A Network of Writing and Community Publishers

TheFED Writing Festival

Saturday 24th October 2015

Faraday House, Old Gloucester Street,

Holborn, London, WC1N 3AE

Were You There?

Please send your pictures, writing, comments and suggestions to:


And please make sure you have complete your evaluation form, which can be posted to Louise Glasscoe, Flat 2 Clydesdale, 5 College Road, Buxton SK17 9DZ

or if you prefer you can complete the Online Festival Evaluation Form

The Pictures

(Taken by Tony May, a member of GROW)

The Performances

Recorded by Ashley Jordan (a member of GROW)

The Writing

A Strange Place

Come up with a group of people who have all just woke up to find themselves in a strange place, completely unfamiliar to them.  

It consider be a house or mansion or forest.

Imagine they find each other and wonder where they are, only to be found by someone or something else soon after.

What would they see?  What would they say?

Sue Truman


From the second workshop

There's is something developing.

I wore my hairclip.

I am stand on the green head.  I am stand o
n hill top.

I wore a dress.  I wore a ring and we were.

You go out in a rain.  Were Class.

My gran did not want me be I marrying Jim in the Registry Office.

The hair clip on cardboard.

Sue Truman

DURANTY (after Edgar Degas, 1879)

Oh Dear
Not what I was
Promised: M. Degas
Will never eat lunch in Paris


INTERIOR AT PADDINGTON (after Lucian Freud, 1951)

My friend Harry poses as if in a dream,
would not be happy in the nightmares
my good friend Mr Bacon indulges in.

This is Paddington, not Knightsbridge,
the young man staring up at this window
is not my intimate friend from last night.

I often talk to Yucca trees, they whisper
to me in Spanish of the light in New Mexico,
and yes, I know what Grandad would think.

Why do you think patients lay on that couch
draped with kilims & flanked by Juju masks?
Whose dream world was that? Personally

I’ve always preferred Melanie Klein’s work;
I never saw the Old Man at work, and as for
Herr Professor Jung, he is simply cuckoo.

Francis Bacon has that side of the street
well under control; he is not the Irish wild
man you imagine; he is gentle & kind,

and we respect each other’s work. Really.
I never go to the Colony Club & if we meet
in a restaurant, let our acolytes duke it out.

Harry is not about to punch this Yucca or hurl
through the window in a display of artistic
temperament, I will not invite the young man

up for lunch or to be my model. He is not my type,
nor will the light flatter him. The light says
Take your coat off & get to work.


OASIS IN THE BAD LANDS (after Edward S. Curtis, 1900)

I tell you;
                 in time to come
someone will remember us.  (Sappho, Fragment 6)   

I will enjoy
                   this water while
it and we are here.

My good friend
                          Chief Red Hawk,
doesn’t know it yet

but his day
                   is done; his rifle
made by Speaks With Forked Tongue

is useless here.
                         He is brave,
& fearless, and the last free

Indian here.
                    He looks out
on his ancestors’ homeland.

He imagines
                     he looks into
the future; it is his past.

Soon, strangers
                          will arrive from
places he cannot imagine.

They are hard,
                         they are cold,
will not respect his claims.



I fell off a shirt or Laura Ashley dress,
lost or abandoned, left under the bed.

I hope I am not forgotten
or replaced by another button

that does not match the rest
or maybe the buttonhole was left

lonely and the garment never fitted
properly again, got too tight

or frayed in a noticeable spot
then donated to Cancer Research

or cut up and used as dusters,
or relegated to gardening togs.

I do not approve of wearers
who live carelessly or change

their clothes without thinking
of the seamstress in Bangladesh

or China who transmits their skill
and maybe their love & hopes

for a different life, maybe moving
to Lahore, London or Shanghai

living that life of disposable income.
Anything is possible with the right disguise.



You think I am identical
to every black button ever made,

but I am not, we are not all
the same, if you don’t see the

subtleties, just pick a few of us
up next time you have lost one.

Sort through the box carefully,
pick us up, hold us to the light,

one by one till you find the right
one to do the job & make your shirt

dress or coat presentable again;
do it right and no-one except

your spouse, partner or mother
will notice and approve.

Putting the right button on the wrong
garment might affect peoples’ opinion.

I was custom made for one particular
shirt, and resent being transferred

to an inferior garment. I am not out
of place, but my new home will attract

the wrong sort of attention from people
who could not afford the original.



In my world, my real world,
not the one you imagine I inhabit,

I know my heritage & history,
which does not include being

sewn onto a shirt as if I was
that shirts property, to be fingered,

rubbed against cloth or other
garments, noticed, if at all,

as a minor part of that shirt,
to be replaced as necessary.

You do not even know my name,
or imagine a future that does not

include you or your wardrobe
but I know what holds my future,

and what my next life will be,
not as a small button on a human’s

shirt, but as something or maybe
someone superior, a pattern

my Creator has designed for me.
I will be perfect and perfectly

situated in my next life; not on
this miserable little world.     




The Writing

A Salute from The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective                                to TheFED and Fedfest 2015

Warmest greetings to the power of poetry
manifest in world solidarity
A salute to consciousness transcontinental
from The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective
in our 20th anniversary year
spreading poetic truth
with strong allies

Angel Martinez

The Poster


The Time Table

The Workshops


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