changeling67 | Cafe Frug (Reply)

Last night, I attended Cafe frug, which is in the St Ives Arts Club. A former sail loft and favourite playing place for the young Virginia Woolf, it now is an Arts centre, venue for poets, writers and musicians/performers. It is a B.Y.O.B weekly event, but occasionally, they host a Big Frug (as was the event last night). About 60 all told, mixture of performers and audience and I was amazed as to how many Very occasionally, Truro College students attend with their selected works and I was one of the four who performed their own poetry last night.

To my surprise, a lady from last night's performance stopped me in the garden centre, saying how she loved our performance. Bit stunned, but thanked her - she told me that we should try to get a slot at the September Fringe Festival, plus dates for the Penzance literary festival early next month. I am looking to get a proper camcorder to get decent footage (ulterior motive ::: I also want to do some stopfilm animation too, so i will need to figure a few things out), will also get advice from a couple of people in the know.

Feel uplifted - the degree hasn't all been about dull research and sweating over deadlines :-)

EDIT:: Frug photo below

Poem 1 - Bitter Salt
Chalk spring meets London clay,
Water soothing, teary day.
Glancing mirror, clothes awry,
Bitter salt, darkened eye.

Waters swirling, streaming bath,
White mist rising, steaming glass.
Alone again, bloodied streak,
Bitter salt, wounded cheek.

Epsom saline, sponging down,
Soaking skin, easing frown.
Taking bruises far from me,
Bitter salt, battered knee.

Poem 2 - Zennor Field Trip
On a ragged, clifftop trail
Winding on, seekers walk
On shoe-polished stone
And bleached grass stalk

Follow on, honeyed gorse
On the granite hedgerows
Follow where the skylark pips
And the sweet honesty grows

Onward to the graveyard, now
Where a weathered family grieved
Now rested on the headstone
A rusted, feathered wreath

Now under breeze-swept blossom
I gladly find solace
Once more into the ‘Tinner’s Arms’
In his warmly-held embrace

With the dark rustic floorboards
And beer in plastic crates
The Paninis under parasols,
And pesto-covered plates.