Carrot Cake, in fact. The second issue. Slightly delayed due to leaves on the line, snow, gales (gusts of 50mph here over the weekend) bankers' bonuses and a missing cat called Tibbles. Available here.
It was launched last night in the rather wonderful Peter Scott Gallery. Always a good place to have a reading, especially for those of us who arrive alone. I especially enjoyed the exhibition: Conversations with the Collection. Ah yah yah rhubarb rhubarb, I said and it said Purple murple, churple churple. And we just got along famously like old friends amusing ourselves until the readings began. Or maybe not quite.
Staff at the uni had been asked to select a painting from the colelction and pair it with some possession of theirs. Simple. Fab. I think my favourite pairing was a Patrick Caulfield and Coco the clown (toy), but there were some great meditations on the security of a door (with a painting of a bricked in doorways) and the ever returning hope of allotment growing (paired with a surrealist image of apples tumbling out of wallpaper). So you're pulled into lives of others (through their writing/object) and then thrown out of it and given some kind of new 3D glasses to look at it again with the painting. Very absorbing. And as I said, perfect for the solitary poetry goer.
And then the entertainment...
Emily Bagshaw read 'Skinned Alive' - a quietly nasty love poem that reminds me of Cronenberg's Crash (this is a good thing).
Jacob Silkstone didn't read 'A Fall, as seen through footprints', his contribution to the magazine, but chose instead to share a laconic obituary that rolled around the sand and grit of life like high water in a spout hole.
And me, risking a brand new poem prompted by hearing on the radio that morning that 44000 books on Amazon are about the end of the world. 44000 books.
Are they all wild spectulations to pique curiosity? self-help/how-to survive guides? New mythologies? I bet there aren't many apocalyptic recipe books among them.
Jamie's missing a trick there.