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Past J6 performances have been in Bedford, Luton, at St Anne's College, Oxford as part of the Oxford University Poetry Festival, at The Poetry Place in Covent Garden, in Cambridge, at the Babylon Gallery in Ely, in Peterborough, at the Old New Inn, Llanfyllin, at the Ucheldre Centre in Holyhead, the Blackwood Miners Institute, in support of the Sawston Arts Appeal at Sawston Village College, near Cambridge, at Swaffham for Swaffham Arts, at the Cley Little Festival of Poetry, at The Pumphouse as part of the 57th Aldeburgh Festival, at Magdelene College, Cambridge, at Jesus College, Cambridge and at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival.

Abroad, they have performed in New York, at Ozzie's, The Flying Pig, Mt Kisco, Exoterica, Cornelia Street Café, and Ear Inn.

Wayne, a founder member of J6, has found True Love in the West Country, has followed his heart there, and so is no longer with us. Until and unless we can replace the irreplaceable, the rest of us continue as a (very sixy) five.

Wayne Hill is a San Francisco native. He has been (or is) a playwright, theologian, publisher, marketer, organiser of charitable works and, latterly, a writer of poems. He jointly compiled the definitive popular book Shakespeare's Insults, Educating Your Wit, which was lauded in The Times as 'a publishing miracle.' Read poems by Wayne Home

My California  Moving like a world would move, the hills are cloudy and the stream subsides, smooth boulders rise and the roots of live oaks lie exposed. Hard leaves hurt like a world would hurt if the world were skin, but the live oaks lean on the ivory sky as if the world were air. Slow lichen strew the stream bed. The blue-veined sky skins spray off the ocean and the ridge grass fingers invisible gutterings random as branches headstrong as courses for flashfloods to gather and strip out arroyos. A charge in the ground strikes one in the air and the fattest oak burns artery bright. The sky is all whitecaps. It's crazed as skin at the squint of an eye. Leaves spun with spines stick in the dirt, edges that hurt, wedged by the air in the bend of the channel, rattle and deepen then fan down alluvials ivory and blue farther and deeper than root tips can go.

Wayne Hill

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Night Sailing Out of nowhere The basking shark came up Beneath our keel, Swam with us in from the Western Isles, Echoes going down Coming back up. Sensing something nearby I imagined you Were deeper than the ocean Like the centre of the earth Located by sailing the surface. You're one of the only sure directions. Indulging in another kind Of phosphorescence (He was to gloaming as we to the swell) The enormous creature shadowed us Miles out from the Tiree Light Then sounded and, unlike you, Was gone.

Wayne Hill

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