The 24 Hour Poetry Marathon, Elysium Gallery, Swansea, April 23 MAO JONES
I was late in getting to the 24 hour poetry marathon in Swansea, I missed the bus by all of 30 seconds as I made a detour to the supermarket to pick up some pot noodles. You see I don’t know Swansea very well and wasn’t sure if they had any food, indeed, didn’t know whether
it was civilized country or all. So I
eventually get to Swansea via the train and head off in the direction of the Elysium gallery. I, like many others first walked past it, as it’s an old office block with no redeeming features whatsoever. There were a few A4 pages blue tacked to the window saying ,
poets welcome though these are easily missed when you consider there are fly posters at every turn.
Anyway, I find my way there and step inside, only to find a magic little world filled with fairy lights, a counter serving home made curry and all the hot drinks you can think of as well as beer and real cheap red wine. The seating was varied and I was surprised to see many good condition sofas and old grand dad reading chairs. This was indeed a highly organized event. Looking at the ceiling, with its holes, wide open gaps showing old pipes and the steel supports for the floor above, it was almost as if we were alive inside a bubble made by Tinkerbell, which was itself inside Beirut. I say we because inside the building was nearly every semi professional poet south of Aberystwyth. Though I can’t remember the names of most people, I can assure you everybody alive in the tiny, struggling under funded poetry scene in Wales was present there, ready to make a stand in literature. Indeed, as I stepped through the door for the first time I was walking into a live performance by somebody, but at this stage it was too early for me to pay too close attention to what was happening on the mic, as I had to say my hellos. After ceremonial hugs with the now princess of Welsh poetry Susie Wild, I was led to my fellow Parthian books comrade Siôn Tomos Owen. He like myself had come not only to take to the stage but to see what others had to offer, and like myself he was not able to do this properly without the correct fuel - cheap red wine. Even though this was a poetry event, and poets are famous for drinking anything that comes in a bottle and smells remotely of alcohol, it has to be said that wine was more like battery acid with red food colouring, and burned the stomach. It was at this point I thought it a good idea to get some good ole pot noodle down my neck. Pot noodle somehow didn’t quite cut it and the wine ran low very fast so S.T.Owen and myself took it upon ourselves to form a search party and venture into the Swansea wilderness on a Friday night in search of that life saving shop, The Spar.
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