Biography
Genevieve is a London-born poet who lives in Halifax, West Yorkshire. When she’s not busy performing or writing poems on the back of bus tickets, receipts, angry letters from the Job Centre and pub napkins, she runs a regular spoken word night in Halifax which goes by the name of Spoken Weird, which showcases a mixture of experienced and new writers. She has worked as a creative writing tutor for Calderdale Young Writers since January 2011, a group of writers aged 12-19 who are now (thanks to Simon Armitage and the Stanza Stones project) more famous than she is. They’ve got their words carved on a wall in Hebden Bridge. No, really, go and have a look. If you listen to Phoenix radio and hear a grumpy-voiced, dour radio presenter, it’s her. If you see a girl with tattoos and silly hair sat scribbling furiously in a notebook in any pub in Halifax, it’s her.
Samples
Concust ------- "Have you ever been scratched by a cat?" I replied. A klaxon sounds in a vacuum. A marksman aims for the sky. I asked not for the sunrises, I asked not for the sucker-punch or the turning of the tide or the chiming of the bell, or the maitre d' at the gates of hell who sang in several shades of blue. I asked not, I armed myself, I demand that you do too. The life-long mark, The chassis granted La Vita Nuova (long-deserved, may I add, a truth which made it somewhat sad that what you saw, twenty-one, one-of-three, was a cut-and-shut attrocity). Perhaps, in the wintry air And euphoria's subtle, satisfying fizz I'd taken leave of my senses, Chosen the wrong design? Would've made more sense for the pounds and pence To be frittered away on cheap insence to burn at the altar? The one atop the widow's walk I'd gaze from day and night, My expression frozen for posterity in a stained-glass window, The poster-child for piety, the centrefold for loss, A long-abandoned station two stops away from the cross? Compartmentalised dreams. Let's watch the box set back-to back, Let's deconstruct them, carefully,scene-by-scene. Perhaps I should have tried to rectify the situation, Got myself a tramp stamp with piss-poor punctuation Stating loud and clear that Y-O-U-R it, The definitive? Relocated, sent to live in a land devoid of hope and trust? Crawl through my remaining days in a punch-drunk haze, concust? I ask now for the sunset, I ask now for the final bow, for the turning of the tide, for the chiming of the bell. For the surly bouncer at the gates of hell to catch the stumbling mascot of the sublime and say "sorry mate, we've called time". Error Report ------------ Nature, The over-rendered, cheesy default screen-saver On the laptop that is life. The friendly face of an operating system over-run with bugs. On a frozen Saturday morning We stare at sheer cliffs through the mist, At grass, at sizeable rocks caked in moss For inspiration. And you are inspired. But the word, alone on the page in my mind, Is loss. Where you see stunning rock formations Akin to rolling waves, yet solid and proud, The natural world’s majestic production, I see rock climbers, injured, Waiting for the helicopter In a badly-acted 999 reconstruction. Where you see trees, I see potential, A thing, once home to a nesting bird Which one day will be called upon To do its duty. Felled. Chopped. Pulped. The removal of each imperfect trace. Refashioned Into Dan Brown novels For the thumb-sucking, braindead human race. Where you see moors, I see murders. Where you see rivers, I see pollution. Where you see flowers, I see half-arsed apologies. I long for the beauty and intricacy which each one of you sees, But the years have made me see differently. A numbness my heart shares with my frozen toes. These eyes have encountered an error And have been forced to close. Inverno ------- I could chew up and spit out the dictionary but not a single word could paint the waves of the awe-inspiring scenes depicted in your tequila-drenched recollections, hazy beach-side figures with even hazier reflections. Your canvas begins to whiff of vapid conversation. Here it comes. Inverno. The days grow darker and the nights gain depth. The air is sparse and tastes (to my kind) of success. Every angle shears, reveals a new colour you’ve never seen. It licks the steam clean from the windows. it becomes a fixed point. It hangs from each discarded coat-hanger, Festers under chairs in the chewing gum, It’s in every corner And every kiss, And every posse out on the piss, And every punch thrown, And every road rendered useless by the mist, The Winter Is here. Primavera was nausea. It was a tacky postcard from a friend with nothing to say. I could chew up and spit out the dictionary But not a single word Could paint the waves of the colourblind romantic I face today. The one who washed you away. The canvass splashed with the saved-up cash, The weeks eating beans on toast, in lieu of a hundred nights on the lash. Erase me. Dismiss your early works. But soon comes the time when you’ve no choice but to face me. Because this is my canvas. You know How the Inuit have so many words for snow? I have a thousand word for darkness and I’ll see that you learn them all, ‘cause they’re lacquered on the pillars And they’re chalked upon the boards, They’re sprayed aside the skate parks, And they’re screeched in the maternity wards, They’re spat upon the pavements, They’re cried into the shoulders of everybody’s sympathetic friend, They’re lingering in the U-bend, They’re splattered outside the takeaway, They’re clinked between two glasses of champagne, They’re charcoaled over loss, They’re glossed, they’re tarmacked viciously over gain, They’re underneath the fingernails of each NCP lothario, They’re lying dormant in the wrinkles of their mothers And their neighbours And their ex-wives. They’re in the hands of every gambler as they lose. As they win. And thanks to me these words are written on your skin. Because winter is here. No longer shall we Communally Tunefully Proclaim that it brings us closer together. I sing alone As you suck your thumb and dream of your sickly disco inferno While Inverno Freezes each atom of your heart. Go on. Chew up and spit out the dictionary. I'll stand back from my canvas And admire my work of art. Make Yourself Fucking Lovely ---------------------------- Flick that switch And on come the lights. Make yourself fucking lovely. The wondrous transformation Born of powders, liquids, pencils. Pixel-perfect symmetry. Lines which never deviate. Let’s hold hands, my love, and draw a picture of hate. Let’s roughly scrape a crayon Across a map of your heart. Surgical precision Featherlite touch – A whispered crescendo in the ear A slice through the ventricle. Born of powders. Liquids. Detatch yourself Leave the frames unfilled And make yourself fucking lovely. Memories of that twitching eye As you summoned the ghost upon his face. Your familiar medium. His unintentional parody. The flowerbed and the rockery That beatified the accident black-spot Where you crashed so many times, my love. Where the kiss of life Breathed malice into your lungs And your pores seeped ambrosia. That chemical reaction Made a mockery of biology, And danced upon the grave Of the father of psychology, And bludgeons the mind into apathy, The body into lethargy. And your soul – a thing of mere mythology – Needs painting liberally. The hook twists in the memory It squirms upon the deck, Paints the white lacquer red with each convulsion, Gasps in desperation In the cruellest light, the freeze-dried air, Once more Each time your eyes meet the screen. Let’s scrawl, my love, atop this dream, Let’s press so hard that the paper rips. ‘Cause the beast of burden’s grabbed your hips And initiated a haunting waltz. Two tsunamis rage from the sockets As you step on the shards, my love. With a razor-sharp grin and a forceful shove, Make yourself fucking lovely. Go on, just for me? Crank up the smile a notch or two And keep the flood-gates firmly shut. As you stroll through the battlefield, shrieking silently, through Polite conversation, Over-acted gestures and Meaningless incantation. Born of powder. Each breath’s a hymn for pollution, Read from a ghastly sheet. Your eyes, a mess of concrete. No Oscar-winning Hollywood goodbye. No emotive facial expressions, profound sentiments, Just the hum of faraway traffic, a sigh. And the memory of that twitching eye As you summoned the ghost on his face. Born of powders, liquids, pencils. That day, in a crudely-drawn, saccharine place, Where you sweated black glitter upon history, And you summoned the ghost on his face Imaginary Friend ---------------- I'm your imaginary friend, Through holes in the wall and gaps in the heart crawl I. The sliver of glass too small to see, too slight to remove but the cause of a shooting pain. A whisper in a crowd. A shadow puppet. A deleted scene. A movement in your blind spot and a story with no end. Your imaginary friend. Your imaginary friend. Two fingers brush against your skin, And the wind sighs in a perfect pitch. Seconds last hours, hours last days, And perfection ceases to be just a word. Then the curtains rise. Your eyes aflame, your mouth a desert. A smashed house of cards. Impossible to mend. You won't be seeing me again. Until tonight. Sincerely, your imaginary friend. Extreme Romance --------------- The four-year waiting room, full of people refusing to exchange glances. The fictional end at the tunnel, The lifeline, The zenith, The ether, that's what romance is. Lost in second-hand albums (mostly scratched and overplayed) Full of disjointed ballads about losses you've not yet made And addictions you don't have, and loves you haven't lost. Comfortable only in fantasy (mostly sketchy and over-wrought) Charmingly untainted by the battles you've not yet fought. Lost in a room where nobody dances. Dreaming of oblivion. That's what romance is. The ten-year punishment, full of wandering eyes. The fact that you're a zombie, A spectre, A lie. The nausea owns you, and it always will, The sparring partner you can beat, but never kill. The hours before the intermission seem like a dream. So, to answer your question, that's why I'm extreme. The three-minute death march. The refusal of Mother Earth's advances. The silence, The fresh air, The prospect of sleep, That's what romance is. Lost in a class-A haze (mostly cut with agony), Bludgeoned with illusions of life, and what it could be. Praying to what deity you can, regardless of the cost. Sleepless, godless, penniless (mostly comatose), Dead, but surprisingly verbose. Lost in a realm with no love. No chances. Dreaming of humanity. That's what romance is. Tabloid History --------------- Exclusive! Aphrodite spotted topless! These pics just in from Mount Olympus- Is she legless? Here’s a close-up on the stretch-marks she’s had since the birth of Eros. And are those kninkles we see? Meanwhile: Sappho in girl-on-girl controversy! Outraged from Athens had this to say: “You won’t catch me reading odes that are downright gay To my kids. At the end of the day I’m sure there are some types who love and applaud her, Well, I don’t know how you do things on that there island, But where I come from, that’s bang out of order.” Coming up: hilarious footage of man claiming the earth is spherical, Lepers: are they needy or just plain hysterical? Disgraceful peasant girl burnt at the stake, The Renaissance, and why it’s all art for art’s sake, Play features woman dressed as man to get work! “I didn’t actually see it, but I deeply disapprove,” says ill-informed berk. Don’t miss: Scandal! Deception! Poems written about whores! (oh, and a footnote on the endless wars).
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Comments
<Deleted User> (11485)
Sat 28th Sep 2013 14:44
Liked the honesty of Error Report.
Hi Genevieve - a very warm welcome to WOL. Hope you enjoy the site. Maybe you might put some of your poems on the blog section. Good stuff!
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Tommy Carroll
Tue 1st Sep 2015 12:19
And so to battle the words, much easier read than won. Tommy
PS you've given me a verse. tc