(threaded by Alicja and Nina)
There’s a thread running through South London, loose and golden, the kind that knots strangers together in soft, unexpected ways. It’s called Thread of Thought, and it’s the creation of Alicja and Nina, who seem to have an instinct for weaving people into moments that matter.
Their events, intimate, unpolished, quietly magnetic, offer space for poetry to unfold, not just as art, but as a way of being around each other differently. I found myself lucky enough to both witness and join in.
One such evening unfolded at Beer Rebellion in Peckham, a small pub tucked beside the tracks, with paint-chipped walls and warm, amber lighting. The kind of place where conversations curl into corners. That night, a small stage and an open mic were set, but formality was gently left at the door. People came as they were, some clutching dog-eared notebooks, others just curious, drawn by something they couldn’t quite name. Poets, non-poets, accidental wanderers. Everyone welcome.
I arrived with my camera. I was meant to observe. But it’s hard to stay behind glass when the air hums like that. I ended up reading. Something raw, half-finished, probably too personal, but isn’t that the point? The room held it gently, the way it held every voice that followed. Some poems wobbled. Some cut clean and deep. Some made people laugh, or stare at the floor, or close their eyes for a second too long. And between the words, there were faces, genuine, unmasked, quietly electric. I tried to catch them. They were just people being real. A soft glance. A thumb pressed nervously to a page. A woman smiling without realising it. Light spilling sideways across someone’s cheek.
Exploration
when overdue
for so, so long
you graced the scene
of my existence’s
worn marine… read more
A few days later, I found myself in a very different space, but one still shaped by poetry, also hosted by Thread of Thought. Topolski Studio in Waterloo feels like walking into someone else’s dream. Walls textured with years of artistic residue. Tables scattered with magazines, scissors, glue sticks, scraps of phrases. This wasn’t a poetry night, exactly. It was a poetry collage workshop. And here, language wasn’t just spoken or written. It was built.
The workshop played with themes, touch, taste, sound. Words pulled from old print material, mixed and mashed until they felt new again. I saw someone construct a poem that felt like sea salt on skin. Someone else cut out a photograph of a mouth mid-laughter and paired it with the word “hunger.” You could almost hear it.
And again, I started as an observer. But something about the tactile play of it, ripping, placing, layering, drew me in. I found myself making poems with scissors instead of a pen. Something shifted. It felt less like writing and more like remembering. Or rearranging pieces of myself on a page.
I photographed the process too, of course. Fingers curled around glue sticks. Eyes scanning headlines for fragments that might become feeling. The quiet thrill when someone realised this, this odd pairing of image and word, said something they hadn’t known they were trying to say.
Both events, different in format, alike in soul, reminded me that poetry isn’t always about polish. It’s about presence. About showing up to a moment and letting it shape you. Whether in a buzzing pub beside strangers or a quiet studio with scissors in hand, poetry happens. And I’m grateful I got to witness it, feel it, and, just a little, add to it.
