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Friday, June 23, 2017

Atlantic Drift : the back cover, the contents, poetics



Here's the full cover, with the the left hand panel of Pete Clarke's diptych which we have adopted for the back and front cover.

This also lists the poets selected for the first time, a public unveiling of the 24 poets. Each is represented by a generous selection of poetry, PLUS a piece of poetics, sometimes directly related to the poems, sometimes more general. In a sense, the poetics constitutes a second anthology (if only in my head), one that demonstrates what I have said (in this book, on this blog, and elsewhere about poetics as a speculative, writerly discourse). See here for my takes on poetics....

Follow our team of social mediators:

https://www.edgehill.ac.uk/university-press/poetsreveal/
 

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Latest Earl of Surrey translation processing through today's news

I am going to post these poems as I write them, because of the topicality of their subjects. I shall also only leave them up temporarily, during the composition process. I'm thinking of posting no more than 4 at any one time on the blog. And eventually they will all disappear. See here to check for poems from other days... Also note the beginning of this sonnet expoloration, Petrarch 3, is still for sale and is the featured post to the right of this column.

First draft


Sean Bonney’s wrong: Osbourne isn’t the god of love anymore.

(you can read all about Sean here)
 
It’s Boris and when he’s not sitting on his hands
he’s sitting on my face so I can’t hear his latest gaff.
I’m as horny as fuck and I wanna knock one out.

Cladding is combustible my lady confirms. Baubles
round her neck above a slice of her bust clack and cluck apologies.
Her love is as tough as a 30 minute courtesy coffee with an EU official
speaking suspect anglais. We’re fuming and hurting and dying.

Cowardly Boris has buggered off: he can’t remember
a thing in the Queen’s Speech (That’s one filthy job but  
royals only do it ‘for the greater good of the people’ we’re told).
He’s lurking like a wanker in the woods waiting to have his balls sucked.

Wyatt versioned this one and did it much better than me. But
my plumber carries an alliterative plunger into the Thetford thicket.


Live Sources:




Twitter harvested dogging speak: 

Thank you very much
to the very nice lady this afternoon
who was only out to walk her dog
and very kindly came over and sucked my balls dry.
I'm off to west stow about 2pm, come on down ladies..... ne ladies mildenhall area going to brave the cold and come and catch me wanking in the woods tomorrow. The randy plumber is in Newmarket tomorra, who wants their pussy licking??? Any horny ladies in cambridge want a plumber and his plunger today Goin to stop at Brandon Creek after work and knock one out I'm horny as fuck.

0 replies 0 retweets 0 likes


Hap 10 Wyatt's version of Petrarch

The longe love, that in my thought doeth harbar

Length is measured by my wife’s receptivity.
She holds him close with his in-your-face toolbox,
his bulging bag of bolts, his lengthy wrench.
His white van parks in her drive. She spreads

ambassadorial safe conduct for this envoy of joy!
Trust him to pull himself, and lust’s negligee, off.
His hard thrust celebrates the National Insurance U-
turn. He takes her, but who takes the photograph?

Back early, I find them arranged as on the Punting
in Kent Twitterfeed that Gove had notified me of:
gaping bacon pulsed upon her washing machine top.

I’ll sliver his liver! Across the shire he speeds in his
fishnet codpiece, hiding in oasthouses and dogging sites.
But first, I’ll slash his tyres and send for the crusher.



OR (a little later (that's filth, Patricia cries through the door)):




His purpose lost: Her smiling grace

Bonney’s wrong: Osbourne isn’t the god of love anymore.
It’s Boris and when he’s not sitting on his hands
he’s sitting on my face so I can’t hear his latest gaff.
I’m as horny as fuck and I want to knock one out.

Cladding is combustible my lady confirms. Baubles round
her neck above a slice of her bust clack and cluck strategy.
Her love is as tough as a 30 minute courtesy coffee with an EU official
speaking suspect anglais. We’re fuming and hurting and dying.

Cowardly Boris has buggered off: he can’t remember a thing
about the Queen’s Speech (That’s one filthy job but royals
only do it ‘for the greater good of the people’ we’re told). He’s
lurking like a wanker in the woods waiting to have his balls sucked.

Wyatt versioned this one and did it much better than me. But at least
my plumber ploughs his alliterative plunger into the Thetford thicket.


OR




His purpose lost: Her smiling grace

Bonney’s wrong: Osbourne isn’t the god of love anymore.
It’s Boris and when he’s not sitting on his hands
he’s sitting on my face so I can’t hear his latest gaff.
I’m as horny as fuck and I want to knock one out.

Cladding is combustible my lady confirms. Baubles round
her neck above a slice of bust clack and cluck strategy.
Her love is as tough as a 30 minute courtesy coffee with an EU official
droning suspect anglais. We’re fuming and hurting and dying.
Woman on balcony next to Grenfell Tower

Cowardly Boris has buggered off: he can’t remember a thing
about the Queen’s Speech (That’s one filthy job but royals
only do it ‘for the greater good of the people’ we’re told). He’s
lurking like a wanker in the woods waiting to have his balls sucked.

Wyatt versioned this one and did it better. But at least my plumber
ploughs his alliterative plunger through the Thetford thicket.

THIS ONE IS FEELING NEARLY FINISHED NOW:

(I'm thinking Surrey is going to get into trouble with that remark about the Royal Family. Look what happened to him.)



His purpose lost: Her smiling grace

Bonney’s wrong: Osborne isn’t the god of love anymore.
It’s Boris and when he’s not sitting on his hands
he’s sitting on my face so I can’t hear his latest gaff.
I’m as horny as fuck and I want to knock one out.

Cladding is combustible my lady confirms. Baubles round
her neck above a slice of bust clack and cluck strategy.
Her love is as tough as a 30 minute courtesy coffee with an EU goon
droning suspect anglais. We’re fuming. And hurting. And dying.

Cowardly Boris has buggered off: he can’t remember a thing
about the Queen’s Speech. (That’s one filthy job but royals
only do it ‘for the greater good of the people’ we’re told.) He’s
lurking, a wanker in the woods waiting to have his balls sucked dry.

Wyatt versioned this one and did it better. But at least my plumber
ploughs his alliterative plunger through the Thetford thicket.


AND OVERNIGHT, THIS:



His purpose lost: Her smiling grace

George Osborne isn’t the god of love anymore.
It’s Boris and when he’s not sitting on his hands
he’s sitting on my face so I can’t hear his latest gaff.
I’m as horny as fuck and I want to knock one out.

Cladding is combustible my lady confirms. Baubles round
her neck above a slice of bust clack and cluck fake humanity.
Her love is as tough as a 30 minute courtesy coffee with an EU goon
droning building regs red tape. We’re fuming. And hurting. And dying.

Cowardly Boris has buggered off: he can’t remember a thing
about the Queen’s Speech. (That’s one filthy job but royals
do it ‘for the greater good of the people’ we’re told.) He’s
lurking, a wanker in the woods waiting to have his balls sucked dry.

Wyatt versioned this one and did it better. But at least my plumber
ploughs his alliterative plunger through the Thetford thicket.


                                    (for Sean Bonney)

22nd June 2017

THIS MORNING (23rd June) THIS:



His purpose lost: Her smiling grace

George Osborne isn’t the god of love anymore.
It’s Boris and when he’s not sitting on his hands
he’s sitting on my face so I can’t hear his latest gaff.
I’m as horny as fuck and I want to knock one out.

Cladding is combustible my lady confirms. Baubles round
her neck above a slice of bust clack and cluck fake humanity.
Her love is as tough as a courtesy coffee with an EU goon
droning building regs red tape. We’re fuming. And hurting. And dying.

Coward Boris has buggered off. He can’t remember a thing
in the Queen’s Speech. (That’s one filthy job but royals
do it ‘for the greater good of the people’ we’re told.) He’s
lurking, a wanker in the woods waiting to have his balls sucked dry.

Wyatt versioned this one and did it better. But at least my plumber
ploughs his alliterative plunger through the Thetford thicket.


                                    (for Sean Bonney)

22nd June 2017



*

 This is my probable epigraph to the sequence of 14 sonnets: 


By the waie as hee went, hee heerd of another Earle of Surry besides himselfe, which caused him make more hast to fetch me in, whom hee little dreamed off had such arte in my budget, to separate the shadow from the bodie. (p. 67)

                                                                                                            Thomas Nashe






Wednesday, June 21, 2017

An Anthology for Robert (Hampson) link

An Anthology for Robert : digital edition
June 2017 RHUL Poetics Research Centre Electric Crinolines Editions.

Here's a link to the digital edition:

https://indd.adobe.com/view/f4f65fa1-970f-467f-8cd0-48405e21d73b

I have a poem 'Hap Hazard' in it, the last of my Wyatt sonnets, with a nod to Robert's re-workings of Shakespeare's, hence my reference to his 'Shakespearean Drag'.

Watch him read them here, and me reading some of my Wyatt poems here.


Other contributors include Wills Montgomery and Rowe, Harry Gilonis, Frances Presley, Carol Watts, Paula Claire, Simon Smith, Nisha Ramayya, Peter Barry, Adrian Clarke, Scott Thurston, Peter Middleton, Sophie Robinson and many many more... There are some prose pieces too, including a memoir by one of Robert's oldest friends, Ken Edwards...

Well done Redell Olsen for getting this together. In secret, I believe!

Oh yes, he's retiring... Not shy, but retiring...

Friday, June 16, 2017

Today's Surrey version: Set me Free (and At the Grave of Asa Benveniste)

I am going to post these poems as I write them, because of the topicality of their subjects. I shall also only leave them up temporarily, during the composition process. I'm thinking of posting no more than 3 at any one time on the blog. See here to check for poems from other days...


Set Me Free

Turn the unflamed heat up on the EU negotiations
Or turn the air con to 11 and freeze my misty words mid air
Let me step outside round the back where there aren’t any slack reporters
Or Britain First heavies attacking Ramadan first aiders

Stick me at the bottom of the pile or send me over the top
Keep me in the smoking dark or shed some light on inflammable cladding
Under clear skies of electoral peace or in the fog of class war
With a bunch of Corbyn kids or a crowd of eco-crusties

Set me up to fail on ground floor penthouse or in basement
Or up Hepstonstall’s winds with Benve

niste or crashing below Hebden’s floodline
Tie me down set me free wherever I am
Choked in a tower block or jogging post-industrial canal paths

I’m following you on Twitter single-mindedly
You’re my half hope in a world gone contrarious

(Unfortunately Asa disappears from the poem from now on. But yesterday I did place a stone on the grave and read a poem. Photograph taken by the excellent young poet Brendan Quinn)

OR



Set Me Free

Turn the heat up on the EU negotiations
Or turn the air con to full and freeze my misty words mid air
Let me step outside round the back where there aren’t any slack reporters
Or Britain First heavies attacking Ramadan first aiders

Stick me at the bottom of the pile or send me over the top
Keep me in the smoking dark or shed some light on inflammable cladding
Under clear skies of electoral peace or in the fog of class war
With a bunch of Corbyn kids or a crowd of eco-crusties

Set me up to fail on ground floor penthouse or in basement
Or halfway up where fire spreads like a virus (or up Hepstonstall’s winds
or crashing below Hebden’s floodline) Tie me down or set me free wherever I am
Choked in a tower block or jogging post-industrial canal paths

I’m following you on Twitter single-mindedly
You’re my half hope in a world turned contrarious

OR


Set Me Free

Turn the heat up on the EU negotiations
Or turn the air con to full and freeze my misty words mid air
Let me step outside round the back where there aren’t any reporters
Or Britain First heavies attacking Ramadan first aiders

Stick me at the bottom of the pile or send me over the top
Keep me in the smoking dark or shed some light on inflammable cladding
Under clear skies of electoral peace or in the fog of class war
With a bunch of Corbyn kids or a crowd of eco-crusties

Set me up to fail on ground floor in penthouse or basement
Or halfway up where fire spreads like a virus Tie me down or set me free wherever I am: up Hepstonstall’s winds or crashing below Hebden’s floodline
Or choked in a tower block or jogging the canal path


I’m following you on Twitter single-mindedly
You’re my half hope in a world turned contrarious



Set me up to fail on ground floor in penthouse or basement
Or halfway up where fire spreads like a virus (or up Hepstonstall’s winds
or crashing below Hebden’s floodline) Tie me down or set me free wherever I am
Choked in a tower block or jogging post-industrial canal paths


OR



Set Me Free

Turn the heat up on the EU negotiations
Or turn the air con to full and freeze my misty words mid air
Let me step outside round the back where there aren’t any reporters
Or Britain First heavies attacking Ramadan first aiders

Stick me at the bottom of the pile or send me over the top
Keep me in the smoking dark or shed some light on inflammable cladding
Under clear skies of electoral peace or in the fog of class war
With a bunch of Corbyn kids or a crowd of eco-crusties

Set me up to fail on ground floor in penthouse or basement
Or halfway up where fire spreads like a virus
Tie me down or set me free wherever I am:
up Hepstonstall’s winds or crashing below Hebden’s floodline

Or choked in a tower block or jogging the canal path
You’re my only half hope in a world turned contrarious




Set Me Free

Turn the heat up on the EU negotiations
Or turn the air con to full and freeze my misty words mid air
Let me step outside round the back where there aren’t any reporters
Or Britain First heavies attacking Ramadan first aiders

Stick me at the bottom of the pile or send me over the top
Keep me in the smoking dark or shed some light on inflammable cladding
Under clear skies of electoral peace or in the fog of class war
With a bunch of Corbyn kids or a crowd of eco-crusties

Set me up to fail on ground floor in penthouse or basement
Or halfway up where fire spreads like a whisper
Tie me down or set me free wherever I am
Up Hepstonstall’s winds or crashing below Hebden’s floodline

Or choked in Grenfell Tower or jogging the canal path
You’re my only half hope in a world turned contrarious



16th June 2017: OR even better after taking it with me to the Resonant Edge Symposium and performances (notably by Jan Kaplinski,  a 2 hour set!) it's even better.'Hepstonstall' was corrected this morning. 



Set Me Free

Turn the heat up on EU negotiations
Or switch the air con to full and freeze my misty words mid air
Let me step outside round the back where there aren’t any reporters
Or Britain First heavies badmouthing Ramadan first aiders

Stick me at the bottom of the pile or send me over the top
Trap me in the smoking dark or shed some light on inflammable cladding
Under clear skies of electoral peace or in the fog of class war
With a crowd of eco-crusties or a bunch of Corbyn kids

Set me up to fail on ground floor in penthouse or basement
Or halfway up where fire spreads like a whisper
Tie me down or set me free wherever I am
Up in Heptonstall’s gales or crashing below Hebden’s floodline

Or choked in Grenfell Tower or jogging along the canal path
You’re my only half hope in a world turned contrarious


16th June 2017




Set Me Free

Turn the heat up on EU negotiations
Or switch the air con to full and freeze my misty words mid air
Let me step outside round the back where there aren’t any reporters
Or Britain First heavies badmouthing Ramadan first aiders

Stick me at the bottom of the pile or send me over the top
Trap me in the smoking dark or shed some light on inflammable cladding
Under clear skies of electoral peace or in the fog of class war
With a crowd of eco-crusties or a bunch of Corbyn kids

Set me up to fail on ground floor in penthouse or basement
Or halfway up where fire spreads like a whisper
Tie me down or set me free wherever I am
Up Heptonstall in gales or crashing below Hebden’s floodline

Or choked in Grenfell Tower or jogging along the canal path
You’re my only half hope in a world turned contrarious



Atlantic Drift : front cover image by Pete Clarke

Here is the cover of Atlantic Drift the anthology of trans-Atlantic poetry and poetics James Byrne and I have edited, which is to be the second book published by Edge Hill University Press, in association with Arc, the well-known poetry publishers.

This image is by Pete Clarke, the painter I have worked with in collaboration, see here and here and here for more images and links.  We think it is striking. Soon I shall start mentioning its contents. (Of course, I am editing two anthologies at the moment, one of fictional poets and this one, of real poets. For the former check here. See here for more on the EUOIA.)

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Today's Surrey sonnet: Gove Re-apparitions

I am going to post these poems as I write them, because of the topicality of their subjects. I shall also only leave them up temporarily, during the composition process. I'm thinking of posting no more than 3 at any one time on the blog. See here to check for poems from other days...


The Soote Season

Like a rep production of The Sound of Music, with which
the hills are reportedly alive, and also the valleys plugged
with cotton-wool mist in denial of the results,
the actors have returned, re-shuffled as themselves.

A young pigeon ruffles its feathers but the old gull plummets,
far from disputed shores, to stab with blooded beak
the fledgling, flapping broken-winged to its death on a
Birmingham New Street platform. The national fish loafs.

The snakeskin shoes of Theresa May kick off –
as she does, rolled into the padded cell with the DUP
crying Brexit means Brexit means Brexit… Gove re-
apparitions in ‘rural affairs’, dogging sites he monitors moistly.

I dreamt I was in Kent; the bus missed my stop in the dark. You
don’t have to be Gummer to guess this summer will be a bummer!

13th June 2017: a draft, of course; I'll have to fiddle with it for fucking weeks! So:




The Soote Season

As in a shit production of The Sound of Music,
with which the hills are reportedly alive, and also the valleys
plugged with cotton-wool mist in denial of the results,
the actors have returned, re-shuffled as themselves.

A young pigeon ruffles its feathers but the old gull plummets,
far from disputed shores, to stab with blooded beak
the fledgling, flapping broken-winged to its death on a
Birmingham New Street platform. The national fish loafs.

The snakeskin shoes of Theresa May kick off –
as she does, rolled into the padded cell with the DUP
crying Brexit means Brexit means Brexit… Gove re-
apparitions in ‘rural affairs’, dogging sites he monitors moistly.

I dreamt I was in Kent; the bus missed my stop in the dark. You
don’t have to be Gummer to guess this summer will be a bummer!

13th June 2017 Or:



The Soote Season

As in a shit production of The Sound of Music,
with which the hills are reportedly alive, although the valleys
are plugged with cotton-wool mist in denial of the results,
the actors have returned, re-shuffled as themselves.

A young pigeon ruffles its feathers but the old gull plummets,
far from disputed shores, to stab with blooded beak
the fledgling, flapping broken-winged to its death, on a
Birmingham New Street platform. The national fish loafs.

The snakeskin shoes of Theresa May kick off –
as she does, rolled into the padded cell with the DUP
crying Brexit means Brexit means Brexit… Gove re-
apparitions in ‘rural affairs’, dogging sites he monitors moistly.

I dreamt I was in Kent; the bus missed my stop in the dark. You
don’t have to be Gummer to guess this summer will be a bummer!

13th June 2017 OR:




The Soote Season

As in a shit production of The Sound of Music,
with which the hills are reportedly alive, although eary valleys
are plugged with cotton-wool mist in denial of the results,
the actors have returned, re-shuffled as themselves.

A young pigeon ruffles its feathers but the old gull plummets,
far from disputed shores, to stab with blooded beak
the fledgling, flapping broken-winged to its death, on
Birmingham New Street platform 5. The national fish loafs.

The snakeskin shoes of Theresa May kick off –
as she does, rolled into the padded cell with the DUP
crying Brexit means Brexit means Brexit… Gove re-
apparitions in ‘rural affairs’, dogging sites he monitors moistly.

I dreamt I was in Kent; the bus missed my stop in the dark. You
don’t have to be Gummer to guess this summer will be a bummer!

13th June 2017 OR:



The Soote Season

As in a shit encore to The Sound of Music, with which
the hills are reportedly alive, although eary valleys
are plugged with cotton-wool mist in denial of the results,
the actors have returned, re-shuffled as themselves.

A young pigeon ruffles its feathers but the old gull plummets,
far from disputed shores, to stab with blooded beak
the fledgling, flapping broken-winged to its death, on
Birmingham New Street platform 5. The national fish loafs.

The snakeskin shoes of Theresa May kick off –
as she does, rolled into the padded cell with the DUP
crying Brexit means Brexit means Brexit… Gove re-
apparitions in ‘rural affairs’, dogging sites he monitors moistly.

I dreamt I was in Kent; the bus missed my stop in the dark. You
don’t have to be Gummer to guess this summer will be a bummer!

13th June 2017 OR EVEN:



The Soote Season

As in a shit encore to The Sound of Music, with which
the hills are reportedly alive, although eary valleys
are plugged with cotton-wool mist in denial of the results,
the actors have returned, re-shuffled as themselves.

A young pigeon ruffles its feathers but an old gull plummets,
far from disputed shores, to stab with blooded beak
the fledgling, flapping broken-winged to its death, on
Birmingham New Street platform 5. The national fish loafs.

The snakeskin shoes of Theresa May kick off –
as she does, rolled into the padded cell with the DUP
crying Brexit means Brexit means Brexit… Gove
re-apparitions at Rural Affairs, a dogging site he monitors moistly.

I dreamt I was in Kent; the bus missed my stop in the dark. You
don’t have to be Gummer to guess this summer will be a bummer!

13th June 2017

Sunday, June 04, 2017

Robert Sheppard and Patricia Farrell: Poetry from the Stage (Coventry) Saturday night

Courtesy of Leanne Bridgewater and Colin Scott, Patricia and I read in Coventry

Poetry from the stage, poetry night in Coventry at Albany Theatre on Saturday 3 June (7pm - 10pm)

The night promised what Leanne called ‘a massive  twist of taste, from an infusion of Indian dancers, various poetry voices, maybe some visual screening, topped with a pro-disability stance, featuring two poetry plays from Shaun Fallows and Jackie Hagan’, the last of whom topped the bill.

The city alive to the roaring engines and burning rubber of the Moto Fest, the Albany Theatre alive to that ‘variety’ Leanne mentioned.


I read: 

‘Rainshine…’,
‘London’
‘Afghanistan’
‘for Stephen’
‘Berline Bursts’
‘Prison Camp Violin, Riga’,

all from History or Sleep. Purchase details here: http://www.shearsman.com/ws-shop/category/1023-sheppard-robert/product/5743-robert-sheppard---history-or-sleep---selected-poems. See various posts on my blog Pages about the selection  here. The first review may be read here.

I sold one copy (which wasn’t bad because they weren’t on display) to Raef Boylan who runs Here Comes Everybody. See here

Patricia read ‘(From within) a narrow vase’.



 It was good to talk to friends old and new after... Although yet again the unthinkable is unfolding on the TV set in the bar. I'm glad I'd read from the sequence 'Warrant Error'.

Friday, June 02, 2017

Ian McMillan and Robert Sheppard text and video of February's perfomance now available on 3 am

For the Leeds Enemies gig I was paired with Ian McMillan and we decided we would write a piece simultaneously and then perform it simultaneously, which we did on February 9th! I write about that here and you can also view the video of the performance there.


Steven Fowler kindly offered to publish a combination of the texts in 3 am Magazine. That proved tricky, though it has appeared in a final version alternating the lines of our texts that I devised (it's lost the bold type that was used to distinguish between the two text-voices, if I may invent that term)!

Read it here - and you can also see the video of it to compare what I've done (with Ian's permission by the way!).

We hope you enjoy it!

Thursday, June 01, 2017

Robert Sheppard: Speaking at EDGE POETICS in November & cfp


Edge Poetics


A Symposium on Innovative and Speculative Creative Writing Practices in Higher Education


4th November 2017

10.00-17.30, with a public reading at 18.00

Venue: University of Bedfordshire, Luton Campus

With keynotes from Professor Robert Sheppard (Edge Hill University) and Nicholas Royle (Manchester Metropolitan University), and contributions from Dr Helen Marshall (Anglia Ruskin University) and Dr Daniel Watt (Loughborough University).


In the late essay, ‘Literature and Life’, Gilles Deleuze expands on ideas from his earlier work about the ways literary writing can open up ‘a kind of foreign language within language, which is neither another language nor a rediscovered patois, but a becoming-other of language, a minorization of this major language, a delirium that carries it off, a witch’s line that escapes the dominant system.’

                Till relatively recently, Creative Writing in Higher Education has been dominated by a set of techniques and tropes derived from realism, and also by the expectations of mainstream literary fiction. Increasingly, however, aspects of innovative and speculative poetics are finding their way into the classroom.

                This one-day symposium will ask: what are the benefits for the pedagogy of Creative Writing of writing practices drawn from experimental and fantastic traditions; and what does it mean to be a writer interested in such traditions who also teaches Creative Writing in academe?  Is there a value in teaching students to find the kind of delirium Deleuze writes of? It will bring together writers, teachers of Creative Writing, and others with an interest in the field, to discuss these questions.











Suggested topics for papers might include but are not limited to:



Creative Writing pedagogy and innovation; Creative Writing pedagogy and writing in genre; all forms of creative writing that work at the borders of genre in the Creative Writing classroom; blurred lines between theory and creative practice



Conference organisers Tim Jarvis, Keith Jebb, and Lesley McKenna (University of Bedfordshire) invite abstracts of 350 words for 20-minute papers; please submit along with a short biographical note, by 4th August 2017, to edgepoetics@gmail.com.