NEW POETRY NIGHT IN FALMOUTH: free recording for all performing poets: Thursday 6th February: Troubadour Studios
A zine by Aimee Bea Ballinger and Rosalie Darien-Jones
In ancient times
Wanderers left offerings
Squandering the fat of goats
On rocks that belonged to GOD
To stop the parasitic drag of disease that
Refuses to seize a mortal
Stop and squeezes slowly
Only now we fold like wet paper towels
At the meticulous timing
That we are handed
Now years after the death of GOD
THANKS FOR COMING! If you missed out on the merch table at the SVA books and bags are still available here…
It’s been far too long since the last time artwork graced the walls of an NN event and we can’t think of a better way to break this dry-spell than with the work of Falmouth based illustrator, Rosalie Darien Jones.
A few of us have been working on some collaborative projects with Rosalie which will hopefully be coming to fruition early next year and we’re super excited for her to be exhibiting with us!
THERE ARE GOING TO BE SO MANY ZINES FOR SALE ON SATURDAY:
ones about Gods, ones about Spain and John Steinbeck, ones about peach-pitted finger fondling, ones about Lesbians, ones about dying in all manners, ones about Birds, probably at least five about Sex in all manners, Collaborative zines by insiders and outsiders, zine bundles, lone zines, pink zines, blue zines, green zines, black zines, and our new book, NN2, which is kind of a zine except a few more quid. We’re also handing out a free zine on the door for the first 40 people in, featuring work from all 6 of the NN poets (EVEN one sent through the airwaves from Figi by A.Prendergast!), designed by cut-up prodigy H. Levene.
We are also collecting for our travelling zine library, which will come with us on tour in the new year. If you have a penchant for zines or chapbooks which you think fit our bill, which is something like: art, photography, poetry, all of the above, crossing divides, philosophical hysterical daredevil notions, arguments with one’s self, pushing and pulling, hot sex, silent contemplation, weird wooded hooded deep soul, crazed holy writings, sequinned and shiny, muddy and gravelly, lashings of chutzpah, then we would love you to get involved and become a travelling zine superstar.
come along and talk to us on the night, or email a digi copy / your idea / ask for our address at firstname.lastname@example.org and send us a copy of your precious, precious musings and WE’LL TAKE OVER THE WORLD together.
Peace out, holy children x
HOW TO MAKE AN A4 PIECE OF PAPER INTO A LITTLE ZINE.
Making zines for saturdays neutral norway party and listening to jack halberstam talk about anarchy. Come and pick up a zine this weekend or if you are far away email us your address and we’ll put one in the post. Peace.
As you might have noticed from our recent posts next Saturday we are hosting another holy night of fantastical poetic debauchery at the Stroud Valley’s Artspace. As well as art splattered walls, musical musings and readings from (almost all) members of the NN collective, we have also invited a couple of local guest poets to grace us with their words, the first of which will be the superb Samuel Merriman Smart. Here is one of Sam’s poems to whet your appetites:
I sit at a South-facing window with no sun.
I favour this room, and despite
this absence of light,
shoots sprout out of the sofa.
Amongst dust from the incense
monocots mount the shelves
and our shoulders.
Those who visit, stay until
I am bored and their blossom
burgeon no more.
Pilgrims appease, traipsing
in the soil of our Saints on their boots.
On a recent visit to rad radical bookstore Bookmarks I picked up this:
The Flesh of the Bear is a Bilingual Anthology. A bunch of poets from Teesside in the north of England and a bunch of poets from Turku and Tampere in the South of Finland did a poetry exchange project and wrote a collection of poetry and translated that collection of poetry and placed both the original and the translation alongside each other in this wonderful poetry collection THE FLESH OF THE BEAR. I love the idea of a poetry exchange project. If anybody wants to do a poetry exchange project with Neutral Norway definitely get in touch. I was stoked to find this collection because poetry translations which print translations next to originals are my favourite poetry collections. My favourite favourite is Michael Hamburger whose poetry is lovely to read in German even though I don’t speak German. Reading poetry in a language you don’t understand for me is integral to why and how I write and read poetry: as something which exposes the arbitrary meaning of wordsthingslifeeverything. The question YEAH BUT I DON’T GET IT WHAT DOES IT MEAN is the one which crops up way too much with regards to poetry; it works as a barrier, it stops people enjoying poetry because we live in a world so obsessed with meaning. If we don’t understand then we are lost and we give up; we don’t like being lost. Being lost means you are on a pointless place on the map, you are mapless, you are pointless, I think a lot of people think poetry is pointless. I don’t. I think poetry can be used a way to relax meaning, to relax into meaning, to not cling to meaning but to melt around it, to expose it as arbitrary by playing with it. Reading a poem in a language you don’t understand is still reading a poem. The Finnish translations by the Baltic Exchange Project uses a different (i.e. the Finnish) alphabet so I don’t even know how the words sound, as such the poems become concrete for me, pictures of the poem opposite, translations and illustrations. I am always on the lookout for poetry collections with the translations in. They are my favourite type of poetry collections.
Here is a poem by Exchange Project contributer Henry Lehtonen whose stuff (which I read in English and looked deep and long into the eyes of) is fucking great, it’s all so great that I don’t know which one to choose so I’m going to choose this one and urge you to look him up. IT has no title:
I draw an ideal of a naked woman
on the back of my exercise book:
infantile breasts, nipples the size
of a fist, and the aureoles,
a big bottom,
fuzzy, black hair
between the legs.
The teacher came up to me
to see if I’d calculated correctly.
She noticed what I’d been up to,
I had drawn
arrows to point out
the most critical places.
She broke down,
told me to get in the hall.
There was already two other guys.
We played hockey with the pointers
and a roll of masking tape.
We had an argument, a fight at the break.
I don’t think he hit me once,
but I was bawling in front of the headmasters room
I got detention,
I had to do my math homework,
and I was still crying,
I called my teacher my mom,
Cunting up sexts//exploring space and texting in a project with hannah levene. Body as Text and Body as Text (SMS) cumming soon
Cut-up-and-broken-hearted working on a collection of cut-ups in collaboration with deva work in progress.