Biography

A well-known face on north Wales’s cultural scene Sophie McKeand is a prolific writer who resides in Yr Wyddgrug, North Wales. Sophie’s performances are heartfelt and electric; inspired by the ancient Welsh tales of Taliesin and influenced by the great oral storytelling tradition of this region Sophie leads the audience through a rich tapestry of poetic musings. Sophie has shared the stage with a number of hugely influential poets including supporting the legendary Anthony Joseph and Wales’s favourite, Patrick Jones, at the Llangollen Fringe festival 2009. Sophie was the Bangor Slam Champion 2008 and is the International Pavilion (Llangollen) Poet for 2010; she also works with Academi.org to take the spoken word into high schools across the region in order to encourage our next generation to engage with poetry and the spoken word.
Sophie’s short poetry collection ‘Prophecy (Conversations with my Self)' is now available for FREE download from www.sophiemckeand.com.

Sophie is also collaborating with various artists on her new spoken word projects, expect to see the EP ‘Voices’ out in the near future.

Sophie also organises one-off events and festivals across north Wales with Andy Garside as theAbsurd, visit www.theabsurd.co.uk for more info.

“A lively and exciting performer” – Childe Roland.

"Sophie is a fantastic performer of her spoken words. They provoke, challenge, charm and connect with the listener on a very human level and are the very stuff of what poetry should do to us. I believe her poems and know she will play her part in the culture of Wales and beyond” – Patrick Jones.

For a list of Sophie’s gigs visit sophiemckeand.com

(The attached audio piece "I" was recorded with with vocal harmonies from Rachel Lloyd and noise/production by Mike Payne.)

Samples

Standing
(lines written after conversing with the sound man and the badger)

I would try to make sense from non-sense
and fit abstractions
into patterns built
from the hierarchy of poetry
as voices of patriarchy
extol the mesostic
the structure
the history…

I would feel crushed under this weight
and scramble for thoughts
for my-self
who dissipates like so much mist
before the clinician’s
notebook
scalpel - dissection

I would have stopped then
changed direction
drawn towards their brilliance
like a moth to the flame
(ah – another cliché)
but as I wrote
I walked
and as I walked
I heard

‘stand tall sister’
she said

‘stand tall sister’
they said

and here I found
the threads of my story
her-story
our-story

and they are not in books
(although some write books)
and they are not celebrated
(although some are celebrated)
and they do not shout
(although some did shout the longest shout that ever there was to shout)



and if the libraries were to burn
I would still find this story
and if communications were to end
I would still find this story
and if every piece of knowledge ever learned by mankind were to vanish tomorrow
this story would be what is left

and from this
I write
and of this
I am
and out of this are
my words/her words/their words/our words

I will leave the mastery
the furthering of the poetic cause
to those with the mind for it
to those with the books for it
to those with the time for it

‘stand tall sister’
she said to me

and here I found my words
and she gave me the word
and I know these words
and they are my soul
and they are the trees
and they are the mountains
they are not in books…

(but I will read on regardless)




The Weed

I am a weed, thriving on barren earth
living in the spaces you forgot to spray
with reason,
and in your neatly ordered gardens
I will grow
as your denial digs me deeper into every furrow
of thought.

In undesirable places
my seeds take hold,
bright yellow flowers accentuate
cracks in ordered minds,
and you stamp on my face
cover the ground, deny sunlight.
But I am that thought in your head that will not go away
I can wait
I can wait
for just one single drop of rain to fall my way
and I will grow
I grow with a strength, a persistence
that scares you
you who chooses pretty flowers to match your exciting thoughts
you who tend exotic plants that wilt with the day
you who digs, who toils, who gardens.

I do not need you to survive
when your back is turned I blossom
when the water is scarce I flourish.
I sit with my face to the baking sun,
an apparition blown apart
as the earth becomes dust knowing
that I will always live to see another day.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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The Absurd Presents...

Posted on Tuesday 15th June 2010 4:09 pm

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