I was suddenly hit by a violent poetry bug sometime in 2009. I had written since the age of 3 though that was mainly crayon on woodchip and resulted in my chubby little wrists being slapped. Undeterred, I am still writing today though it sometimes feel more like projectile vomiting. In a dormant phase at the moment, mainly because I attempted a nanowrimo novel last november and my hands still hurt. First tried open mic in summer 09,since then I have travelled as far as Kendal (yes, really, THAT far!) to do more open-mic. I have had 3 'proper' guest slots so far and am now published at The Pygmy Giant and also in Preston is my Paris and Word Soup Year One. Currently writing curriculum based illustrated poems and performing them in pre-school settings, which is lots of fun and the audiences are great! :) Available for commissions,readings and performances for both children and grown-ups. STOP PRESS! On Saturday 6th November I will be slamming in front of Carol Ann Duffy at the John Lennon Poet 2010 final along with some other W.O.L.ites (whom I shall not name unless they name themselves, but they know who they are!) If you're in the area (L.I.P.A.) come and cheers us on, tickets are a fiver but I have 3 (at present) freebies still!
The Balloon Eh no, the balloon's popped. I thought it would. I could tell. it felt too full,it was too shiny for me and too saturated with colour. I looked though, for tiny pinprick holes. I put my face against the rubber and stopped my breath to feel any tiny leaks. In checking it so very thoroughly I must have inadvertantly scratched it with my scrabbling fingers, must have held it too tight to my chest, lest it blow away. Must have worn it thin with the constant caressing. It's gone. popped. I cry so full of feeling the sound comes out fully three minutes after the inbreath. This hurts. This hurts. This hurts. Spring cleaning Spring comes, blue and yellow and fierce with enthusiasm Light forces fingers into where we'd tried to cage. Prying, ruthless, tearing away the nailed up timbers. The timber's weren't sound, were they? Or the nail's not put in straight. And the light floods in. Rudely, the room's exposed with it's bare store shelves and dust, like mice, lined up on every surface. The curtain's come down, I'm yanking on them, swinging, "More light!" We don't need velvet now. We don't deserve it. No point in ornamenting the tawdry. I lie panting , dust prickles on sweat soaked skin. I look around at the pit we've locked ourselves in all winter and see: How spring can be like an autumn wind, that strips away the leaves from a nest no longer worth hiding. Dad Rolling in one night on sea legs made entirely from White Lightning, He bowled up at mine and fell in through the door. I helped him up and sat him down and once propped upon a chair with a cup of tea he told me he had AIDS. "Oh Dad" I said and went to hug him. He held his hand out like a nicotine stained starfish. " you don't have to bleach the cup" I held him sadly as he sobbed into my shoulder, "Don't treat me like a leopard"
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
The Hope Chest (26/04/2011)
Gypsy Nanna King (06/04/2011)
Summer of Love (29/03/2011)
Snow at Solstice (21/12/2010)
Death Throes (13/10/2010)
Biting The Bullet (05/09/2010)
Self Indulgence. (02/09/2010)
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