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Penny Pepper

Updated: Mon, 4 Jun 2018 09:05 pm

pennypepper@icloud.com

www.pennypepper.co.uk

@Penpep

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Biography

Book out now on Unbound/Penguin - First in the World Somewhere, an 80s-90s punky memoir of fighting Thatcher, poetry, making music and fighting barriers as an early disabled activist. Come Home Alive - first poetry collection with Burning Eye Books, 2018. Penny Pepper is an award winning writer, poet, performer and disability activist with an extraordinary genre-defying versatility to her work. As a journalist, Penny writes for The Guardian, Digital Spy and others. She’s guested on many blogs as diverse as The F Word, Same Difference, Disability World and the sex toys website Love Honey and most recently The Debrief.

Samples

Ballad of Cripplegate Town by Penny Pepper Give me ten pork chops, twelve gallons of ale, Plague will chase us to our death, leap close to hear my tale. We don’t look like the king and queen of this, or any land, But we’re staying and we’re shouting, sat firm to take a stand. There’s deaf, there’s blind, there’s wailers, the war-hacked with their sticks We gather at old Cripplegate for a morsel by its bricks. Bold Alice had the pox last year, her face still brings good trade, Though highborn ladies with nosegays, make sport and trot away. Edward entertains the Lords and throws a splendid hobble, He rolls and shakes those stumps around and turns a dandy wobble. It’s years away to Bedlam days, perchance we’ll blame the devil; Rip my clothes, I am possessed, my hair’s alarmed, dishevelled. Come to Cripplegate… Harold rings a begging bell, his leper’s nose unseen-o But underneath his wretched shirt, Alice knows what’s keen-o! By the wall of our Saint’s church, it’s all about St Giles; Yet if we see a pious man, we lose our Godly smiles. Shiny farthings shower fast upon the crippled throng Make sure the priests don’t scoop ‘em first, each sings a greedy song. How can the law say invalids can’t wave our begging plate? This is the life we’re forced to live so we haunt this Cripplegate. You see me sway in my fine clothes, proud upon my frame; I throw their insults to the wind and other words reclaim Like ancient cripples by that gate, I’ll make my mark be sure I am here and if you’re good, I’ll lead you through my door… Come to Cripplegate, come to Cripplegate Come to Cripplegate town…

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

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Comments

<Deleted User> (7212)

Tue 5th Jul 2011 21:55

Hi - many thanks for your kind comments. B

Russell Thompson

Tue 22nd Sep 2009 12:25

Delighted to see you on here, Penny.

R

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