Bollywood Steps
An outdoor dance spectacular that’s part of Birmingham Town Hall‘s 175th birthday celebrations. They’re hoping for up to have had up to 12,000 people take part. It’s being performed on Friday 9 October at 8pm and Saturday 10 October at 3pm and 8pm – and you can learn the steps half an hour before each performance.
It’s part of the People Dancing programme and there’s plenty more info on westmidlandsdance.com and the Bollywood Steps website.
Birmingham Poet Laureate Inaugral Reading
Tonight, at the Library Theatre, our new poet laureate, announced yesterday as Adrian Johnson (ACE West Mids Literature Officer), will be performing for the first time in his official capacity.
Info on the Birmingham Book Festival website.
Goings on in Digbeth
Nicky Getgood, on Digbeth is Good, has linked to a fair amount of interesting stuff happening:
- Eastside Studio are holding an Open Studio on Saturday afternoon from midday to 5pm to ‘celebrate the completion of carving the ‘Rugby Writers’ commission’
- Also on Saturday, VIVID are taking part in The Big Draw with a variety of artists getting visitors to interact with their work
UPDATE – Oops, cheers to Nicky Getgood for pointing out the next one is on Sunday 18 October:
- On Sunday Nikki Pugh is doing a GPS-assisted walk around “the perimeter of the regeneration area taking great care to stop, investigate, prod, document, tell stories about and explore things along the way”
Also, see the comments for more free stuff this weekend.
…is Chris Morgan.
This was officially announced back on 9 October but I only noticed today when a copy of Forward flopped onto my doormat with the information on the back page.
Meanwhile, 13 year old Megan Bradbury is the new Birmingham Young Poet Laureate.
Here’s Chris Morgan’s poem The Car Body Plant:
I always cycled in through pre-dawn
gloom, it seemed, for the 7.15 start,
yellow and sweating beneath my cape,
just one of a tide of half-asleeps
flowing into that infernal manufactory,
smoke-city of the blood-red night, each
of us squeezed into a terrifying conformity;
for them, fat pay-packets like an addiction.
My green boiler-suit, APPRENTICE
on chest pocket, possessed me,
marking me out, to be sent
for left-handed screwdrivers, for tubs
of elbow grease, for a laff. My O levels
and RP accent made me an outsider,
fuelled a mutual misunderstanding,
and a soupcon (my word, not theirs) of guilt.
Huge presses shook the floor, crunching
improbable shapes from steel sheets,
Richter six point something as I walked past;
older press operators all lacked
a finger, blood sacrifice to inattention;
hearing dimmed by decades of carcrash;
I never asked about their hearts or souls.
On assembly lines, spotwelding guns
were like futuristic weapons from a movie,
spitting chains of sparks across gangways
as their superhero crab-claws pinched,
and the air smelled sharply of lung-
destroying metal dust. Always loud hissing
and screeching, as of dying breaths,
as bodies were tortured into shape
