Biography
Scarred by early success fitting cartoon feet to yoghurt pots Becky Sowray ran away. She lives the ordinary dream in an off-white tower, getting high on radio-noise whilst sharpening her words. A literary-emo-goth-rock-refugee, keeping the faith in all things local. Writer and secret extrovert.
Samples
I find it a bit odd admitting to having an idea of who my muse is; it’s a bit like saving a seat for your invisible friend on the train. But, for all that and without further delay, allow me to introduce “My Muse”. (with apologies to Kaety Moon and her elegant poem ‘The Reluctant Muses’) My Muse My muse wears boots to bed and wakes on a cold noon; complains; he’s overworked and weary. He never checks on me but says I call hourly, intrusively; too soon. Then, she is gender’s opposite; holds my shadow’s light, has fingerprints that map my days. With me, in town, those hands steal eyeliner; make black word weapons my sight. His hand is warm as I fall, and he laughs at pain. I expect nothing, often and find generosity. He cuts open petals to see their flesh, cries from the weight of the rain. My muse; you use me. Alone, I am a castle; hollow, dark and waiting for war. By these walls you grow daisies with thorns, brew sweet wine in broken cups and remain my safe path in battle.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Blog entries by Becky Sowray
loch (05/06/2018)
reserve (05/02/2018)
kitchen (26/11/2017)
gate (11/10/2017)
out side (06/09/2017)
two things (05/07/2017)
The Concrete Road (23/06/2017)
Dandelion (18/05/2017)
A Beautiful Man (20/10/2016)
Right (20/05/2016)
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Comments
HI Becky Thanks for the comments on THe Chicago poem. It's appreciated!
Hi Becky Tommy
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raypool
Sat 29th Oct 2016 17:27
Thanks so much for your comment on I Killed the Monster Becky. I do like using rhyme but not addictively I hope!
I read that one at a workshop for light and shade of expression .
regards Ray.