'A great performer' Will Self 'A voice that tingles with promise' Ian McMillan Louise began her writing career nervously shaking her paper, with wobbly voice at Wigan WOL. thanks to WOL nights across the North West and other development opportunities Louise is now a professional performance poet and artist-in-education. Winner of the Radio 3 Verb New Voices commission with her spoken word show 'Love Is A Battlefield.' Louise has appeared on Radio 4 Women's Hour, Radio 3 'The Verb', BBC Radio Lancashire and BBC Radio Manchester. She has blogged for The Guardian Northerner. She has recently toured with John Copper Clarke. Alongside her own work, she has a particular interest in combining contemporary dance with poetry. As an inspirer of novice poets, she works with youth groups and in settings from pre-school through to college and community grassroots writing groups. Louise writes to make the ugly, beautiful and to mirror the misunderstood. Think heavy rain, mental health, dandelions and feral dogs.
Remembrance Someday (an excerpt) ticktockticktock ticktickticktock See the sterile clock with it's can-can legs the frou-frou ticking of the red second hand no the third hand, seconds are amputated, only 3 fingers a capital letter T. tut tut tut Time diasagrees with your use of it It clicks as a horse clip clops as the plack plack of the pink shoes of a child on laminate floor Shhhh. Be quiet. Daddy's in bed. Daddy's been asleep for a long time Jam a pen in the march of that clock and turn it, turn it. Turn it forwards ... RSVP I invite you to love the rain, yes, the rain in the North; this childhood, sat at an open door, awed as seaweed-skirted girls fall, land and lift in perfect imperfect circles, book abandoned, to watch a ballet in the back-yard. Still now, the hair rises at the nape of my neck, just shopping yet the tarmac strip at the precinct is puddled and so mapped with white flats of trodden chewing gum, like a city, from my birds-eye view. Let hoods fall while the streets become streams, the roads become rivers, riding waves down to the call of woods and beck. In the never-dry we will hop from broken stone to slice of tyre. Stick out a tip of tongue to taste and swallow smoky, cloud-fall spit, wear water wear water wear water as clothing. As sand calls to sea, so glass cups to kiss raindrops. While we womb and warm back indoors, a faint acid house soundtrack plays pitter patter pitter patter pitter patter daisychain summer (an excerpt) I loved him, I loved him, I loved him, I loved him not, at fourteen years old, at fourteen years fraught, jailbait, really sugarcoated to his eighteen years big, oh what big tawny eyes he had to see in me- a woman, a lover, a mother , a wife his job seekers distraction his council castle princess we sat, talked, picked petals and threaded those fragile flowers til the summer was gone and sun-spell dandelions turned white-haired and winter wise old heads, young stems ...
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
The Secret Writers Club (01/05/2010)
Potry Brew- Haiku (03/10/2008)
A Walk in the Park (05/08/2008)
New Arrival (05/08/2008)
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