Liz Millar

Updated: Sat, 8 May 2010 10:04 pm

Biography
Samples
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Biography

Liz has written poetry since she was 12 and prose since they finally let her use a pen in year 4. She had very humble beginnings in spoken word at a poetry open mic night in Leicester, aptly named "Word!" She'd like to be a comedic poet but the sad fact is, she just isn't funny. Now based in Cheltenham, which has a small but vibrant writing community, she performs at a number of open mic nights, including Buzzwords, Earshot, Poetry Cafe and OR (otherwise known as Open Reading at The Frog and Fiddle).

Samples

Writers We are writers. We make the impossible, plausable. The ugly, beautiful. The pure, sinful. We take the dullest molecules of your life, Turn them into unicorn shit Sit back and say "Isn't it beautiful?" Ours is the most romantic profession. Which we demonstrate by Stumbling from bar to bar Place to place Trying to reinvent ourselves as Wilde or Elliot or Plath. Our existence justified by Falling into warm arms on cold nights, Whispering to each new lover "You are the tabula to my rasa. We'll run away to Paris, Rome, New York. With a fresh fuck, a full bottle And a brand new start. We'll be famous, baby." But soon we're back to the bar, The prodigal sons and daughters Of an endless line of bartenders. Back to scribbling our every thought, On envelopes and napkins, Waiting for the right people to validate us, To say "Yes. You are the one." The next Orwell or Austen Or God forbid, Shakespeare. Gradually, each lover becomes younger The debts larger. The poetry and prose longer More incoherant. Vomiting onto paper our every notion. "Drink from the well of yourself and begin again." Even the greats lose their minds. Until we die, Withered husks of human beings, filled with similes metaphors and verbs. Then suddenly, in the moments following our final silence We're famous. We don't have to be good to be writers and all we have to do to get our own Wikipedia page is die. Our non-existance validates our existance. We would have liked that. Ours is the most romantic profession, And I'm in love. Johnny Why so angry, Johnny? They just want to keep you on the straight and narrow A-grade job and A- grade wife. And tiny feet to take care of. That's not a noose around your neck, Johnny. It's a tie. And at 30k per annum in your pocket, You've got no cause for complaint. You had shoes all year round, Played with other children Your parents never kept you like some Buddhist monk Rapunzel, With friends made out of lego. Your room was always tidy, Your mother always cleaned Never kept you home from school Or painted flowers on your face. Flowers that bloomed a rainbow of black and purple and yellow Flowers so beautiful You had to hide them. Your father never spread your lips And kissed them, While you stared up at the ceiling. Spanked your ass And told you not to tell. You were never alone. So you have no call to be lonely. They kept you out of doorways, Johnny. Kept your veins clean And your eyes solid, Not blooming Dandelions But most of all, they kept you in one peace. You sleep at night, Johnny. And you sleep well. There are no shadows over your dreams. You wake with murmurs Not with screams. You know who are you And when you are How and where and why you want to be. There were never any bullies in your childhood. No tenctacled beasts to wrap around you and crush. Don't look at me like that, Johnny. Because I know you're not in pain. Take it like a man, Johnny. And suck it up, suck it in. Because you were never alone And you have no call to be lonely. You are loved and you are safe With your A-grade job and A-grade wife A million different tie options And no cause for complaint.

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