Poets House, Oxford poets lead open mic event at Woodstock Poetry Festival, 2.30pm, Town Hall, 12th November 2016

Margot Myers and Lucinda Kowol are two poets with growing reputations in Oxfordshire and further afield. They will lead the Poet’s House, Oxford open mic session at the Woodstock Poetry Festival with a short selection of poems that express their distinctive voices. Add your own voice to the Woodstock Poetry Festival by coming along to read a poem. Tickets £5 from the Woodstock Book Shop.

Margot Myers 2.jpgMargot Myers – has been writing poetry for four years, beginning in Jenny Lewis’ OUDCE Weekly Class. Her poem, Dark Room, was a runner-up last year in a Cinnamon mini-competition for ‘dark interiors’ and she has poems included in the Emma Press Anthology of Dance (2015) and Urban Myths and Legends (2016)and been a winner or commended in several prizes, including the Havant Prize 2013/ 2015 and the Bridport Prize (2015). She has read at the Cheltenham Poetry Festival 2013, at the Ashmolean Museum with Oxford Stanza Two and at Write Angle, Petersfield, June 2016.

 

The Dark Room
Preserved
a tender curve of stem and arm
her tulip fringe, the flower bed
the crazy paving stones
the park composed to please
reflect the sun
like any other object
but like the moon she dreams
dissolved
each printed piece of her
each glittering trace of
shadowed self unspooled
in interludes of black and white
across the park which lies
silver as a dish of salt

lucinda-kowol

 

 

 

Lucinda Kowol

Lucinda Kowol runs a small engineering company near Chipping Norton.  She has been writing poetry for 10 years and has been shortlisted in the Deddington Poetry Competition, the Havant Poetry Competition and the Cinammon Press Mini competition for Concrete Poetry. She has had a Sonnet published in The Journal of Chartered Accountancy.

Harvest

The country lane runs long and straight
familiar in its changing moods.
As I unlatch the kissing gate
to make my way into the woods,
I trace the textures of the land:
leaves veined like leaded glass,
turf springing soft beneath my hand,
I suck a juicy blade of grass.
Held cradled by the tawny ground,
relaxed on this my home terrain,
I listen to the throaty sound
of combines harvesting the grain.
Shifting my weight, I turn and reach
to stroke the stubble of your cheek.

 

 

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