Pictured at the launch of '100 verses for 3 estates'
100 Verses for 3 Estates is a piece conceived by Alec Finlay in answer to the question "What is Animate?
100 Verses for 3 Estates forms part og Gavin Wade's ongoing work 'Strategic Questions'
The Book '100 Verses for 3 Estates' comes out of a series of 6 renga conducted in and with the community of the Kings Norton 3 Estates over a whole year working to a schema proposed by Alec Finlay.
Master Poet for all 6 renga was Paul Conneally.
The film '100 Verses' by Ravi Deepres was premiered at the New Generation Arts Festival 2007 in Birmingham UK


coLoUR fest

Word Man hath taught us See diColor

Word man has colour tint writer

Him got stellaric strained across his operatic stereoptican eyeS



Fancy a nice summer Sunday stroll, a short journey with surprise elements and a picnic thrown in? Then on August 12th join artist/historian Maurice Maguire with haiku poet and artist Paul Conneally and others on a guided journey through the changing landscape of the Birmingham Kings Norton 3 Estates.

Starting from the Masshouse Members Club, a short walk along the canal towpath will take you to the entrance of the Kings Norton canal tunnel - the Wast Hill Tunnel. We will then trace the above ground route of the tunnel as it runs underneath the 3 Estates, over the Wast Hill to the Hopwood end of the tunnel.

As this is roughly two miles suitable shoes should be worn. Transport will be available to complete the return journey to a picnic/buffet and discussion including a poetry reading back at the Kings 3 Café on The Fold.

Over the past 200 years, the canal has been the one constant feature of this area. The contours of the landscape we see today were formed to a great extent by the excavations carried out during its construction. How the Kings Norton 3 Estates area has developed in the past and particularly how it may develop in the future is the theme for what promises to be an entertaining and informative journey.

The event is free. To book your place, and for further details please call Rita Fletcher on 07877503392 or email to rita_fletcher111@hotmail.com

Remember to switch off any appliances, lights etc before leaving home.

Openned anthology

Six months in the making, the Openned anthology is an electronic publication of poets that have read at the first nine London-based Openned nights:

Aaron Wells / Albert Pellicer / Alex Davies / Alex MacDonald / Allen Fisher / Andrea Brady / Annabel Emson / Ceri Buck / Drew Milne / Elizabeth-Jane Burnett / Emily Critchley / Fiona Templeton / Francis Crot / Graeme Estry / Hannah Silva / Ian Hunt / James Byrne / James Harvey / Jeff Hilson / John Cayley / John Sparrow / John Stiles / Kai Fierle-Hedrick / Keston Sutherland / Lydia White / Marianne Morris / Michael Weller / Nick Potamitis / Piers Hugill / Redell Olsen / Robert Hampson / Rosheen Brennan / Rotten Elements / Sean Bonney / Sophie Robinson / Stephen Willey / Tim Atkins / Ulli Freer / Writing Machine, DJ Ed Rusch

The anthology is completely free, available in pdf format in parts or as a full document.

Click here to be taken to the Openned website, or here to go to the anthology home page pdf.
color test

notes on Andrew Keen


who keeps killing my last houseguest?
who keeps yelling and stomping?
who is the rain falling?
who reaps the better grain?
who put their fists in my granola?
who milk?
mary shepard who?
shakes it special keeps killing?
you keeps killing?
who cares Cain careful?



you’re an asshole in the preschool of your life, moneyed musing


staring out the window at all the fantasizing eskimos choked up with déjà vu


they’re puncturing telescope lenses with their key-rings. tell them! tell them!


if they had ever brought me alive to this place, I would have denied my prayers

Face 34

ace of spades

Charnwood Arts miniWORDS haiku competition results

fallen leaves
a black ribbon binds
the bamboo chimes

Allen McGill

More details of the haiku competition and other genres here:


    "Eyewitness to Powder"

endless procession
of body parts

i want glowing shards of promise
two cars collide
you swerve and go on

a place seen in a movie haunts you
enough that oneday you go there

Mock Tudor above the dusty trees
a name gnostics remember

tragic desire
in a world of causal relations

nothing builds as good
as lower taxes feels


A small area of Shinjuku, Tokyo was watched over
on the evening of Thursday the 26th of July, 2007.
Invigilators: Nikki Pugh, Orie Inoue, Eri Akagi.
Invigilation 3 of the INVIGILATOR series

Running in Circles

ah, to peace, love
and ego
the strains of youth and
indelicate earnestness
what embarrasses you

what brings you up short
catches your breath what
tickles your secrets

slippery pain and constant echoes
a relaxing

the demands of space-time
bring us here
but are otherwise unimportant

ah, to war
and balance

our extremites
a precipice


"Other Treasons"

torture porn
not rescue

at his post
the sergeant continued writing tanka

twilight fell
across the irregular paving stones

inside, reflections hovered
above the occasional car

our promised doom
buried in the Ode to Censorship

City of Foreigners

Winner Of

What is powerful? History, you might say,

or emotions that wound it. Decide upon

the beauty of your poison; I have chosen mine.

Nightly, like a woven pearl, the grain is changed

to sheets of light, the truth is hidden there:

we wonder what it means. Hunted for so long.

So many, many. Noble, winning, poisoned, pining,

burdened. Object: lesson. Reward: coming yet.

You've fought for comfort elegantly, now-

everything but the winner.

Simple Proof from the Green Sunlight (my birthday came and went)

The patient porch, extent for a summer day, then stories of rain in the offing, ships sinking in Gitchee Goomie, terror on the side of goodness... But passing freighters of carelessness confirm standard rebukes: churches controlled by evil dinner parties, frameworks of political activism removed from totaled vacuum cleaner sales, rising sun only at morn... What reference remains for those on the porch, thru serious crisp clouds of green derivative, and the traffic of another day? such practice essentializes into a regard for the days of poetry... When does one sit on the porch? Does the sun castigate issues of the church? Will questions fend for more chairs on the shaded porch's sultry virtue? We live, we love, and presidents die for lack of reading newspapers. Newspapers die, poetry lives, the dog poops in a garden near the church. Yes, strange details mar an otherwise saturated day. We wake, we say yes, we turn no in, we apply differences and send structured responses as varied as the wind. Now more seated restitution, in the dry cool breeze of the porch, where effort runs contrary to portrayal. The news may be terrific someday: our words have been lit.

adam & steve

just in...

the nick of time, this caper reaches climax and you can play out any number of convincing multi-frolicked permutations but tangle willingness with wiliness and you could end up with too many shrewds up yer eager

The Parboiled Letter

Below, below the grammar-line, I have cut and pasted an exegesis on the not-so-fine art of semantic no-nonsense and, might I add, under no duress, ill-will, coercion or chicanery of any kind. I culled a selection of small pieces, all written days, weeks, months apart, and basted them together as a unified text. What I noticed, against my will and better judgment, is that by some alchemy they seem to fit together, unfittingly so, but together nonetheless. This speaks more to my state of mind than to craftsmanship, or the fact that I have obsessive compulsive disorder, the need to find randomness in order and order in randomness.

As with anything done in a stream-of-consciousness style, freely-associated, the sense is in the senselessness, the meaning in the meaninglessness, the text hidden and revealed within the text. Doffing my boatmen’s cap to Lacan, I have purloined a letter, stamped it, signatured it and sent it on its merry way. Where it goes is incidental to the randomness of chance, judgment, craftsmanship, OCD or chicanery. Though I did send it off in my boatmen’s cap, so there must be some guile and hew to it, unfitting as it may be.

I take the gardener’s rake and scrape the rain from the bark of my face; this is how it begins, naked rain, rakes and an indifference to both.

That’s it: randomness, guile and chicanery, and me in my Lacertian boatman’s cap purloining letters without stamps.


On every forehead, the label warned
"you were meant to be blossom or a halo

of circling doves... naked, except for joy".

Then wind separated sea; the spirit found
its famous groin and fell asleep, haunted.

They built churches. Columns, arches, spaces;
body of stone, glass whose heart trapped light

in the shape of a sword pointed up towards oblivion.
In the belfast, doves circle round the vining blossoms.