our spirits sink.

Jez entertained with guitar and song
Chris ended his poem with a gong. Ding Dong!
Leah took photos and money over there
Jake was the Compere beyond compare

It’s been a thrill, superb, exciting
Write Angle poets, please keep writing and reciting!

















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