Óvinir – The Enemies project: Iceland

Sarah Dawson and I will be performing our collaborative sound poem next Saturday, at Rich Mix, as part of this amazing event. More information below and from the Enemies web site:

“Óvinir is an ambitious collaborative poetry project, pairing writers from both Iceland and the UK to create brand new works for readings in London, Reyvjavik and Stykkishólmur January 2016. Curated by SJ Fowler and Valgerður Þóroddsdóttir, and supported by Reykjavik UNESCO city of literature, Ovinir will evidence the best of both Icelandic and British 21st century literary and avant-garde writing, and the powerful potential of collaboration to bring together communities of poets and create dynamic new pieces of literature.”

Óvinir: London – January Saturday 30th 2016: Rich Mix Arts Centre

7.30pm doors for an 8pm start – Free entry. http://www.richmix.org.uk/whats-on/event/the-enemies-project-iceland–ovinir/

Óvinir brings together a host of Icelandic poets and writers to the UK to premiere brand new collaborations with British poets, featuring, as the core cross-nation collaborating poets:

Andri Snær Magnason & Joanna Walsh
Ásta Fanney Sigurðardóttir & SJ Fowler
Eiríkur Örn Nörðdahl & Hannah Silva,
Valgerður Þóroddsdóttir & Jack Underwood.

The London event will also feature new collaborations, in pairs, and in groups from:

Inua Ellams & Vahni Capildeo
Tasimbaradzwa Kanyangarara & tbc
Lucy Furlong & Sarah Dawson
Mohammed Al-Houti, Alex Brinded, Jo Longley, Karly Stilling & Raif Mansell
Rose Ades, John Canfield, Susie Campbell, Joe Turrent & Eileen Daly
Valeria Fioretti, Ana Lucia Beck, Suzie Champion, Ella Frears, Claudia Juhre, Sarah Kelly, Jacinta Lynch, Lavinia Singer,  Simone Gilson & Iris Colomb

Sheer Zed’s Glossolalic Evocations

Sheer Zed’s Glossolalic Evocations


One of the lovely things about this year has been meeting and working with some wonderful, talented people. Sheer Zed and I met on Twitter a few years back and so it was a major treat to finally meet him. Especially as the first time we met ‘IRL’ was at the Hesterglock Press launch of my pamphlet clew in April this year, and he was providing ambient soundtracks to my, Sarer Scotthorne and Paul Hawkins’s readings.


He also sampled my reading of a long poem A Summoning, and turned it into a sweeping soundscape- one of my highlights of the year to have someone use my words in their music. We hope to work together at some point again in the future- which is a very happy-making thought!

This track is available as part of Sheer Zed’s new release Glossolalic Evocations, which is released today. More information on how to get it here.

I was very lucky to receive this as a gift from Sheer Zed and have been enjoying listening to it- it is mind-bending – body- moving – immersive electronic music in all the best possible ways, and is an utter pleasure to soak up. I recommend it.

Sheer Zed has described Glossolalic Evocations as:

“…engorged with various sonic elements such as Bristolized bass, noise, glossolalic utterances, recorded ambience, rugged mechanized beats and a garnish of just a slither of acid.

Here are my, in places, vaguely glossolalic responses to some of the tracks…

Hevvy hypnotic metallic phasing iconoclastic future beats pummelling drop dub sound of dead London stretched out time blip dance loops held in glistening spectral sheets of sonic dance macabre
Clockwork ticking cog turning melodic organic mechanic blocks of reverberating dissonant rhythmic spaces gripped by claws of cubic creaking dub bird swooping through pines surveying silence time breeze on and on and on on on on strike
Deep house depth charge techno funk > Lost in Brixton in the 90s, Derrick May, Carl Craig and dancing next to a tank draped in khaki camo for four quid when Brixton was still like that move your hands in robot blip shapes and no chill out shroom shaking space robot bez haunts loose lose losing your ..it
………………………………….1.27 drop and accumulate repetitive beats Load your quiver……………………..
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………Watch the Skies. 3.36
Dark mornings in Bristol walking the cut captured by rust, decay trees. Disappearing tube train to the underworld. Pennies on eyes for the journey.
tell it like Stri ell of sulp hur un der a brid ke mat ches ge sul phur dr it is c o n j u r e a d e v i l hur str ike mat ches un der a brid aw a cir cle ge sm ell of sul phur und er a brid ge sm str ike mat ches sm ell of echo drip

The Launch of clew














On Saturday 18th April, at the Duke of York pub in St Werburghs in Bristol my first pamphlet, clew, published by Hesterglock Press, was launched. This was along with Sarer Scotthorne’s first pamphlet, The Blood House, and Paul Hawkins’s first full length collection from Erbacce press, Contumacy







l-r: Sheer Zed, Sarer Scotthorne, me, Paul Hawkins

As part of the Bristol Spring Poetry Festival this was a wonderful evening of us three poets coming together to read our work, and celebrate. Sheer Zed, a  fantastic multi-talented electronic musician, provided soundscapes to some of the poems, and a great set of his own work.
















It was a pleasure to be back at this lovely pub in a corner of the city that I spent time in occasionally when I lived in  Bristol many years ago. Strange and synchronistic to be back reading poetry and launching my first collection here, after ten years to the month of leaving. Also, to be supported by dear friends living there, who I have stayed in touch with, and amazingly, to have four brilliant mates from Wales drive across for the evening! And to meet and chat with new people in this friendly, vibrant place









Sarer and Paul gave superb readings, hugely talented performers, and unique voices in poetry individually, as well as the partnership behind Hesterglock Press, which also publishes the vital Boscombe Revolution / Bosc:Rev magazine. I was chuffed to finally meet with Sheer Zed too, who I have been communicating with on social media for a while.


















I’m so grateful to Zed for composing soundtracks for some of my work. As someone who started off many years ago by singing in a band and making experimental music, it was really exciting to ‘out’ my frustrated vocalist and have that additional musical dimension to my work. I hope we get to work together again.

lucyzededit lucybristoledit








There are plans to do a similar event in London but not sure when- keep an eye on the blog for details.

In the meantime Sarer and Paul’s work can be found via Hesterglock Press and Paul’s web site- I wrote a brief review of The Blood House, and have since spent more time with it and I would recommend you do so too. Here is Andie Berryman’s review of it. I have also read and re-read Contumacy, and it contains my favourite poem from last year which I return to over and over. Steve Willey wrote a great piece about it here.

Back on the 21st March, Sarer and Paul appeared on Jude Cowan Montague’s radio show, The News Agents on Resonance FM. Sarer beautifully read my poem, The Cleaning Cupboard, which was published in issue 3 of Boscombe Revolution. It’s a great programme with Jude and co-host Alice Foster discussing Hesterglock Press, and talking with Paul and Sarer about their work, including Paul’s up and coming publication, Place/Waste/Dissent, which is going to be published by Influx Press in October 2015. Listen in here!

Submissions to Bosc:Rev are open for the next issue- more info here.

Listen to some of Sheer Zed’s amazing remixes of poems by Sarer, Paul and me here.

You can buy my pamphlet clew here.

“Read ‘clew’ for a window on our times and a reminder of how poetry remains a resistant art.”Siobhán Campbell; poet




February #SmallStone


A day of believing the hype: buds on trees, blue in sky, windows open for fresh air, energy to have friends over for lunch; I will make something of this paper, I will make something new and feel good about it. One day we’ll have a space in the city to dance in.

a gift of a morning teaching young children how to play with words and have fun. I can’t remember a better one. I wanted to go home and tell my mum.

a Gordian knot of resolve and frustration. Is this it? I hope that one day I will pull the rope free of the bind and move on into a new space.

an ancient woman in Frank Thomas bike boots throws chunks of bread at a wall on the corner of a street in Tooting; shouts toothlessly, picks up a scrunched up ball of paper from the scattered bread. Pigeons lined up on the crumbling wall above, look down on her quizzically; I look away, remember my last trip here was to buy material for my wedding dress. Fourteen years passed with no reason to return, till I pass through this afternoon, on the way to somewhere else.

attempt to embrace clods of shit, look at them through kaleidoscope, they disappear into space while you count stars before bedtime.

calm descended on the house this afternoon,  the year starts to form its shape, a few hours removed from worry, watching the storm from a safe spot, for now.

controlled demolition/ invisible construction by sleight of hand/ mute communication of desperation. Concrete boots  contain the gift of a straw to keep breathing. Just.

dog blanket and smoke stink bus, see inflated rain coats billow through smudged windows on the way to the hospital; told to come back when its worse. Walk past the Turnmills site and remember those nights, then- and now move on to cramped, joyous poetry night Wa Dem Do replaced Super Sharp Shooter again.

flash fast blue- the halcyon shimmer lives here in dull space between petrol-choked housing estate and grid-locked no-dream dump. It dives and soars between land and water, brown and grey, never stops its journey; finds fish in the future but now hungry, sight fogged in silt flood churn

homeless at home still bites occasionally, Hokey cokey weather sunshine boy’s bike ride blows away frustrations, surprise marigolds greet me with their seventies upholstery colour scheme. What are they doing here now, in the flood? The river rushes on.

 I could burst like a balloon any moment, cause a flood, ruin a scene, spoil the moment, drained forever, a fool, a failure at making a judgement. I don’t trust my heart. I walked away from home, from a chance of connection. Rationalised away in fear of discovery that: I am right about myself.

increments to normality: rolling pastry, roasting vegetables, appreciate eating. Still no patience with a recalcitrant son; Atlas is holding up my To Do list, but he can’t do it for ever.

 investigating frustrations and paralysis in space; time shifts, un-sticking personal tectonic plates; but I hold onto frustration at the table instead of letting go and trusting you will work it out.

lapping black mood buffered by experience : a mindful voice says in the middle of darkness- there will be a different day, where you don’t feel a mess, a failure, a vague fuddled weakness. Counting the good things in each day is the light to guide along the path.

my body is telling me to rest, all the warning signs are there, thumping wheezy chest, heavy head and grumpiness – these are the times I am desperate to do more – when will I learn to listen to my trusty vehicle, instead of pushing it to breakdown before recovery?

planet rendered to its marrow, assets stripped; inhabitants gleefully minced ; lungs compressed, water putrid.                       Investment mansions, inherited mansions, empty mansions, festooned  mansions, derelict mansions.                                                                 Luxury penthouse apartments built on sites historically reserved for the discounted, decanted and leprotic. Stink of polish, lilies, ordure and meat remain in great halls of tastefully accessorised cannibals; fuck plastic, eat oil.

small stones become cairns, dams, bridges, buildings; given time who knows what we can construct with present pebbles.

ten of Stones. Home . Building minus blocks . Anaglipta walls concave in . This is not my house

the alley became a pine forest, carpeted in burnt needles, rippled over the fractured concrete and sludge. Needles shored up against subsiding pebbledashed fence foundations, pooled in front of the wise woman’s cottage, a patchworkof of greens, moss cavey home for She Who lives at the edge; a  garage door in need of paint.

the invisible pugilist plants another right hook, uppercut, avoid the rabbit punch, least-expected sucker punch; no Tomato Can. Throw in the towel, dancer.

walk of word games; blue angular sunshine; white blossom rockets into the sky. Spend the day on the big push through undergrowth, searching for permaculture; community vision through a telescope to my one good eye.

we wish on the silver sliver of moon – I won’t tell you in case it doesn’t come true – I wish for good health and a return to my regular run – we run alongside the park railings –you point out lines of symmetry-trace them accurately in metal.

what is love for – what does it do? I realise I have no idea any more for myself. Few hours I felt real attraction.  Inhabited Home again briefly, as a person I recognised after a long absence, in a place I recognised as a life, after all those years.  From wandering alone to knowing the coordinates of the whole city, with company. Mutual; I hesitated, mute.

Found Poetry Project at Housmans Bookshop


Since January I have been visiting Housmans in Kings Cross to look for ‘found’ poems in the £1 Book Basement of this famous radical bookshop. Housmans have very kindly allowed me to rummage through the goodies in this section, which is currently being re-organised moved into a new space. You can see my progress on the In-Hous Tumblr I have set up to track some of the finds and investigate the process of ‘finding’ poems out of the old books and pamphlets.