Steve Urwin

Biography

STEVE URWIN was born in 1970 in Consett, County Durham. Diarist, editor, publisher, poet, his work has appeared in magazines such as Fire, Open Wide, Other Poetry, Sand, Smiths Knoll and Tears in the Fence and has been broadcast on BBC Radio. His debut full-length poetry collection “Tightrope Walker” was published by Redbeck Press in 2001. Steve is a popular performer on the Northeast live circuit, appearing regularly at venues such as the Literary and Philosophical Society, Cumberland Arms and Jazz Café in Newcastle to Lamplight Arts Centre, the Gala Studio and Waddington Street Centre in County Durham. He is the 2008 Bare Knuckle Poetry Slam Champion and 2011 Middlesbrough Intro Festival Slam Champion. His latest collection Hypomaniac, published by Red Squirrel Press in 2009, was September Book of the Month in Northeast cultural listings magazine The Crack. His next book Shades Of Grey – prose poems and other writings – will be published by RSP in October 2011. Steve works as a Creative Writing facilitator and runs Talking Pen - organising live literature events and publishing limited edition monographs and pamphlets. He lives in Moorside, enjoys mountain biking and listening to bleak music.

Samples

Three Fragments from the Inside of My Smile my face holds thistles and a sharp tongue tastes only sour fruit look into my eyes can you read my mind? is your torch burning bright quickly now step inside I’ll show you how it works * wrapping rope around both wrists exposing my negatives wearing my insides like bracelets my nakedness conceals everything I struggle to show * another substitute for suicide the anonymity of dust endlessly circling the void lusting paralysis * winding down into the night scales grow on my face my chemistry thinks I’ve skipped a season medication did nothing in the morning with the swipe of an arm I will stop time in my sleep ______________ From The Beast Cacophony of fizzy melodies Sharing the same inane dustbin beats Forcing you from your home Forcing you to vacate the 'sunny' side of the street Better the tinnitus of solitude Than the throbbing insistence of fair-weather communion Demanding we all dance to the same drummer However maddening the lack of variation But don’t tell anyone lest they think you’re getting Way above your station Wrap a black canvas jacket round your upper half Pull on your doc martens Tread steadily to the late Find a clear route to the teetotal section Buy a bottle of still apple water Cross the bone dry street And wait For the trolley bus to whisk you away End the month as you started it Exhilarated by the possibility of meaningful departure But once onboard You will most certainly curse Those cunting speed-bumps before the Smooth begins to soothe As you catch the streetlights warming up against a backdrop of pale blue It doesn’t matter whatever you choose to do will be correct The pen is your friend, let it speak And as you are jolted left to right upon your wheel arch seat The traffic lights stay green tonight The world willing you to find a way out And as the road smoothes No more maddening crap on a garden stereo No banana-brained barbecue Just a welcome release From the beast of misanthropy __________________________ Lessons from the Voice of Experience He will learn, among other things, how to enjoy personal sacrifice. Like Jenny Éclair said on Grumpy Old Women, all children should be relieved of their X-Boxes, their £80 Reebok trainers, their iPods, internet connections and dial-a-mum taxi services and be expected to sit on a wall, kicking their heels against crumbling brickwork, bored to bits for the entire three weeks holiday. He will learn, among other things, how to find enjoyment in simple pleasures such as helping Grandad to creosote the back fence, the lush aroma of tin and brush clogging his airway. “Asthma my big toenail, nothing the matter with you. Can’t pull the wool over my eyes – I might be seventy-eight but I can still run rings around layabouts half my age.” He will learn, among other things, how to enjoy the way sunlight falls across a beige carpet; how at other times it illuminates the far wall and allows him to find his shadow, upon which he will be prompted to consider how lucky he is not to have to endure the indignity of two-years National Service. He will learn, among other things, that silence is indeed golden. And no amount of AC/DC, Eminem, Pussycat Dolls, Led Zeppelin, Girls Aloud, My Chemical Romance or Cradle of Filth turned up to eleven will convince us otherwise. Eventually he will realise that he is not the be all and end all, not the centre of the bloody universe. He is a hooded youth, catapulted through adolescence by raging hormones and the egging of his obnoxious peers. He will learn that life is no picnic. “Go ahead, sunshine, scoff while you can. Because after Christmas, it’s solid graft every step of the way.” _____________________ For The Record This poem was written at a computer It probably won't get published on the page This poem isn't for performance either Highly unlikely to grace the local cabaret stage This poem won't gain much notoriety It's functional but was written under duress This poem doesn’t claim to be clever or even pretty But endeavours not to make much of a mess This poem didn't intend to use any anaphora Or sustain itself with lots of lousy rhyme This poem succeeded in avoiding a strict metre And found an easy route to the finish line

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