Biography
I am passionate about poetry. I love the energy and variety of spoken word. Performance poetry brings poetry alive. It reminds us that poetry can be a social act, as it was for our ancestors: a room full of people pulled along by rhythm, being comforted, challenged or surprised by language. Poetry derives from an oral and aural tradition. It has evolved to the page, but that’s not where it began. A successful piece of writing - any writing - has to work aloud as well as in our heads. Then we not only experience the meaning of words, but their sound, rhythm, intonation, the poet’s emphasis, volume, quietness. The poems have room to breathe. And to explode. I was surrounded by words from an early age: myths and poems from Welsh & Scottish grandparents who slipped into their Celtic tongues to hide secrets; fables and Bible stories; the Puffin book of Verse. I have written poems since the age of eight (they don't bear re-examination!) and poetry stayed with me for many years before babies and exhaustion took over. I came back to it in 2003 and since then poetry has become such a major part of my life, that losing it doesn't bear thinking about. I work for Liverpool's Dead Good Poets Society and teach creative writing at Liverpool John Moores University and for the Open University. And I don't write nearly as much as I should, but when a poem comes, there's no beating the sense of delight that comes with it.
Samples
Paint He dreams in colour. Red is lust, hair, rage. Pale pink, a lover’s cheeks; coral, her kiss. Vermillion’s flame, chrysanthemums and rust. Blue - rivered veins, tired eyes, the steady hiss of gas fires. Charcoal’s darning wool, work shirts; while broken slates shine silver, stained by rain. White's clouds, stiff cotton sheets, a heavy breast, a seagull, paper. Black, a creaking pram. Light pewters broken windows; peeling wood rots mustard with a Tom cat’s bitter spray. An ochre wetness clots his boots like blood: the cadmium of brickness, crimson clay a curving, gritty womb to hold a child. Soft almond blankets weave under his chin, a linen pillow cradling his head - The unexpected pain of loving him... The painter sleeps, slumped low. His fingers skim a mug scummed brown with tea. Outside someone is banging on the door, but still he dreams of orange houses, olive grass, his son.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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