July 1st

• • 
    Sunday, 1 July 2012
  • 19:30

• Join us for Once More With Meaning - Bury's best (and only) poetry open mic night. Bring two poems, and we'll bring the stage. We've got a large, atmospheric performance space in a theatre, access to one of the best bars with the most variety in Bury, a prize for the best open mic-er and amazing guests - now all we need is you! (entrance is through The Automatic - since the door is a little out of the way, simply ask a member of staff at the restaurant for directions and they'll point you the right way.) THIS MONTH'S GUESTS: STEPH PIKE Steph Pike is a performance poet and activist. She has a militant poet's mind and a penetrating eye for beauty. Her first collection of poetry 'Full of the Deep Bits' was published in 2010. She is the Sheffield Grand Dame of Slam 2011 and runs a poetry night in Manchester called 'Word Up'. and STEVEN WALING Steven Waling is excited by words and languages and keeps finding them all over the place. His collections, Travelator & Captured Yes are published by Salt Publishing and Knives, Forks and Spoons Press, and he performs his poetry all over the place. Doors: £2

Open Mic Winner: Joy France

Joy enjoys mucking about with words and inflicting them on others. She is based in Wigan and loves the North West performce poetry scene, having had guest poet slots as far afield as Sale and Wallasey.

Whispers       in the air               on the wind  aren’t clear   are they there?        Do you miss me?

But you’d always say “Bollocks, girl” when I’d talk of other worlds. And you’d do it with that kindly smile like you were enlightening a child. Then you’d say “and there’s no ghosts, no God no Heaven, no Hell.... but I can tell you girl that there is today. So grab it. Live it. Fuck it.” With you, there was no pretence. You made my world make perfect sense.

Whispers       in dreams     like kisses     feel real.                Is it you?

We were meant to grow old together. Disgracefully. Do wheelchair wheelies down care home corridors. Fill baths with bubbles. Or jelly. Draw penises on sleeping staff’s foreheads – with a sharpie. But you went and died. Died - not heroically or stoically but stupidly. Making a cup of tea. I see it. Different ever time but you’re there, alone and slip slipping away from life. From me. Gone in an instant, or slow drip drippings. But always there’s the blood. That red sticky that floods your kitchen, and my mind. Indelibly.

Whispers                 Whispers                I strain to hear       hushed whispers.     Don’t go.

I want to hear your laugh. Tattoo it on my skin. Remember every moment. Like the night I came in, and found you, crossed legged, naked, on our bed.   Eating cold beans from the tin. On my antique pearl embroidered bedspread. Tried to object but your infectious laugh grabbed me by the throat, And you grabbed me and we made hard love instead. In utter hilarity.  On our bed. On my antique pearl embroidered 57 variety stained bedspread.

Whispers.               Whispers.                Whispers.

You gave me spontaneity.

Taught me Carpe Diem.

To say “Sod ‘em”

“Stop crying girl

 Cos there is today. Grab it, Live it. Fuck it.

 Move on”

“I’m trying, my love. I’m trying”