Tag Archives: creatve writing

Weekend Showcase: Louise M. Hart (Writer/Poet)

16 Jan

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 creative, letting their work speak for itself.

 

Louise M. Hart

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sunrise

 

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North by West Midlands

by Louise M. Hart

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I journeyed north in pursuit of happier thoughts
And a deep fried mars bar
But, blind were the eyes, watching me arrive
And burnt was the mars bar

My baggage was heavy with burdens
Beside me, were a loving Mother and my black (and white) dog
It had been a long, exhausting ride
Whose terminus,
Under the conceit of summer sunshine, concealed the cloudy thoughts
That burst inside my mind

Thus, I regressed to a developmentally former time
My awareness of my impending pain
Like the cries of a virgin bride
Hidden from world view

Cradled in the comfort womb of the Scottish landscape
“It’s beautiful,” I cried
I could never distinguish calculated deceit from honest lies
And, thus, unpacked my luggage, as though
I was holidaying in a land of enlightenment and fun

And the sea called to me, “Run”

So, we turned our backs on reality and ran
Billy, my beloved dog before he was taken and I
Hugging feral fingered trees in the name of city slickers
We blamed ourselves for our inability to defeat the bourgeoisie
With our indiscreet charm and our inadvertent attempts at infamy

But, soon the sun was gone

And the trees were as bare as my face
Expressing thoughts as toxically as fumes of human waste

I realised that my end was nigh, when I could no longer cry
My life collapsing, like The State’s self proclaimed fiscal cliff
Into the gluttonous foam of the North Sea’s residential home
In which my austere soul sprayed stingy piss
And fired blanks thoughts with life denying regularity

I became undone

And, then winter’s chill arrived
Articulating its intent in my mind’s shrieking descent

Into gloomy thoughts and conspicuous insanity
I entered a race I was born to lose
Whose other competitors existed as alien forms
So prolific that I believed mine to be the only existing human face
That interpreted the unnatural selection of human rejection
And the death of universal subjectivity

A belief in fate’s omnipotence
Became my faith, my anti-God delusion
Of confinement secured by thought intrusion
And mental institutionalisation

Wintertime thrust me between the thighs
Of a system I summoned, but despised
Whereupon a nurse knocked my gentle door
For I had slept not, the night before
Rising before the portents of a spreading dawn
And staring blankly at the dark and silent screen of my television

There are clubs, up north, especially created for the chemically inferior
Staffed by people who, even before the humiliation of an introduction
Know every member’s name
For in their eyes, we all look the same
Sporting diagnostic labels and medicated shuffles
Our identities socially constructed and acted out in vain regard
For the needs we espouse
And contradicted by the nature of the pills
We consume to reinforce
And legitimate the acute angles of the pain we survive

They wiped my arse, but closed their ears when I spoke
Offering computerised basket weaving and messages of no hope

Ooh, there’s trouble up north
When identity crumbles, like ideological rubble
For I had fallen and been captured by a beast with two faces
One face that soothed my heated brow
The other, functioning as subjectivity’s adversarial sacred cow
Cock, bull and ball breaker of all fleshy nuts of bone and brain
It destroyed meaning, like the presence of a double negative
In a sentence, articulated in the open parenthesis of pseudo-silence
And intellectual non-sense

Eventually, I wrote a book
And defected to the way out west, to try my luck-
The mid land of nowhere

Life had knocked me down
But, creativity lifted me back up

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You can find more about Louise and her poetry here:
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If you would like a Weekend Showcase please do get in touch via the contact form on the What’s On Page or via the comment box.
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Weekend Showcase: Lucy Quin (Poet)

16 Aug

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 artist/painter/poet/writer, letting their work speak for itself.

 

Lucy Quin

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 Snapshot_20121005_30

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Once upon a time
I was struck by lightning,
all of my veins were pulled
one by one through my skin
and out of my body
through the base of my skull.
They were used for jump ropes
to occupy those who could not stand
to watch the human body be dismantled
without the proper occasional distraction.
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My teeth formed an orchestra,
chattering in beat to some minor chord.
My hands became fish
and swam soundlessly off of my wrists.
Not to be outdone,
my feet ran away from my body,
chasing after my fish hands.
They raced off into another dimension.
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It was impossible to see who won,
just then my eyes rolled down
the silhouette of my body
like a gumball in one of those machines
where they spiral for a few moments
before reaching the bottom.
I went to scream but
my lips were on fire
and my tongue thrashed helplessly about
trying to put out the flames.
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And that’s when I began to fall apart.
Every single part of my body
abandoned me.
My brain fashioned a shank
out of my skull and cut itself to freedom.
My temporal lobe stuck its tongue out
as they abandoned ship.
Only my heart stuck around,
beating louder and louder
to remind me it’s the only thing
to ever have complete faith in.

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You can find more of Lucy’s work here:

http://lucyquin.tumblr.com/

or follow Lucy on Twitter here:

https://twitter.com/lucy_quin

Weekend Showcase: Lauren Coulson (Poet/Performance Poet)

9 Aug

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 artist/painter/poet/writer, letting their work speak for itself.

 

Lauren Coulson

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This week we are choosing to put out two pieces of  our featured writer’s work, as opposed to the usual one. We do this when the creative feels that they have differing styles within their one creative intent.  As Lauren says:

 ‘My work is clearly segregated into “for page” and “for stage”. My work for page tends to be device heavy and inspired by pastoral poets whereas stage work focuses of the musicality of language.’

Part 1

Rainy Sunday

by Lauren Coulson

She pads, silent, through the Sunday,
in the space where she carved out a home.
Wraps awkward limbs around herself;
dressed in a faded shirt and wonkily stitched slippers.
Notes that: out in the cold that bites at ear lobes,
squirrels scurry with their secrets, as they so often do.
The kettle rouses. It paints mist onto windowpanes,
as she drags idle fingers into clumsy pictures.

Educate This!

by Lauren Coulson

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When I was fourteen
one of the many teachers –
who still didn’t know my name
after five years of compulsory schooling
(that chipped away at any free thinking) –
asked me what I wanted to do when I finished.

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I said I wanted to be a tattooist.
Revelled in the idea of painting
a part of myself onto other people’s skin;
creating the illusion of permanence
in a world of constant flux.

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He said that wasn’t a good career move.
Why don’t you try and think of a back -up plan?
You seem creative,
why don’t you go to Art College?

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So I enrolled at Art College.
When one of the many tutors-
who I argued with on a daily basis
over what it really means to be experimental-
asked me what I wanted to do when I left

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I said I wanted to be an artist.
Wanted to live day to day,
unpicking my brain.
Stitching my story onto canvas
and sending it half way across the world
to be understood by strangers.

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She said there’s no money in it.
What about going into advertising
or at least buffer and carry on studying?

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So now I’m a graduate of a subject
that pumps through my veins
yet will never equate to security.
And when the inevitable question is asked of me
I shrug.

Mutter something about
the freezing economic climate,
say how unlikely it is to be able to live off poetry,
say maybe I’ll write a book,
say maybe I’ll paint a bit,
say maybe I’ll get a full time job for a company I hate,
rent a white clone shoebox apartment
and just forget any trace of myself.

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But maybe I’ll go into teaching.
So that when a pair of mascara-laden,
fourteen year old eyes look up at me asking,
I will tell them
not to let anybody get in their way.

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Poet’s Biography:

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Lauren Coulson was awarded a first class degree in Creative Writing in 2013 and her poetry has won several competitions. She regularly explores themes such as nature and its interplay with our personal lives, as well as anecdotal and reflective performance poetry. At present she is working on non-fiction essays and articles, as well as merging her spoken word to music.

http://laurencoulson.co.uk/

https://twitter.com/itsrenbitch

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Weekend Showcase: Lydia Allison (Writer/Poet)

2 Aug

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 artist/painter/poet/writer, letting their work speak for itself.

 

Lydia Allison

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Dressing up.

by Lydia Allison

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The day our boy friend said yes – what a thrill! Not red, we said together, scarlet! His straight angular life inside soft silk, structured for someone other. The skirt hanging crooked with his awkwardness, concave chest wrong and beautiful in her mum’s old sewing room.

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She leads him through to a bedroom she says is hers. I know it’s her parents’, though I don’t say. She touches his back in the place where shivers start on a girl. The part that squirts sparks all the way down to your heels, and up to the back of your head. And the front too. She thinks I don’t see.

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We leave and make him wait, still wearing that skirt (oh!) to find our ribbons – rouge not red – to criss cross around the straight chest, waist, arse. Searching, she suggests make up. Just lipstick, I say, that one.

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We can do anything. The wax smudges the corners of his straight smile as I smooth the colour with this finger. Clean cut white teeth with a small red wound caused by my heavy-handed eagerness. I use a different finger to clean it. It makes a noise. She doesn’t hear.

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He’s always looking down, making his long eyelashes like short hanging curtains. Would-be elegant collarbones resemble straight shards of wood; and the skin, not soft or rough, with no give in it like we had, just tight over muscle or bone.

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We leave to find something, or to excite ourselves with absence. We charge back upstairs for the pleasure of close fitting clothes, to the door – closed – and inside, just a boy.

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You can find more of Lydia’s prose and poetry on her new site here:
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or follow Lydia on Twitter:
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n.b. We’re thrilled to say that Lydia will be our writer in residence (visitor peep) for October 2013,  working alongside some great artists on a particular project on deformity; building towards Halloween.
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Weekend Showcase: Lenka Monk (Writer/Poet)

19 Jul

Spotlight

Every Friday, 1 artist/painter/poet/writer, letting their work speak for itself.

 

Lenka Monk

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Chill of the Season

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Not the wind, but the mournful sound of violin’s strings plays amongst the golden maple leaves. They gently move, keeping the rhythm. And I don’t know why the tears are pooling in my eyes. Maybe the soft melody tugs at something deep inside of me, pulls at my heart and vibrates in my chest. It speaks volumes of loss and sadness. The sound so hauntingly beautiful yet at the same time so indescribably painful. I let the tears flow freely.

I realize the change I’ve craved for so long has arrived. I should feel ecstatic, so how come I feel despondent. Perhaps it is just the remnants of an aged fear that still adheres to every fragmented piece.

I must let go of the past, like a tree shedding its last leaf in preparation for the next stage of its life. Left only with bare branches, which will bloom again in the spring. Firstly, they have to endure the frosty touch of long cruel winter. It will gnaw at them before they are reborn again under the warm rays of the sun. Not all of the branches will survive, but the trunk will. New saplings will emerge and will replace the broken, dying ones. The epitome of relinquished bindings by which I’ve been tied to this drawn out masquerade….. Not anymore…. Never again…

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Writer’s Biography:

A little something about me and what brought me here. I’ve always had a vivid imagination ever since I was a small child. I’ve felt kind of lonely so making up stories and escaping to my “own wonderful world” helped me enormously. Growing up, the passion for the written word has never really left me. English is not my first language, but I love it more than one I was born with. Well it has been said I am more British than “Fish and chips”.  I do spontaneous, crazy things (of course within reason). Forgive me for the old cliché, but we only live once. I enjoy the small things in life. I have a rebellious streak in me and can be a little eccentric as any of my friends will tell you.

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You can find more of Lenka’s prose and poetry here:
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or follow Lenka on Twitter:
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