profile image

Sandre Clays

Updated: Mon, 19 May 2008 08:44 am

Contact via WOL


Sandré Clays, born in Calcutta, India, but now living in Wigan, started writing about ten years ago, her interest in the written word having been nurtured by first working at The Liverpool Echo and later at The Newcastle Herald, NSW, Australia. She has had poems published in various magazines and anthologies, and also has two joint collections, Rhapsody in Two, and Wigan Journey with her husband John. She successfully completed two poetry modules at Bolton University achieving A's and has twice guest edited an international Bolton magazine Current Accounts. She enjoys performing her poetry regularly at The Dead Good Poets, Liverpool, Write Out Loud, Bolton, The Wigan Lit Festival and anywhere else who will have her, and has also had the pleasure of reading poems on GMR and her poem Mocha on Radio Merseyside, which was one of the five runners up in last year's Mari Rhyme competition. Her poem Grabberhoggie came second in the SM Dykes Manchester Writing Contest 2005 and is currently featured in their Flick Lit magazine. Sandre is available for readings and headlining.


ASPIRATIONS If I were a real poet I'd write of the great Heroes from mythology of Theseus and the Minotaur; Perseus and Andromeda, of crumbled dynasties abandoned Gods, tombs, catacombs Pharaohs buried with their wives, wild Norsemen in their longships Valhalla, plunder, burning pyres, Arthurian legends, sacred quests, beleaguered castles, knights riding to their deaths. I'd take you on a journey across the span of centuries where you could taste my colours; inhale my melodies sparkling like perfumes in their phials, feel the warmth of my arms with your eyes. All this would I create but being of prosaic ilk my thoughts are sorted, senses filed, not to be mismatched or ever surprise. Siren Your voice is svelt, it melts discreetly into consciousness like a mild form of insanity. You promise but do not deliver permanent satisfaction. Your image beckons from windows, hoardings, glossy magazines arranged in tasteful packaging; perhaps should bear instead a hazard strip proclaiming rip-off. Yet naked you are still a sable temptress irresistible. my Nemesis, my burgeoning flesh, my wicked doxy chocolate. Conflicts We said the one in Kosovo brought it closer and wept for the torched houses; their wrecked utilities of modern life laid bare, the pair of trainers, upended in a mound of mud. We observed with horror the swelling refugees spewed out like lava as their country erupted. We kept watch faithfully with Nato and Jamie Shea at pains to maintain credibility, be the good guys. We gaped, enthralled and appalled as military performed a kind of keyhole surgery; smart bombs that flew where crosshairs marked the spots, and death rose again like a charred phoenix from the ashes of Iraq. But in the end it was always guaranteed to be a turn off; just a different day, a different despot. Select a new channel, perhaps an old war movie or another episode of Tenko. March Flowers Pushing up through earth like golden soldiers, rebirth of an army marching to the wind and Wordsworth's inspiration. In the shops wrapped tightly like swaddled infants, green and yellow parcels to be festooned in nosegays, posies, or diligently arranged in vases for a Mother's Day celebration. Against the kerb, beside the bridge a dozen bunches mark out the site like clumps of fading sunlight as if in empathy with death. Secret Admirer I wish I was a pocket in your long black coat your hand nestling in me as you strut along the road tickling my lining with your strong hard thumb amidst the bits of paper and the biscuit crumbs Or perhaps I'd be a pocket in your blue striped shirt bounce up against your man boobs as you cycle off to work inhaling all the pheromones and drowning in your sweat along with a paper hankie and a stale cigarette I'd even settle for the inside of your black leather jacket riding on your motor bike, vibrating with the racket but the resting place that's best is your back trouser pocket where I'd finally get intimate with the warmth of your wallet.

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.


Profile image


Sat 23rd Aug 2008 12:04

Secret Admirer is a fantastic piece. I love it when poets give a voice to inanimate objects... Your words walk with him in tune.


Profile image


Wed 23rd Jul 2008 19:49

Thanks Sandre, the chickens one is just a tongue twister, written after seeing a guy go up and do a poem that was "trying to understand why people become terrorists", but that really wasn't trying to do anything of the kind. Not being a very nice person, I decided to satirise it - and when I performed it the following week, the same guy turned up and was in the audience. Luckily he didn't twig, and he even came up to me afterwards and said he enjoyed that particular poem (and I had to try not to let on).

Profile image

Zuzanna Musial

Wed 23rd Jul 2008 01:16

Dear Sandre

Thank you so much for your wonderful comments on my poems. I appreciate your time and the heart prints you left on my writes.

Have a beautiful Wednesday!



Sun 29th Jun 2008 23:37

Dear Sandre, thankyou for going to the trouble of explaining your comment in such an informative way.
But i'm not surprised you're confused.
My Minerva is about a Kundalini awakening experience. Kundalini is a sanskrit term for the coiled serent which lies deep within each of us.
Once it is awakened, it rises and falls, creating a higher level of consciousness within us.
For some people it causes hallucagenic images and paranoia, for others it's a bit like a rape of the senses. Personally, i've had both on two separate occasions, lasting for months and then weeks. I've just come out of the same thing again with more awareness of what was happening to me.
It is the by far the most rewarding spiritual experience anyone can have but requires tremendous inner strength as it can also cause nervous breakdown and has been related to internal combustion in very rare cases.
My blog dilutes all this considerably. I'm trying to tie quite a lot of similar stuff into a kind of epic poem eventually but i know it may take a lifetime to complete.
If you read my later blog, neptune meets venus, it kinda follows on.
Hope this explains it for you. Interesting really that it all connects to india.

View all comments

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