Donations are essential to keep Write Out Loud going    
profile image

Georgina Titmus

Updated: 3 days ago

georgetitmus@msn.com

Contact via WOL logo

Biography

Sixty-something Georgina left home at 16, lived in London, Sydney, Toronto, Cardiff; worked in hotels, a care home, as an assistant warden for the YHA, in Harrods selling lingerie. In her late twenties she took 'A' Levels before graduating in Philosophy from Durham University. She lives in Cornwall and sees for her sight-impaired husband. She's been published in: The Journal, South, Orbis, The Frogmore Papers, Runcible Spoon, The Moth, Into the Void, Fenland Poetry Journal, Shot Glass Journal, Briefly Write, Dreich, The Pomegranate, Full House Literary & others. She's twice been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize. In the 1990s she co-wrote the sitcom Satellite City with Boyd Clack; broadcast on BBC Wales (under her previous name of Jane Clack).

Samples

yes (1978) on the pull in my local, a guy I fancy, sits down beside me. the suede of his jacket / the musk of his jeans. yes. I light a sobranie, blow smoke in slow rings. he asks me my name / I tell him my name. he whispers it. yes. the rolling stones on the jukebox, can’t get no satisfaction. I sip my rum-and-coke / wind an arm round his neck. my body craves his / my breath breathes his. yes and yes and yes— … and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. james joyce. First published - South 1984 we hear the sound of breaking glass three floors up in our rented room / friday nights saturdays. screams. the landlord channels rachman: faulty electric heater / rigged coin meter / warhol soup on a one-ring hotplate / mildewed paranoia. we fear the sound of breaking lives— three floors up in our rented slum. screams / diamond dog dreams. sundays are quiet. First published - Fenland Poetry Journal A Seagull Like characters in a Chekhov play, we slight each other, fan ourselves, complain. A seagull, feathered adolescent grey, deflowers soft tarmac; entrails pressed into memory. Oh, this heat. First published - Orbis

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

Do you want to be featured here? Submit your profile.

Comments

No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message