I’m not long back from a week-long trip to the Guadalajara Bookfair, still feeling jetlagged and gobsmacked by the cold, still aglow with traces of the vivid pinkgreenyellowblues, the tequila and lime and sunshine of Mexico, still drugged by strange time zones so that I suddenly nod off midday, come sharp awake just as my head hits the pillow – in a state of displacement. <:::::::and having written that, went down with a stomach bug…

This poem was created as part of Byron’s My Place or Yours commission and performed at Bristol’s Arnolfini in September. Sorry about the wonky camera-work at the beginning -- it does settle down!

Jay Bernard’s My Place or Yours residency on two allotments -- one in London and one in Oxford -- inspired some wonderful new poems. She performed these for the first time at Apples & Snakes in Soho in June 2009.

This is part one:

Been in the library earlier doing some writing and people watching/chatting. Below is another work in progress based on a conversation i had with an older gentleman who uses the library and something i heard a friend of his say to the lady behind the desk regarding ‘bringing back the stamp.’

He says ‘You used to have a stamp. Now it’s all lasers and barcodes.’

He knows he’s getting old but he’s not averse to change.

He doesn’t mind the smooth lines,

Or the multicoloured scatter cushions.

He’s not phased by the computers or the coffee maker.

The fact that the Quiet Room has gone doesn’t bother him.

He knows the wall-pinned newspapers,

Were on the way out even then.

But if he misses one thing,

 If he had one wish,

He would bring back the stamp.

That reassuring thud.

The rhythmic thump,

That takes him back

To visiting the library as a lad.

His dad unfolding Ordnance Survey maps,

Whilst he would head for Westerns and Crime.

Stamp.

Pulpy covers show square jawed men, fedora hats.

Stamp.

 His dad’s rough fingers trace lines and tracks, plan next weeks hike.

Stamp.

Blotchy ink, muddy dates, the book’s history like a well-worn path.

Stamp.

His dad lifting him on to his lap, smell of ash and grass.

Stamp.

His dad’s crusty laugh, ‘not another cowboy’ and ‘two pages and we’ll head back.’

He says ‘You used to have a stamp. Now it’s all lasers and barcodes.’

Okay so here is the actual final written piece… the first piece (That was the first time) is an introduction..  and has no connection to the main story…After that the actual story starts.. it’s about 20 pages… so grab a cup of tea and some biscuits…lol