Poetry

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Readings

27/02/2019 – Reading Selected poems – poetry reading – give poetry a chance at The Jacaranda – Liverpool.

24/07/2019 – Reading Selected poems – poetry reading – give poetry a chance at Some Place – Liverpool.

20/11/19 – Reading Selected  poems –  poetry reading – give poetry a chance at Some Place – Liverpool.

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Since I was a young girl I have always enjoyed writing poems. In 1998,  I studied poetry while I was studying my degree and this branched out  and became more creative when I went on to study my Masters in creative writing. It was during this time  that I set up my own poetry magazine, Neon Highway and published experimental poetry by poets internationally.

Organising poetry readings throughout Liverpool, we performed in many wonderful venues including Tate Liverpool, The Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool Museum and The Hornby room at Liverpool Library.

My guest poets included some of the most established and  experimental poets of the time, including Allen Fisher, Bill Griffiths, Geraldine Monk, Alan Halsey, Robert Shepard, Steve Sneyd and AC Evans.

Since, I organised the readings, I have written and published two collections of poetry and currently working on my latest collection, a book of poems and drawings I wrote while staying in Prague in 2004.

Reading at The Walker Art Gallery.

My publications include Maxine – a novella of poetry and prose and Men Hate Blondes published  by bluechrome publishing and Original plus.

Further publications include the anthology, Listening to the birth of Crystals.

 

The poems I wrote in Prague do not abide by traditional rules of poetry. They were written very spontaneously and were emotional and visual responses. If I edited at all it was more to do with making use of playful language and emphasising sound and imagery in a collage format rather than a linear format.

Selected poems from my sketchbook – A week in Prague. 2004.

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they sat in rows
with heads raised
and bowed down –
In the distance
an arch of turquoise
blue containing
a Golden
Statue and a red robed
Jesus with his right arm
raised high.

The music came from
behind and high above –
One man left and the others
gazed into the distance as if
they should be watching
something.

Kamellen sarcoda
Flumeir tanislocola
Sharine sofonia
Mesera – dove call
Mesera Bassillica
Takila veconia
Marcola coda
Flutkilu cafonia
Bramine ovine
Grashede
Klnede
Brasheed

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nothing ever between the
minutes towards the serenity 
inside banality of shyness
a disc perched high on a column
of glass makes you wonder about
mildness streaming in 
yesterdays blindness
kisses of foreverness
basking in calmness
in the minds of gladiators
masked inside flowered
rooms towards the city
of sadness
incense of mallow
Japanese kisses on
shadows shades
flamingoes folding
galloping tangos
curtains reveal
theatrical madness
flying gaudiness
chandeliers
merciless iridescence
smiles of courtesy
flamboyance and calmness

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Over the months
There had been an
Emptiness
She preferred not
To mention
But her palm caught
A falling whisper
Intended for the
Attendant
Notes crushed in the
Process – her feet unable
To move, the sound of
Magic toy shops a sheltered
Tree with picnics below
Musical statues walking hand
In hand through the park.

There could be nothing else but
This moment
Nothing more was needed
She was happy sibling
Her hands into the earth for
She knew that there were other
Broken hearts
Beneath the ground.

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Klementinum

Shadow curled geometric
Light of sun on stucco
Inside a world of mirrors
Just out each side
To be understood
The arches and columns
Organs and music of
Vivaldi
a bright flourish
of marbled angel passed
in sunshine of heaven ledges
Winged thoughts towards a
Patterned floor of
Geometric stars and violins

Stars Strokes of Voices Touch
My mind in silence through
Doors with windows leading
On and on forever

She floated for a while
In between art-nouveau
And shimmering pavements
It was time for them to
wear dark dresses
Their luggage
In the corridor

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In this bar she
Sits and looks at
The painting on the
Wall
While Brian Ferry
Sings Jealous Guy in
The background

The painting depicts a street
In Prague perhaps the
Jewish Quarter
With houses on each side of
A winding road leading
Down towards a spire
The painting is actually
A mural on the wall
Two ladies next to it
Put their coats on
And leave the bar

Over the months
There had been an
Emptiness
She preferred not
To mention
But her palm caught
A falling whisper
Intended for the
Attendant
Notes crushed in the
Process – her feet unable
To move, the sound of
Magic toy shops a sheltered
Tree with picnics below
Musical statues walking hand
In hand through the park.

There could be nothing else but
This moment
Nothing more was needed
She was happy sibling
Her hands into the earth for
She knew that there were other
Broken hearts
Beneath the ground.

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DUET

Everything passes
but nothing remains in the hall of mirrors
Climbing into the
past towards
This mirrored world of
love blindness
will not fail the others in the queue for this – nothing left of the
empty container upon the
Gadget mountain
Away toward space
Particles in and
Of inflection
The reptiles only come
Out at dawn to offer you
Dreams of sex, drugs and
Rock n roll
Living in my head as
I lay down on
Petrin Hill.

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glass pools
of love
blue roads of
blood
maps of old
visions of sighing
flappers in golden
slippers
lips painted rust
autumn enfolds
them like
separated twins.

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Through towards
Underneath the harm
There is a peaceful
place there inside the
Numbness, swift utterance
Either touch the edge
Of harmony or water jades
Believe to love to harmonise
The creamy reflection
The renaissance structure
Of astronomical thinking
Groups of singers in white
Robes ornate with memory
On buses in the rain the
Sun setting over spires

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Perhaps it moved but
Then perhaps it did not
Perhaps she thought it happened
Perhaps instead it floated
Upwards away from her
And our the door
Perhaps she followed it
Into the night
Perhaps she thought it was there
And then it disappeared
Perhaps she saw it for a
Moment inside a
Dancing gateway
Perhaps it chose someone
Else – Perhaps all this
Is a dream

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Iron

King of Golden spires

A bridge towards

Venetian music

Scrolling a dream

Masked towards Marble

Glass fluted people

Gazing through the

Audience mass

Jazz love

Blackened paints

Emerald Swirl

Hand pooled in

Alchemy

Foot on cobbled

Soil in air of

Jade upon a

Garnet thought

Dipped feather

In Silver a line

Of Graves here

On a Street Gash

Forgotten therefore

A circle a mystery

Faces of Crowds of

Sounds heading towards

The palm of it inside

Glass of glass thoughts

Anger in the past

A necklace in

Golden Lane

A ship appears

From behind

Wonder bars

Against the world

I see a hill and houses

The castle wall

All as if drawn in

Black ink

Here in the basement

Underneath Photographs

Of People in Uniform

I sit alone

Voices beside me

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LONGING

Memories capture minutes falling

Out of the Sky

Like Prisms

Turning or Blazing

Merry Go Rounds

Love Stars

Edwardian ladies in hats

With Black feathers

Stare up at the Moon

Drink absinth

Little cafe at the back

Of a tobacco shop

Opera and Judy Garland

On the radio suddenly

I feel happy

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flamboyant fascade
avoids emptiness
jealous crowds
avoid loneliness
music escapes
shapeliness
nothing to declare
except flooding
columns lit up
under moons
of penniless
sultriness

This table of fortune understands its people who gather to sing as

the night becomes fragmented and swans fly towards islands on the edge of town.

The stone is harsh reflecting a ripe memory of oval pools astounding

blindness avoiding sacrifice of metallic powders.

Prisoners between mountains exploit delicacies made from satin

during evening summers designed for opera singers – radio stars  – break their hearts, shattering the party mix – flavours of fizzy messed up people understanding

the children and their reflections mean everything. No matter, the colours will return to all the wishing walls.

the wishing walls are loved forever.

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People climb steps towards you in front of mirrors and old clocks with panel paintings –

the room is pharmaceutical

dark, unfriendly – the music does not match the interior

she feels out of place writing  at the table. Are people really engrossed in their conversation or are they too proud to say hello?

she mimes her children – She

will not be broken even though

she feels alone.

nothing makes you
realise it the anger
of it the menace of
dreams and the jealousy
of older men throughout
copper alleyways
not to worry about it with
all the bluebells and robins
floating off to sea
can’t worry sipping coffee
in the quarter nothing to
worry about when people
hand you
silver feathers.

So little to know
that the worry is perfectly
simple and lovely to make
it realise that love
attacks at the wrong time
but there is hope in exhaustion
to want it is the box
where flowers root
to tables where reflections
become people and
people fade into
shimmering water.

Anger swept away by alchemy
she could change if she tried
her feet rarely left mercury
and dust beloved true and only true if kissed beneath the darkened bridge

wishes are forgotten once the penny is dismayed
her silver face smiles as
a butterfly flutters between
passageways leading to islands
surrounded by hidden anger

he insulted her as if he knew
what colour her thighs were
but no one knew this secret
no one knew
he insulted her as I he knew
the colour of her fillings
but no one knew this secret
no one knew

I followed my own blood

and the fear from the night before

eating in candlelit  restaurants

drinking beer in cafes

my legs bloody and sore

my face swollen

my anxious mind

Looking at all the spires

the spires pierce my body

reminding me of my

foolishness

and unhindered trust

I have in people

Black heaven

towards bridges

water in my memory

statues leaning in towards me

to trust them but I can’t

I just can’t

there is nothing to trust

and I recover from a

spiked drink with ecstasy

from the night before

my heart racing

and my dear at reception where

I felt I couldn’t tell her.

My dark prison wall and my

swollen face

the following morning

Kafka

You lived here

I think of you exploring

the Jewish Quarter

No money to visit the

Synagogue  but I imagine you

here on a rainy night

Your passion for writing

and your desire for love

Within those Surrounding spires

You long to see beyond but

It has consumed you.

Beautiful lady behind the bar with blonde hair smoking and looking so sad

I wonder about you –

you remind me of when I was young so full of hope and rejection your Bardot eyes shaded with Kohl And your silly job that you know means nothing and helps towards the weekly food.

Nothing makes you realise it

the danger of it the menace of

dreams and the jealously of

older men who attack the copper

alleyways – not to worry about it with all the bluebells and robins

floating off to sea, can’t worry

supping coffee in the quarter nothing to worry about

When people hide your silver feathers

So little

to know

that the worry is perfectly

simple and lovely to make it

realise that love attacks

at the weary time

but there is truth in

exhaustion to want it

In the box where flowers root

to tables where reflections

become the people and the

people fade into shimmering water.

Travelling woman

She travels for no particular reason

but time has new qualities in

other countries mans the sun

often has a new peculiar feeling

she is inside a painting or looking

Into a crystal ball

she transports herself physically to either worlds, the craziness of it all

why no violence  here but violence over there?

it would be wise to transport herself  quickly back to the peaceful place. Violence should be

within the violent dimension we should have warnings perhaps little blue traffic lights to warn us

this is a violent dimension then this would be less numbers and attacks on innocent people

after all a nice street isn’t always what it  seems but someone out here must what it is really like.

Lady in old town square

There were people lying on the ground for it was hot

There is no need to do much when

the heat bathes down upon you

The church spires lead to other worlds beyond your own mind at different times and various places in your world at that time. Donovan sings a song while you

drink coffee  in he morning. Perhaps time moved a decade

beyond these dark buildings,

beyond the gold

Tomorrow she will see her children who await her return.

 

Sitting here drinking snow dream tea admiring the green art nouveau settee a woman reads near to me her long black hair against her red sweater beside her a hat stand  creamy and curly. she sits near to the window in this low lit room This table of fortune understands its people who gather to sing  when the night becomes fragmented and swans fly  towards islands on the edge of town. there is a hardness in the stone reflecting a ripe memory of oval pools astounding blindness avoiding the sacrifice of metallic powders.  Prisoners between mountains exploit delicacies made from satin in evening summers designed for opera singers. Radio stars break their hearts, shattering the party mix, flowers of dizzy messed up people understanding the children and the reflections mean everything. No matter, the colours will come back to all the wishing walls. The wishing Walls are needed.

 

The Art Prison Hostel

 

My room of two beds with nurse blue quilts and pillowcases.

A world away  from Liverpool, here in Prague, city of  100 spires.

I write my stories and poems – on the bed my makeup case, coat dressing gown – bottles of mineral water – my sketchbook – handbag – my coat and map of Prague.

On the opposite bed Kafka the rabbit bought in a second hand shop, two books by Kafka which I have now read, ‘Meditation’ and ‘Letter to Father’ – a pocket of snow dream tea – a roll of posters – a towel – a top – a little old postcard of lovers  from the twenties – my lemon grass foot cream and some facial nourishing balm.

On the little cabinet beside the bed, my assemblage made from pieces of garbage including a frame with glass – a bottle of dark beer- shampoo – a small pot of water for my watercolours – the times I return home. On the cabinet opposite a brown paper bag, mascara, lipstick, my ring from the market, my necklace from golden lane, a blue hairbrush, my earrings from St Petersburg, a red glass necklace, an eyebrow  pencil. On the table a pair of denim slip on shoes, piles of papers, my antiseptic mouthwash, a throwaway camera, a toothbrush and case, gel pens, tube of glue, a magnifying lens, address book, The Essence of Buddhism, a box of plasters, my picket diary, some suck a slim tablets not to be used again, some English coins, a piece of wood, my key to the room.