Biography

Sandré Clays, born in Calcutta, India, but now living in Wigan, started writing about ten years ago, her interest in the written word having been nurtured by first working at The Liverpool Echo and later at The Newcastle Herald, NSW, Australia. She has had poems published in various magazines and anthologies, and also has two joint collections, Rhapsody in Two, and Wigan Journey with her husband John.

She successfully completed two poetry modules at Bolton University achieving A's and has twice guest edited an international Bolton magazine Current Accounts. She enjoys performing her poetry
regularly at The Dead Good Poets, Liverpool, Write Out Loud, Bolton, The Wigan Lit Festival and anywhere else who will have her, and has also had the pleasure of reading poems on GMR and her poem Mocha on Radio Merseyside, which was one of the five runners up in last year's Mari Rhyme competition. Her poem Grabberhoggie came second in the SM Dykes Manchester Writing Contest 2005 and is currently featured in their Flick Lit magazine.

Sandre is available for readings and headlining.

Samples

ASPIRATIONS

If I were a real poet
I'd write of the great
Heroes from mythology
of Theseus and the Minotaur;
Perseus and Andromeda,
of crumbled dynasties
abandoned Gods, tombs, catacombs
Pharaohs buried with their wives,
wild Norsemen in their longships
Valhalla, plunder, burning pyres,
Arthurian legends, sacred quests,
beleaguered castles,
knights riding to their deaths.
I'd take you on a journey
across the span of centuries
where you could taste my colours;
inhale my melodies
sparkling like perfumes in their phials,
feel the warmth of my arms
with your eyes.

All this would I create
but being of prosaic ilk
my thoughts are sorted,
senses filed,
not to be mismatched
or ever surprise.

Siren

Your voice is svelt,
it melts discreetly into consciousness
like a mild form of insanity.

You promise
but do not deliver
permanent satisfaction.

Your image beckons from windows,
hoardings, glossy magazines
arranged in tasteful packaging;

perhaps should bear
instead a hazard strip
proclaiming rip-off.

Yet naked you are still
a sable temptress
irresistible.

my Nemesis,
my burgeoning flesh,
my wicked doxy
chocolate.

Conflicts

We said the one in Kosovo brought it closer
and wept for the torched houses;
their wrecked utilities of modern life laid bare,
the pair of trainers, upended
in a mound of mud.
We observed with horror
the swelling refugees spewed out like lava
as their country erupted.

We kept watch faithfully with Nato and Jamie Shea
at pains to maintain credibility,
be the good guys.
We gaped, enthralled and appalled
as military performed
a kind of keyhole surgery;
smart bombs that flew where crosshairs
marked the spots,
and death rose again like a charred phoenix
from the ashes of Iraq.

But in the end it was always
guaranteed to be a turn off;
just a different day, a different despot.
Select a new channel,
perhaps an old war movie
or another episode of Tenko.

March Flowers

Pushing up
through earth
like golden soldiers,
rebirth of an army
marching to the wind
and Wordsworth's
inspiration.

In the shops
wrapped tightly
like swaddled infants,
green and yellow parcels
to be festooned
in nosegays, posies,
or diligently arranged
in vases
for a Mother's Day
celebration.

Against the kerb,
beside the bridge
a dozen bunches
mark out the site
like clumps
of fading sunlight
as if in empathy
with death.

Secret Admirer

I wish I was a pocket in your long black coat
your hand nestling in me as you strut along the road
tickling my lining with your strong hard thumb
amidst the bits of paper and the biscuit crumbs

Or perhaps I'd be a pocket in your blue striped shirt
bounce up against your man boobs as you cycle off to work
inhaling all the pheromones and drowning in your sweat
along with a paper hankie and a stale cigarette

I'd even settle for the inside of your black leather jacket
riding on your motor bike, vibrating with the racket
but the resting place that's best is your back trouser pocket
where I'd finally get intimate with the warmth of your wallet.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Last blog entry

A Bit of a Devil

Posted on Friday 22nd August 2008 12:22 am

Lucifer had misplaced his horns

cursed with an absent mind

instead he donned a crown of thorns

and thought he looked divine.

 

But the barbs took root inside his head

effecting a subtle change

while all his imps were fearful

that he'd become deranged.

 

For declaring that the temperature

of hell was rather hot

he demanded air conditioning installed

at every single spot.

 

Instead of purchasing poor lost souls

he saved a few instead;

enjoying this new saviour role

his hoof ruled by his head.

 

Damnation seemed to lose its grip

of fear on humankind

for everyone sinned as they wished

till earth was much maligned.

 

The power above was gravely miffed

demanding back the crown

but Satan merely sat and sniffed

clad in a saintly gown.

 

At last in desperation heaven

despatched a pair of horns

while angels applied a headlock

to dislodge the crown of thorns.

 

Eventually, they prised it free,

replaced it with the norm

and man, were they relieved when he

reverted back to form.

 

So if you should get to meet Old Nick

for being an evil sod

take note what really did the trick

was just an act of God.

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