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Jane Holland

Updated: Wed, 23 Apr 2008 09:18 pm

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I'm a poet and novelist, also a reviewer and freelance writer for various literary journals and other publications. My most recent poetry collection is 'Boudicca & Co' from Salt Publishing, available either online, in Waterstones or by ordering from most bookshops. I won an Eric Gregory Award in 1996, published my first poetry collection with Bloodaxe Books in 1997 ('The Brief History of a Disreputable Woman') and my first novel with Sceptre in 1999 ('Kissing the Pink'), and have been widely published in a range of UK poetry journals. Since 2005, I've also been heavily into performance and was recently featured on 'Six of the Best', a series of gigs held at the Birmingham Library Theatre, showcasing the best poet-performers in the Midlands. I am currently involved in putting together plans for a Coventry Literary Festival and have also been known to guest-MC live poetry events around the West Midlands. I run an online resource for live poetry across the UK called POETS ON FIRE which can be found here: I am also the administrator of a forum attached to POETS ON FIRE, where you can discuss live and printed poetry, plus advertise your forthcoming gigs or review any live poetry events you've just experienced. Feel free to visit - via POETS ON FIRE above - and register as a member! Find my book 'Boudicca & Co' here:


GREEN MAN She turns in sleep, sensing him in the dream-time. Invisible hands press and lift her, knowing the word that cleans her like water. That face on the garden wall, those hands in her bed: stern, laughing, invincible. They told her it could be dangerous, loving a god. But she wouldn't listen. Now she has ivy in her hair, seed on her thighs. They move wild as foxes, inevitable as earth. (First published in 'Under the Hill') * ALMOST ICELAND The house was a standing stone on the edge of annihilation. It sat there uncomplaining while acres of wind pummelled and rattled windows and floorboards. The sea birds shunned it. The bees rarely came so far north. The sheep called out to it to move but it didn’t. It just sat there. Its single chimney grinned up at the sky like a maniac. For miles around, whole islands lay down and withered. Stones stunted themselves in its shadow. And always the wind hammering for the house to be absent. Finally, its inhabitants packed up and left. The house remained, folding its arms and gritting black teeth. It had no intention of surrender. The wind blew on battering its ram’s head repeatedly against lintels and uprights its high battle-cry prising tiles from the roof imploding the senseless resistance of doorways. (First published in 'Poetry Review')

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

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