The Bird of Morning is my first collection of poems.
The Bird of Morning IngridAndrew is a poet, artist and sometime singer songwriter who lives in South East London with a husband, daughter and a cat called Erwin.
For over ten years she has performed her poems and songs all over London and in particular at Survivors Poetry events in Covent Garden and Tottenham, and for the last 6 years has designed the posters promoting these events.
For many years Ingrid also hosted and featured at her own nights of music and poetry ‘Voices of Experience’ and has just started another series of nights in West Norwood, hosted by Jason Why and featuring many of her poet and musician friends as well as some exciting new voices.
Ingrid has also written a comi-tragic drama, described as an ‘epic pantomime’, and studded with songs, about the life of the Buddha and a mischievous and dynamic performance piece that has been staged four times, (including at Rich Mix in Shoreditch) describing what really happened ‘When Woman created the World’. Lately with the dynamic and darkly sinuous contribution of poet and artist Tara Fleur, ‘Woman of Bones’.
In the last five years Ingrid has held three one woman art exhibitions in Brixton, Australia and Camberwell, featuring landscapes, portraits and imaginative images in traditional media and digital form. Her last exhibition featured many images from ‘When Woman created the World.’
A poem from ‘The Bird of Morning’
‘Because so many are torn away too soon,
too young, unsung; I’ll make a sacrament of every day, a hymn to every tree, to every cloud a song. And when the dusk and twilight fall I will remember, I will recall that each new day’s a gift.
so many are torn away too soon, too young, unsung; I will remember and remember well one night, one day, I too shall be undone. My time will come. And I’ll be free to grow into the lineaments of a tree, a breath of cloud, a wave that rises and falls and sighs and sighs
Copyright Ingrid Andrew (Standard Copyright Licence)
Edition first edition
Publisher William Cornelius Harris
Published 22 October 2014
Binding Perfect-bound Paperback
Interior Ink Black & white
Weight 0.11 kg
Dimensions 14.81 wide x 20.98 tall (centimetres)
Fran Isherwood first poetry collection will take you on a wry, awry, word-playful gallop through the vagaries of life encountering a motley cast of mail stealing snails, 70s comedy legends, explosive bakers and baritones- turned -butchers en route. She is a regular on the London Spoken Word circuit who hosts a monthly event in East London but also has previous form as a singer, comic and actor. Fran has had poems published in several anthologies and a couple of periodicals. This is her first collection of poems. Extract from Swimming with Endorphins
Swimming with Endorphins
Poem from Swimming with Endorphins
Garden As Circus
Windy Autumn day, overgrown lawn stands
diagonally on end like teenage pop star’s haircut.
In dancing tree, a blackbird snaffles precious,
remaining orange berries in yellow beak,
balancing, fluttering, almost falling off fragile
branch that flutters in its turn, intermittently
tickling the washing line. I stare and silently dare
the blackbird (let’s call him Cedric) to tightrope-walk
Poems and illustrations by CamTan Ringel, aka CT within poetry circuits in London and Stockholm.
‘Words are for sharing’ ‘Each word deserves to be heard’ she says in her poetry workshops.
‘You don’t have to understand poetry. You don’t even have to understand the person who wrote it. Just give it a chance to trigger your thinking that little bit extra. Some of us do not want to think. That is ok too; just read, absorb and see what happens.’
CT began writing at the age of nine, in Sweden, in English, so that no one would understand. It was a scary prospect baring yoursoul.As a single child, she found her sanctuary in the world of words. Poetry kept her alive and somewhat sane.
‘Poetry gave perspective, release, refuge and a lot of comfort.’
What’s with the title: ‘Umbrellas are for Whimps’?
‘Simple’, she says: ‘We shield ourselves from the discomfort of being wet and cold whilst poking people’s eyes out. If we would dare to enjoy the rain as well as the sunshine, we might just dare seeing each other and ourselves the way we are meant to be seen (which is everyone’s guess but an exciting one.)’
What is the best thing that has happened poetry-wise for you?
‘Shaking hands with Princess Diana at ‘Southwark against drugs’ exhibition felt huge but also to see people develop their capacity to express themselves; grow their confidence – often despite potentially very difficult circumstances. ’ Poem from Umbrellas are for Whimps
Rhymes for the Times I have been writing and performing my mix of poetry for people with a social conscience.Those of you who are still loving and caring and think the world has needed a complete overhaul for a very long time now should give my book a go as I’m only saying what many people think anyway..My first collection has been well received by many and as a result will be releasing a second collection later on in the year.I get a lot of pleasure knowing people from everywhere are reading, and digesting what I have to say. I think it’s becoming more and more important to support up and coming writers and poets as the art of spoken word and written word could become lost underneath all this technology we have grown to depend on.Before this, oral traditions were relied upon to spread information and ideas to the masses, and it would be a great shame if this tradition was abandoned completely.Finally, I hope you have a good read if you choose my book.Love and light.
Death Suicide Despair Poetry The battle with Depression’s got me on the floor. We’re twisting and turning, that’s what happens when you’re fighting. Depression calls for reinforcements. Here come Hate and Loathing. Hope and Life retreat. Depression tells no truths. He’s hitting hard with my past. Suicide’s shouting, “Come on depression”. Hate’s punches strike home. I’m down again, surrounded by life’s mistakes. Depression sends Fear in. I’m on the floor once more. Hope and Life are withdrawing. I shout, “Don’t leave”. Despair s
Depression is laughing, jumping and dancing. Where is Life and Hope?
Extract : The Miracle
Just can’t put my finger on it. But he continues to answer my question with the words, “That’s ok, that’s ok, that’s alright”. He answers that it’s alright to commit suicide. As he walks away I remember his bottom lip was over the top one, just how hairy he was. He skips along with long arms, just like a child with her skipping rope. Then I realise the monkeys have taken over the zoo.
Cathy Flower first collection with William Harris Publishing.
Cathy Flower new book title There is a Tune Cathy Flower Poet for Life’. Poet for Life arrived in London in 2004. Since her arrival, she has performed here extensively. How did it start? “It all began for me in Sydney, racing up a hill in Darlinghurst to put my name down in the open-mic. At a pizza bar on Oxford Street in 1991. I made it. My blood was inspired. Poetry and I remain”. There is a Tune Cathy’s third pamphlet of poetry, dealing with urban pains and enlightening strains but with a dash of hope, enchantment and survival. Preceding poetry pamphlets by Cathy Flower include Blue Poetry (2013) and Poetry is the Sight Within: 8 Short Poems (2010). www.cathypoetflower.tumblr.com
Seven Sins is my first published novel. I’ve been trying for an awfully long time but finally, there’s my name in print… well one of my names anyway. Quinn Agathoni is the name under which I write fiction. The name on my passport is Alcuin Edwards.
Extract from Seven Sins: In a reversal of Dracula, Quinn Agathoni’s Transylvanian heroine, Janie Hunyadi, finds herself in the demon-haunted wilds of the Lincolnshire fens. In Seven Sins, she finds herself trapped under the power of a demon, and is forced to undergo an ordeal based on the Seven Deadly Sins.
The train to Peterborough was clean and modern but after that came the bus. It was blue and cream and it looked like it was made when Matthias Corvinus was a boy. Janie stared out of the window as the bus rattled her over the flat landscape at glacial pace. Here was neither the majestic dark beauty of the mountain home of her childhood nor the shining towers of glass and steel that took their place in London. Instead, there was a plain of green fields stretching to the horizon. She sighed. Over and over again she sighed. Eventually the bus left the region of black earth and crawled between the acres of newly built houses that showed she had arrived in Bourne. There was no cab office at the bus station but she had seen one in the town about a half mile back. She didn’t know where Uncle Peter lived and she had no number so she dialled the cab company instead. Time passed in the bus station. Flies buzzed. Some young boys were smoking defiantly, stubbing out cigarettes on the ‘No Smoking’ sign. They were shouting exuberantly, practising their Anglo-Saxon and then one turned to Janie. “Ey, blondie. Yah minge itchin’? Want me to fill un?” Janie ignored them and stood watching the road for signs of the cab.”Ey ‘srood not to talk to wuss.” “Pardon?” They were young, standing on the threshold of manhood perhaps with muscles starting to grow and with sparse hair growing on their zit-ridden chins. They stood in a parody of menace and Janie laughed. As they gathered around, hooting and jeering. Janie aimed her foot with wall-shattering strength at the nearest pair of testicles.
As the closest boy doubled over, she said, not even taking her eyes off the road. “I’d take your friend to the hospital if I were you”. One boy flicked open a blade. “Seriously?” asked Janie. “Do you boys have a death wish or something?”Janie stood taller than most of them. She turned to face the boy with the knife, her grey eyes burning hot like storm clouds and said, “I came here for a rest. Don’t bother me and I won’t bother you.”She reached out to take the knife from him, taking the blade in her palm and letting her blood drip on the floor as she forced it from his hand. “Leave me.” she said, and they did.