Mouthy On Tour
Friday, January 30, 2015, 08:33 PM
I worked with Anne Holloway and a group of young Mouthy Poets, throughout my artist residence at Nottingham University. Every other Wednesday, our intrepid group, weary from work, from college, from school, would meet round the conference table in the Mixed Reality Lab. I would ask them and they would try, with all their hearts, to put the world inside themselves into words. Brave, majestic guinea pigs, Mouthy Poets transcended the screens, QR codes and jazzy wired paraphernalia of the Computer Sciences Building, filling it’s cold empty atrium with their diverse, colourful realities.

When I heard that they were on tour and coming to the BAC in London, I made sure to get tickets.

Here’s my review - I’m biased about this because I’ve worked with them. Also, I know the social good that Mouthy Collective does, I have seen how Debris and Anne and Panya support the young and emerging poets in their community. Both good reasons to go out and support the Tour. But hey, guess what, it was one of the best evenings I’ve had at a spoken word event. From Anne’s wry, smart, opening poem, through to Laura Dedicoat’s funny, moving ending, the Mouthy show was a beautiful journey, unexpected, tender, - the pacing, the curated journey, the lighting and music, the visuals, the inclusion of Ioney Smallhorne’s film of Maresa Mackeith’s poem. So much love and respect for the audience, just in the staging, the way the performers worked the transitions between pieces, seemingly so simple and in practical terms, it must have taken weeks of painstaking rehearsal.

Perhaps the way that Mouthy work, the intentions behind this work, perhaps this has something to do with the outcome. Perhaps these things are irrelevant. Mouthy could be the most shallow, egotistical, cynical human beings to board a minivan. I don’t know. I do know that you should go and see them – the ticket price in London was ridiculously low for such an amazing show. And buy the programme, which would be cheap at ten times the price, it contains all the poems from the show. And if, for some reason, you don’t know if you like spoken word and happen to be reading this blog – for the recipes? I brought my neighbour Heather, who is in her 70’s and beautifully alluvial in her cultural literacy but had never been to a spoken word show before. She loved it so much, she took her grandson to the Albany the following week to see Luke Wright.

Writing the City Open Mic Nite
Tuesday, December 9, 2014, 01:09 PM

Dear Writing the City Students,

The next and final session of our Writing the City adventure for this semester will be on Wednesday 10th December at Spoken Word Open Mic, which sounds like a wonderfully friendly and welcoming joint.

Venue: Vogue Fabrics, 66 Stoke Newington Road, N16 7XB, London, United Kingdom:

Doors open at 7.30pm, please get there then to put your name down for the open mic, which starts at 8pm

Here's some further information in a link to the facebook and wordpress sites:

Please bring 1) a lowered acceptable risk threshold and 2) a poem or short piece of prose (less than 5 minutes) to share - you can bring it on your phone or as a print-out, please make sure the text is big and bold enough to read and do practise it a couple of times beforehand. We will be there to support and cheer you on/share in the public humiliation of your failure. JOKE. There will be no shame in failure, because failure is glorious. We will share the reflected delightfulness of whatever it is that happens. So, show up for that.

n.b. There will not be a session on the 11th December, the open mic on the 10th replaces this session.

P.S. Don't forget to submit your creative writing pieces via Blackboard and post your reflective logs at Wells Street BEFORE 1000 on Thursday 11th December.

Writing the City
Tuesday, October 28, 2014, 11:02 PM
Hello, Writing the City Students,

We are half way through our creative writing course.

We have done many free writes and practised some improvisation methods as a way in to creative writing.

We have also discussed - and I hope - located - our helpful questions.
Why do you want to write?
Who do you write about?
What do you need to understand?
Who is your reader?

Questions are great. Also, risk and failure. I am responsible for grading you and I would urge you to fail well rather than pass adequately.

Here is the info, if you don't understand it, please email me.

Course outline:

The first semester of Writing the City will be about finding your 'voice' by exploring London through new writing and experimenting with the ways in which setting can ground character and plot.

By the end of the term, students will have produced a short (1,500 - 2,000 word) monologue inspired by the city. The course aims to be fun and confidence-building and will support each individual to experiment with language and to develop their own narrative tone and style.

The second semester of the module will introduce certain fundamental elements of prose and dramatic writing through workshops and site-visits. It will also allow students to combine creative writing and non-fiction techniques with a further exploration of the relationship between writing and place.

As well as work for assessment, there will be regular writing / reading assignments set between weeks.

This year the module will be taught by the following writers:

• Semester 1 - Francesca Beard
• Semester 2 - Matthew Morrison

Assessment criteria for Semester 1

A Writing Portfolio: A short prose monologue (1,500 – 2,000 words), submitted online by 10.00am on 11 December 2014 30%

B Reflective Log: This will detail the processes of production of the semester 1 creative writing. Submitted in hard copy to the registry ‘bins’, Wells Street reception by 10.00am on 11 December 2014. 20% YOU MUST ATTACH A CA1 FORM (DOWNLOADABLE FROM ‘FORMS’ ON THE UNIVERSITY WEBSITE)

Note, in each weekly entry of approximately 300-500 words, your log should generally cover the following areas:

• Responses to class sessions
• Discussion of your wider inspirations for writing (music, travel, exhibitions, etc)
• Commentary on your own developing creative work

In our seminars, we have discussed the importance of the reflective log.

We have played games and participated in free writes. We have exchanged opinions.

These were important and instrumental.

Thank you to all who participated, it was a pleasure and a privilege to teach you.

As requested, the text of a narrative poem performed.

We’re on Ladbroke Grove,
Trees like saints in the dusty avenue and
You ask me what I want and I tell you
‘Something bad for me and American’.
You disappear into the shade of Golden Dragon,
For kung pao chicken and pirated Hollywood dvds.
I go on, through this melting part of the city.
Tower blocks tune jazz and geometry,
Money suns itself in Georgian crescents,
The homeless guy who lives by Tescos
Sprawls in a tall glass of gold.
He salutes me V for victory,
As I pass though the glass doors.
Inside, the air hums with choice.
If you are what you eat,
I 'm a Rubix Cube of biochemistry,
Consumer of international scandal,
Global cuckoo,
Diverting food from other people's mouths to my sleek fridge.
But I buy free-range eggs and fair trade coffee.
It's too easy to feel guilty.
I have a responsibility to this economy to spend money on stuff.
And it's tough making decisions.
What do I want?

“Pick me, pick me,” shine the New Zealand fun-size Fuji.
The Danish bacon shines fatly and the South African Merlot winks ruby.
The French brie shrugs, “If you want.”
I'm examining some vegetarian sushi when a fight breaks out in aisle 2.
“Scuse me! Hello!”
A man has queue-jumped.
Perhaps an accident.
Zig-zagged trolleys, jostling for position, could happen
Still, he can't be allowed,
Not when there's so much feistiness around.
If he were sensible he'd retreat,
but he stands his stolen ground.
“Get back in your own line,”
Shouts a matron in a sari.
“Get back to your own country!”
Oooh, that was the wrong thing to say.
The Phillipina cashier squeaks in dismay.
The security guard with the tribal scars
Pushes past Japanese art students to her rescue.
The Australian chef from the Brazilian restaurant says,
“No offence, but you're out of line.”
Three Jamaican women in three different queues
Start shouting abuse in a Greek chorus of sisterhood.
The only other English-looking guy, in a suit,
Organic chicken in his basket,
takes his iphone out his pocket and, ooh, look at his thumb go,
He's not really here at all, he's surfing.
The queue-jumper senses it's not his crowd and leaves.
Everyone starts talking.
The chef asks me where I come from.
“Malaysia,” I tell him.
“You're Muslim,” he goes and I say,
“No, I'm Chinese Malaysian.”
“Mee hao? Wau hern gkau shing?”
He intones and I freeze because I don't speak Chinese
But for some reason I can't leave,
So my smile fixes in a grim rictus as his fades
And now he's thinking that my expression is politely inscrutable rage
Because foreign devil has just called my ancestors
A herd of goatlickers by mistake
When actually he's asked me “how's it going mate?”
It's unfair on chef but I'm fed-up confessing
I don't understand Cantonese or Mandarin –
People look at you like you've cut off your mother's tongue.
So he slopes off with his basket of emergency lemons
And I'm left stricken by the gift section.
They sell all-sorts and there's an air plant,
Priced £2.99, an unprepossessing weed,
All wisps and drooping suspirance.
The tag says it gets its nutrients from air.
It's rooted nowhere.
So... what's the point of that?
If it can't be planted, is it even a plant?
No, it's a misfit or wouldn't it be in the flower section
With the heritage roses and the jade palace jasmine
Instead of sat here between the bath salts and I love Mum mugs?
Now I'm identifying with this wierdoid freak.
If I were a plant, I'd be one of these,
Sucking colour from anything it can.
In Britain today, it's all about your roots, your identity,
But there's banana bio yoghurts over there
Who've got more live culture than me.
I've got to get out of this place,
I'm having a negative epiphany in the dairy section of Tescos,
Double disgrace to my race – a crisis of Chineseness surrounded by cheese.
Empty basket dumped, I exit onto the market
Straight into a walking Benetton ad.
People of all colours, creeds, nations,
stroll in the middle of the road, turning it pedestrian.
This is where I belong, in this privileged mix,
This moment of ordinary democracy,
Where everyone can be equal, everyone can be free.
This babelicious city, where daily,
Over 300 languages are spoken,
Each one diverse in nature as the black panther,
Fairy penguin, blue whale –
But each with something in common that
No other animal communication system has.
A grammar that allows me to say and
You to understand
Something that has never before been shared.
Of course, English is the money tongue,
The currency of word as bond,
The voice recognition system,
The key to the citizen question,
Whether you’re witness to the greatness of Britain
Or a some equals less than in this United Kingdom.
Meanwhile on the other side of the world,
My alternate sister sits inside a factory ,
Running victory swooshes through machines.
I wonder if she wonders what it would be like to be me?
Does she feel the same sun on the same skin,
Stand under the same stars in the same sky?
I wonder if she understands global warming,
Quantum physics, quarks,
All the songs sung by the scientists
That comfort no one in the dark.
Does she burn paper money in the cemetery
To feed the spirits of her ancestors,
While mine watch hungrily from the frangipani trees,
Mosquitoes whining in their hair?

Copyright Francesca Beard
Tags London Tescos Identity Race Language Chinese Money Food

Unstoppable Stockwell Poem
Saturday, October 25, 2014, 11:51 AM
Last week I got to know Stockwell, just a little.

I pass through Stockwell a lot, on my way to and from home in Brixton, but I’ve never spent much time there. Then I get a call from Russell at Apples and Snakes asking if I can and want to write a poem celebrating Stockwell, to be performed at a launch event for Stockwell Square on Saturday 18th . Family friendly, three minutes long. Sure.

Best job in the world, a gift, a reason, a sunny, blustery October Thursday walking around Stockwell, talking to people.

Thank you to everyone I chatted to, to David the charming, hung-over law student from Hong Kong, to the guy in Lidls, the guy outside the tube, the toddler and mum at the bus-stop, thanks to all at O Campino for the delicious soup and the chat about Madeira and football and Stockwell FC. I look forwards to coming back with family for traditional Portuguese Sunday dinner and fado.

Unstoppable Stockwell

Stockwell – it’s unstoppable
Never stock still is Stockwell,
It’s a twenty-four hour clock well,
Everything flows through Stockwell,
Everything goes in Stockwell.

Call it home from home from America,
Call it home from home from Africa
Home from home from Asia
Home from home from Australasia,
It’s centred like the equator,
Chilled like it’s Antarctica,
(Stockwell’s cool enough for Artic bears,
They can shop for ice cubes at midnight at Jacks,
Go to Lidl for their thermal under wears…)

All the corners of the round globe call Stockwell home,
Clapham, Lambeth,Kennington, all roads
Lead to Stockwell.

Stockwell, it’s unstoppable,
On the Northern and Victoria,
Black and blue lines are best beats all a ya,
Never stock still is Stockwell,
Stockwell stirs the melting pot well,
It’s a nexus, a crossroads, cultural connection,
All the puddles and the pot holes hold rainbow reflection,
It’s a global cross section.
(Vote for Stockwell in the next election.)

‘So Stockwell’, I say,
‘This Saturday,
There’s a celebration,
There’ll be music and dancing,
You’ve got fans, they’ll come out.
So please stop it from raining.
And could you kindly
Answer some questions?’

Where do you live?
How old are you?
What’s your favourite food?
Lucky number?
What do you dream of?
What’s your favourite ice-cream?
What’s your inspiration?
What makes you angry?
Who do you love?
Who are your celebrity crushes?
What do you do to relax?

And Stockwell says:
(and I can’t do the accent because Stockwell has many voices, so please read it in the voice you have in yr mind)

‘My lucky numbers are 55, 88, 2, 133, 333, 196, and 345
My favourite colours are blue, black and the red of a double decker bus,
I like to travel, to be transported, I’m adventurous.
My musical tastes are all over the place,
I like Samba, Soca,, Dot Rotten, Roots Manuva,
Hip hop, R & B, fado, electronica, rock,
Last film I saw? Attack the Bloc,
Van Gogh’s Sunflowers brighten my skies,
Edward Thomas’ war poems make me cry.
My inspirational women are Violette Szabo and Cecile Nobrega,
The Bronze Woman is my facebook and twitter avatar.
I’m as old as I feel,
I’m older than the Romans, young as the newest born.
I’m in a relationship with Brixton,
But I’m also seeing Elephant and Castle,
Oval, Vauxhall and recently Nine Elms.
I go to Larkhall Park in the summer,
I want to take tennis lessons next year,
I like the go carts, I miss Derek Reed
He collected every single tyre for the track and nobody knew from where,
It’s a mystery.
I’m fanatical about football of course,
I support all the teams,
Stockwell FC, so proud of them,
Most days, I walk down Durand Gardens, round Albert Square,
Those quiet side streets, so serene
Clean wood, glass, steel, an architect’s dream,
I listen to the infant school kids in their lunchtime break,
It’s one big happy scream.
At night I walk with the cats through Parkers, Studley, Lansdowne Greene
Round the blocks,
Checking up on mine,
My motto in life?
Be kind, be kind and then be kind.
I dream of what everyone dreams of,
The past, the future and the present unknown,
I dream of a heart with a safe, sound home,
My regrets?
My sons and daughters, nameless and brave,
Who feel unsung, dispossessed, displaced,
Folks who’ve been with me for decades,
Traditions lost in people that leave,
I welcome the yuppies with their city money and their hipster shoes,
But I want to keep my old folk and my youth.
What makes me angry?
Injustice and lies,
Cover-ups turn tragedy into a jagged social divide.
I think of my stolen child every day,
All my lost loved ones,
I hold their memories near,
They are in the strength and sway of the trees,
I hear their voices in traffic sound,
See their faces in the clouds,
Their names are written on every breeze.
What do I love? This,
I love when people speak with me.
I love the BMXers and the skateboarders,
I love the toddlers in their pushchairs
And their speed-walking mothers,
I love the students and the joggers
And the geezers and the dudes,
The uncles and Aunties,
I love all the languages and I love the food.
Espidada, natas, rice and peas.
Some call me Little Portugal,
I’m home from home from Madeira, Opporto, Lisboa,
Stockwell, I show and tell,
Stockwell, I speak the world well,
England, Guyana,, Jamaica, China,
Ireland, Nigeria, Algeria, Ghana,
Brazil, Poland, Vietnam, Russia,
Birmingham, Cardiff, Glasgow, Manchester,
France, Italy, India, Somalia,
Though if I want to eat sambuusa I have to go to Streatham,
It’s fine. Never mind. I get the 133 and it gets me straight home again.
I’m Stockwell,
Stockwell – unstoppable.

Thanks to Jay Bernard, who I met at BAC ahead of Chris Thorpe’s show Confirmation, who told me stories of growing up there and about her uncle, Derek Reed, rest in peace.

Thanks to Chris Thorpe and Confirmation for giving such great destination – if you haven’t seen it, go, it and he is brilliant.

Thanks to Marie and everyone at Omnibus, it was a pleasure to work with you and I hope I get to do so again:

And thank you to all at Apples and Snakes for this and everything and just being the bees pajamas and the cat’s mittens and the jelly’s elbow.

And here’s a picture of the multi-talented and shape-shifting Keith,
aka Mr Crumbucket and his Mechanical Dragon:

Open Book Festival and WordnSound with the British Council
Monday, October 13, 2014, 08:43 PM
... As a bit of background, this invitation was part of the British Council’s 2015 arts programme called ‘Connect ZA’ that aims to build cultural connections between young people aged 18-35 in the UK and South Africa. The programme across the board includes opportunities for showcasing, collaboration, innovation and professional development with a number of events and projects throughout 2013-2015. You can see more on the blog:

I board an evening flight out of Heathrow to Cape Town, arriving on Sat 13th September.

Like a flying supermoron, I watch movies all the way.

Toni Stuart, curator of Poetica at Open Book and Frankie Murrey, random snack provider and festival organizer of Open Book, greet me with chocolate and smiles at the swanky Townhouse Hotel.

Frankie is chilled for an organiser of an multi-lingual, multi-genred international literary festival. She takes this picture in front of a book display that I think she might have built herself.

You can check out Open Book and the miracles they perform here:

Then we are off to the Central Library, to do a short, fun workshop with participants, before they take part in a Mothertongue slam, with ten slammers competing in Afrikaans, English and Xhosa.

Poet and human jewel, Toni Stuart, introducing the slam.

The judges are a poet, a writer and an academic and they give frankly honest feedback to the slammers - clearly in the business of building a proper spoken word scene, with discerning, demanding audiences.

I am by this stage flagging a bit so Frankie magics some almonds from her pocket. I do a poem about a crime-fighting dog.

The next day, Toni scoops up my sleep-recouped self from the Townhouse and she takes me sight-seeing with Pieter Odendaal and Adrian Van Wyck. Pieter and Adrian, part hip hop dudes, part elder statesmen of an enlightened cultural scene, part labrador puppies, all poetry collective Inzync.


We drive to the sea, watch fishermen feeding seals by mouth in the harbour, eat calamari and snoek on the sea wall, shop for souvenirs in the craft market, bask in the sun. We drive to the mountains, to a mosque, where we collect sage for smudging - many people in Cape Town practise this regular space-cleansing ceremony. I had come across it in Banff, Canada with the Black Foot First Nation people I met there for Storyverse and it jangles my mind in a dissonant, pleasing way that people here so far away do the same thing with the same wild herbs.

The best bit of the day is the discussions – about capitalism and artists, of race and gender, of the politics of language and race in spoken word. Also the idiotic banter.

Next day, I fly to Johannesburgh, to meet Thabiso ‘Afurakan’ Mohare, the crown prince of Johannesburg’s underground slam poetry and co-founder of ‘WordnSound’.

Click on the link to see more, really, it's eye-popping what they are doing, with little to zero budgets.

WordnSound is an entrepreneurial and dynamic Poetry Collective with an innovative digital strategy, courtesy of Thabiso and co-founder “Q’.

It has an unapologetically ambitious five and ten year plan to change the cultural landscape and make a spoken word sector that provides artists with a sustainable career outside of the cushion of Government funding and charitable income streams, largely by creating an audience of mobile phone users willing to pay for short sharp hits of spoken word on their smart phones. Power to them, we have so much to learn and love about this in the UK.

Thabiso and I spend Wednesday on a new British Council process called Walking the City – where we talk while walking the city, (or more accurately drive from place to place and then stand around in the city, talking for London and ‘Johustleburg’ as Thabiso calls it.

Thabiso and I record our spoken word thoughts into a field recorder for three hours straight, talking alluvially, ranging far and wide and taking in everything. The recording is currently being transcribed by some poor soul at the British Council in London and when I get the link, I will attach it here.

I love this Walking the City project, it’s a fascinating and fun way to connect with a city and with a community of poets and most of all, with my new bff Thabiso, prince of Poets - I hope that this translates in the outcome.

The next day, I run a workshop with the Word n Sound collective and then performe at the Wednesday night slot at Poetry Corner – great venue, great audience, the diversity of talent is fantastic, one of the best nights I’ve been to, the audience so connected and the sense of intimacy and happening right now, the relevance and the connectedness electric.

They play Erika Badu’s The Healer before they start and everyone in the bar is singing and swaying. The waiters bring food and drink around – people pay at the end on an honour system. Some of the performers sing, some perform to playback, some in Afrikaans.

Here are some lines that I manage to tap out on my phone, the night is full of golden seams, precious and shining...

‘'The synonym for sin also describes the shades of the vessel you live in,
This is my home'

'Throat armed with centuries of black pain,
Mouth firing black talons
This is Oscar Pistorious to the imaginary intruder'

To the rhythm and tunes of Sir Mixalot, 'I like big books and I cannot lie.... '

‘What happens to a mine when all the gold is gone?’

‘The most valuable thing to come out of a mine is a miner.’

I am sitting by the window, just up and in the gulfsteam of a steady supply of people smoking pot outside and so by the time I take the mic, I have been the recipient of the world’s most sustained blow-back.

At the end of the evening, I give a brief interview to camera with Jamal Edward’s SBTV charming, efficient and possibly still teenage camera crew. The wunderkind himself was not there, having been prevented from travel by a waterstained passport – once again, border control rocking the free world. I think the British Council and Border Control should officially brand and anti-twin themselves, to be the Superman and Lex Luthor of cultural exchange.

Thabiso drives me back to my hotel before he goes home to work on his day job, creating a huge digital campaign for one of Zozi’s biggest tv stations. Thjen he’ll be up in a couple of hours at 4am to deliver the press releases for the Word n Sound International Festival which opens next week.

Before I leave the next day, he comes back to my hotel where I introduce Thabiso via skype and email to Professor Chris Greenhalgh at the Mixed Reality Lab, Nottingham University so that they could prototype a new app that Chris had built within the upcoming WordnSound festival that was happening later that month – looking forwards to hearing how that went and what conclusions can be drawn.

I love Jozi, the tilting and sliding surface in the pockets of that place, the destabilised sense of a city that is simultaneously so friendly and also so zoned, walking around at night in Braamfontein, on my own, not being able to decipher the signals. I feel connected in a way that I didn't in Cape Town. The hustle on the streets much less emotionally stressful than Cape Town's natural beauty, gorgeous and appalling backdrop for the meth heads on Long Street. Plus, I have one of the best meals of my life in Joburg, rice and slow-cooked spiced fish stew from a shop around the corner from the Easy Hotel.

On Thursday, I fly back to Cape Town, straight from the airport to Stellenbosch, to a private boarding school so perfectly privileged that the airbrushed playing fields are a different green, the green of Brideshead Revisited or Dead Poets Society. Adrian and Pieter chaperone group of kids to take part in the launch of South Africa’s version of Poetry by Heart. It is strange and salutary to see Pieter and Adrian’s group of five nervous kids in an audience of children, the same age, clearly, painfully, a drastically different economic situation. One of the boarding school children actually performs ‘Oh Captain, my Captain.’ The Inzync kids kill it, they perform their own poetry, in their own languages, the whole hall erupting in applause.

The canapés are excellent as is the wine.

I share a fascinating and too short taxi-ride back to the centre of town with Tom Porter, who organized the Lake of Stars Festival in Malawi when he was 19 and now, a scant few years later, leads the Connect ZA programme. He flies to Johannesburg tomorrow but I’m glad to have met him and hope to do so again. I think he’s going to do some interesting stuff – watch that space.

On Friday, I return to the Fugard Theatre to run a 2 hour workshop with Cape Town poets, some of whom I’ve met before at the slam event, others new. Frankly, it feels too short, I’m too aged and long-winded and actually have too much to give now to feel happy about a 2 hour workshop. I want a whole day.

On the bright-side, I get the chance to meet up with Sophie Woolley one of my spoken word heroes, who lives in Cape Town now and Jacob Sam-La Rose, Sensei and digital word guru who is working with Toni Stuart on one of his genius projects. It is golden to see them and also to meet Jean, Sibongile and Owen from the British Council, who take us all to dinner to celebrate poetry and life with Adrian, Pieter and Toni.

On Saturday, six finalists battle it out for the title of Open Book Poetry Slam champion. I am one of three happily contentious judges, the slam is sold out and respectfully raucous – what was clear is that multi-lingual slams not only work but they make the whole business of slam that much more imaginative, exciting and palatable.

Multi-lingual slamming is an alternate, bettert reality of competition when contestants are battling in different cultures, wooing the audience in languages that are mysterious and partisan. I'm going to find slams in just one language stilited and two-dimensional from now on, that's how perfectly apt multi-lingual slams are. Let's have more.

At various points I am given cheesy snacks by Frankie Murrey and hang out at comic fest.

District 6, round the corner from Fugard Theatre and Open Book venues.

On Sunday morning, I get to see a couple of events, one about Xhosa poetry which I’m still thinking about. The ‘Bushmen’, the Koi, the first human language, their word for an individual is ‘a person of people.’ We are human because we are one of others.

I meet Mervyn Sloman, the other organizer of the festival. It is the last day of the festival. Him and Frankie must be running on fumes. They are delightful and witty and chilled.

Toni Stuart is also running on empty. As well as bringing all the elements of Poetica together with grace, she has been preparing to leave Cape Town for London, for six months. If you are London based, I recommend you look out for her, she’s wonderful.

I deliver an hour of spoken word and q and a and general hanging out with the audience. It’s a bit like a workshop and also a live art experience. The audience is awesome. It’s a total treat.

Then I get on a plane to London. When I get back to London, I send this to Mervyn and Frankie and I mean every word:

Subject: Thank you you Beautiful Humans

Hey Doods,

Thank you so much, so very very much for including me in the fabulocity that
is Open Book, I don't know how you did it, but it was spectacularly
ambitious and diverse and eclectic and genuinely inclusive of different
literary genres and also, certainly for it's scale, the most friendly and
intimate and relaxed literature festival I've ever appeared at. You made me
feel really welcomed and valued and I think you were like that with
everyone, a miraculous gift of warmth and charm and smarts.

It was a pleasure and a privilege, I am a life-long fan and will be telling
anyone who will listen to get themselves to Cape Town in September for a

May Cheesy delights be yours and also other things when you prefer,


If you've managed to get to here, thanks for the perseverance and apologies for the long-assed post, I know it's bad form and if you have any criticism, please give it to me on the feedback page.

To remind you who have come so far, thank you to ‘Connect ZA’ that aims to build cultural connections between young people aged 18-35 in the UK and South Africa, with opportunities for showcasing, collaboration, innovation and professional development with a number of events and projects throughout 2013-2015.

You can see more on the blog:

Thank you so much to everybody at the British Council, particularly Sibongile Musundwa, Tom Porter and Jean September in South Africa and Sophie Wardell and Owen Martin in London.

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