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Hannah Kate

Email: hannahkate78@tiscali.co.uk
Updated: Mon, 14 Jul 2008 01:42:03 am
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Biography

Hannah Kate is a North Manchester-based poet, who writes verse on the usual subjects of relationships, social observation, owls and trams. Her work has appeared in Transparency (a Crocus Books anthology), Orbis, The Ugly Tree, Dandelion Arts Magazine, Raindog and Pipeline. Hannah is the co-editor of Pipeline magazine and co-host of their quarterly launch parties, held at Cafe Muse on Oxford Road. She has also performed at many other nights in Manchester. Hannah runs creative writing workshops - if you ask! - and has taught primary school kids to pensioners and all levels in between. Her workshops, like her poetry, are inspired by the sounds and games that words can play. A great fan of medieval poetry, she loves alliteration, repetiton, wordplay and half rhymes.

Samples

Delaunay’s Dye We went halves on a 99p palette, pocket money colours, purples, blues and greys. Giggling mirrorless to St. Peter’s where, with one sponge brush, we painted each other’s eyes amongst brambles and gravestones, graffiti and angels. When our curfew was passed and it was too dark to see our newly grown-up faces, we watched the stars switch on, writing the dyeworks into the sky. Wandered home slowly, mauve eyes on Turkey Red streets where, once, colours were made. *** table this tree wants to be a table but then a tree that isn’t a table is no tree at all being a table is natural for a tree to be planed and smoothed and varnished and oiled and french polished all with loving care this is what a tree is grown for this is what a tree desires there is nothing sadder than a tree hardened and twisted through years of neglect and lack of attention diseased limbs and wasted wood for a tree that isn’t a table is no tree at all this tree demands to be a table but then a tree that isn’t a table is no tree at all this tree has chosen its carpenter the tools that will work on its surface which axe which saw which chisel blade which hands which oils which sandpaper this tree knows what shape of table it wants to be and how and when and why it will be used and if the carpenter does a shoddy job this tree will send him away and find another then another then another cos a tree that isn’t a table is no tree at all all trees should become tables but then a tree that isn’t a table is no tree at all everyone knows that trees are crying out to be tables and crying out for tools to turn them into tables and there are books and films to show a carpenter how to use tools and make trees into tables and make trees happy to be tables because really ask any table they say they like the varnish but tables tell saplings all the time that a tree that isn’t a table is no tree at all this tree will be a table but then a tree that isn’t a table is no tree at all a tree cannot really refuse to be a table though some of them try a tree that wants to be with other trees a tree that wants to seal up its knots from tools that should file its bark but what use is a tree that isn’t a table what’s the point in letting it grow what’s the point in giving it space and if a carpenter makes it into a table he’s only behaving as a carpenter should cos tools that don’t make tables are no tools at all

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

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Comments

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Tomás Ó Cárthaigh

Wed 10th Sep 2008 13:22

I love the Pallette poem, a well deserved featured poem...

Janet

Mon 14th Jul 2008 15:33

Although i like the poem about the tree,
who really wants to be a table.
I think of my tree of life.

Although i like the sounds of a carpenter,
i wouldn't want to be his wife.
He might make me into a table.

So i thankyou for entertaining me,
but now i really must leave as i'm
in danger of becoming a table.

Or is it just a fable?

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Julian (Admin)

Tue 26th Feb 2008 09:59

Hey Hannah, I love this poem. It is very atmospheric: the joy of colour against the drab, harsh, inhospitable background of this urban churchyard. Your eyes were painted, almost like rose-tinted specs giving you a brighter perspective on an otherwise sombre place with a sombre name, though you don't menton it: Blackley: the old ICI dyeworks.
favourite lines: we watched the stars switch on, writing the dyeworks into the sky.
Julian

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