I've been performing at open mikes and features, mainly in London, for the last few years. Recent published work in Loose Muse, Ariadne's Thread and South Bank Poetry Magazine. Work upcoming online on The Stare's Nest and Ink, Sweat and Tears, and in Pop Up Poetry Anthology 2. I also have a poem in The Best Dr Who Poems in the Universe! Next performance is at Pop Up Poetry in Guilford on Tuesday 16th September. I've now moved to Bristol but happy to read anywhere feasible and to hear about new poetry opportunities
Gavage for Lillian Lenton She approaches it like any other uncomfortable occasion - a wet afternoon on the hockey pitch a long practice session of en pointe and echappe or the butchery of the dentist thank god her teeth are strong because if they break the wardens go in through the nose she thinks about the word Fortitude in her prayer book from Sunday school, ornate in red and gold. The word supports her as the hands push her in position - her instinct is to push her lips together, to open her mouth only to shout defiance. Now at the crux of her life where “Deeds not words’ catches her with the full force of meaning. Now she hears the doctor’s footsteps echo with ‘suppressed satisfaction’, smells disinfectant and the reek of self-righteousness, feels the hands, sees the fat fingers rubbed red like an extension of the tubing delirious she dreams of escapades and escaping - her speciality - the tiny, wily pimpernel. Dreams of japes alone and with her sisters. First flickering of the fire she set at the tea rooms at Kew. Her current rate of arson two a week when not in jail. Dressed as the errand boy who came to the door, and munching his self same apple, Dressed, like fifty other women, in a heavy veil she’ll take her leave while policemen take pride in their hyper-vigilance. At the age of thirty she’ll go to the ballot box at last. She’ll meet DH Lawrence, introduced to her as the man who thinks only of sex. She will stand outside Parliament with her sisters, wearing a cloche hat and a fitted coat. She’ll tell her stories on the radio. But now the rippling agony in her throat as the tube pushes down to drown her scream thick splash of liquid in the funnel, smells like the rancid milk of a monstrous mother two doctors and seven wardens standing over her each hand pressing down, holding down, capturing every limb with force, too late for her to choke cold liquid hits the core of her, her stomach, that is not her core, escape is her speciality she closes her eyes sees her prayer book supports herself with fragments of another age illuminates the word she sees in modern colours purple, white and green. The word she sees is Freedom. ............... A rough guide to the ghosts of Venice At one Carnival some sprinkled rice flour on the tumours of their skin to hide the plague, weak, but fortified with grappa, they danced like crazy to make one last seduction. * In the city built on trees bolted into mud and turned to stone, death is a refrain - ground into reflected stone the air smells of bitter herbs skulls jeer at angels in stoic fascination. * It is often hard to find the line dividing land and water, air from mist, iridescence shines on a pigeon’s breast, all this he would have loved is loving now beside you in imagination
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Reading for Southbank Poetry magazine (09/04/2016)
Satellite of Love (09/04/2016)
Three poems part two (24/07/2015)
Three poems (24/07/2015)
How to leave Soho (02/08/2014)
Found poem: the ways of water (15/06/2013)
Synaesthetes night out at Cafe Oto (04/04/2013)
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