Under the Influence…

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click here for more info: https://essexbookfestival.org.uk/event/a-soviet-childhood/

I am in conversation with Paavo Matsin and Tony Peake exploring living under the influence of communist rule.

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The Essex Book Festival

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I am over the moon to be writer in residence at Chalkwall Hall- Southend on Sea as part of The Essex Book Festival. My residency will start from the 19th March and ends on the 27th March.  Polish Independence in 1918 nestles in the chambers of thought and serves as potential content for my writing.  A new area to explore…

 

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https://essexbookfestival.org.uk/event/a-soviet-childhood/

The Wapping Project Commission

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Delighted to have been asked for a creative response to the theme of ‘passage’ by the Wapping Project.  The Wapping Project was developed in 1984 by Women’s Playhouse Trust [WPT], an arts and education charity.  In September 2016, the Wapping Project Commissions was launched.  The work will be published on their website on Nov 1st and will be published as part of a limited edition publication in the summer of 2017.

My initial thoughts on ‘commissions’ and their drive to produce work is that, creativity [when under instruction and confined to a timeframe] produces a wave of new thought and a release of a new voice.  It offers the writer an opportunity to escape from their own way of writing [from the habitual space that writers at times return to] into a field where writing and words become new shapes in the writer’s vision, a new air is released.  It’s liberating.  Commissions provide the scaffolding to risks, to play, to experimentation, to step outside and back in again in the house of language.

Poetry in Collaboration

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The first drafts of my collaboration with poet Ana Seferovic…

 

Oyster rain       lustrous pour – shelling

 

on the window pane –

 

inside the room

 

it sounds as if a train is pulling

 

away & surging

 

(forward /onwards) into

 

this unrefined earth:

a nacreous landscape of water

falling

 

(on & through) the mottled air

 

like an old French mirror – like a hand

 

which has dug the field – like a tongue

 

which has lost a home – like a language

 

which has shaped its holes by absence

 

which has drifted like a wet feather

 

missing from the bird.

 

Home

is here                   but not quite here

 

it is not there       either

 

and yet                   was

 

once –                   irised

 

inscribed in layers of childhood

 

nostalgia                 or day dreams

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