Poetry Corner
Actually, not so much a corner, as a gazebo. Definitely poetry though. Having had some success earlier this year, when a couple of my poems were chosen to display in a local exhibition, I joined a poetry group. For several months, I have interacted from the safety of our living room. Reading and liking online, without actually meeting anyone. My social anxiety is much worse now than it used to be, and it can be a struggle to face new people. But then an event was advertised, at TWIGS. A poetry takeover by Rusty Goat’s Poetry.
You may recall I’ve written about TWIGS before. It’s one of my safe spaces. Somewhere I can wander easily, knowing if I do see anyone, the faces will be familiar. And if not familiar, then certainly friendly. I can take our son, and the camera, and lose myself in the gardens. So you can imagine, the allure of immersing myself in the poetry readings, while being somewhere I know well, pulled at me. Over the weeks, the event snagged the corners of my attention, demanding I, at the very least, consider attending. So I did.
Arriving early, I was welcomed by a team member. Making my way past late summer flowers and fruit trees, to the assorted tables and chairs beneath the gazebo, I sought out Scott, aka Rusty Goat. To say hello, and thank you for selecting my poems for the exhibition. He was lovely, as his social media posts suggested he would be. Contact made, I found a seat. At a table with people I didn’t know. I gabble when I’m anxious, especially in social situations. I gabbled. But the others at the table smiled and listened. They spoke too, when I gave them an opportunity to. One of them, a poet, was doing a session at the event. The other, her mother, there in support. They had travelled from Birmingham to be there, at TWIGS, in Swindon.
There were seven poets in all, who took the microphone that evening. Their words transporting the audience to places we may have been before, and to some places we hadn’t visited. Each poem offering a unique perspective. Some funny, some sad; tales from a bus driver, from a recovered alcoholic, and tales from a survivor of abuse. As blue sky turned to orange, and orange turned to red, the night crept in around us. Although September, there was an autumnal chill to the air. The small fires burning around us offered some heat. I jiggled my legs to keep warm, others (experienced attendees) had taken blankets.
I left TWIGS that night feeling spiritually nourished. The content of the poetry, and those who shared their words, has remained with me. Coming to this after a career in the establishment, I finally sense my soul is beginning to make the connections which it craves. Words and pictures, with no filter, no lines to take. They combine to reflect life at its most raw, and vulnerable. In the poetry corner at TWIGS the other night, I felt the circle closing. I’m coming home.
