Bell-like, round and clear Hopeful and transparent as a copper bauble, it lifts the congregation. From the sanctuary the maiden’s voice soars and plunges as she elongates the siren call. — I am not a groupie. I’d rather spend my days in a hermit’s hut on a mountainside with books, green tea and yogaContinue reading “Nos Liberavit”
For World Poetry Day last year I wrote out the fanciful myth I have constructed about how poetry precipitated my birth.
I learnt not to throw a tennis ball indoors. That’s how you shatter a ginger jar. I also learnt one should not break a violin bow. Did I snap it or cause the hairs to explode? If your nose is running, and your mother is pinning your ballet costume don’t move. If she pins you,Continue reading “I learnt”
I was born of poetry on the underside where grey makes writing easier the printed side: too glossy. — I once read that those who buy poetry tend to be middle class, university educated women “of a certain age” (by this, the article implied over 50). Yet whenever I’ve been in Foyle’s on Charing CrossContinue reading “For the occasion of World Poetry Day, 2013”