tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-223188932024-03-13T12:34:59.191+00:00sophie robinsonSophie Robinson: poet, performer, critic.sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-10778176629209839072014-02-08T02:34:00.000+00:002014-02-08T12:15:30.652+00:00hurtface (after Ceravolo)<br />
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">i come home late like a man</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">like a stranger // zebra-headed & foreign & sit </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">down at the table to write poems cos i want to</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>put my key in the door & keen </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">& cry for my flat old places</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">fall asleep on the keyboard </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">& reblog the universe fuck </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">with my long sad dick every last utensil </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>put on whiskey & strip</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">in the garden, have an irksome & scritchy</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">fight with next door’s pets // eat & vom the flowers</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">flowering on my face the face of </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> my stupidness today</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">listen:</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">i sing when i work & i work all the time</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">with lovely wifi & a sharp clean sharpie</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>& my big girl knickers all in a twist</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">around my throat. i have drawn you</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">a face to wear & it is my face & it hurts</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">me. but whatever comes you’ve come </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> thru the door & in your own </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">face with your job & a bag of food –</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">o bum! o joy! o bloated world!</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>what dreams i am on the stairs of!</span></div>
sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-8915895012122586562014-02-06T13:07:00.000+00:002014-02-06T13:07:05.779+00:00Joseph Ceravolo<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RZRYCcWeGHo/UvOIuYBm5sI/AAAAAAAAAG8/DPstp6ZTmhM/s1600/ceravolo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RZRYCcWeGHo/UvOIuYBm5sI/AAAAAAAAAG8/DPstp6ZTmhM/s1600/ceravolo.jpg" height="320" width="307" /></a></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 9px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
<br /></div>
sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-64353461898291390992014-01-23T23:18:00.005+00:002014-01-23T23:19:24.514+00:00Grace Lake, from 'Silk & Wild Tulips'"<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">I read of women who have been found disregarding class, the heavy book</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Bearing the sombre tone, we anyway tremble whilst we are broken down.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">What is love? o what is love? the tip of a tongue, a silk white dove.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">that will not fight and is crushed by speculation, a sinful breast</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Cleansed, the surprising lightness in weight, the emphasis returned to</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Provocation, that is the dead weight, that we can</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">not speak until<br /> spoken to<br />And divided by omission are invited to attend to the traffic signals,<br /> obsessively<br />Indicating slips don't for one second imagine that i am in the least<br /> oppressed."<br /><br />Grace Lake, 'Silk & Wild Tulips' <i class="_4-k1 img sp_di1y20 sx_782faf" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/yo/r/pA_PWlS0h02.png); background-position: -90px -101px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i></span>sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-4687743168255022792012-12-05T18:19:00.000+00:002012-12-05T18:23:22.635+00:00kettle-mouth*<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">of
all the things i thought i’d miss <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">i
didn’t think i’d miss the snow<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">or
you bounding down the road<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">toward
me panting like a hungry dog<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">honey
snow – yellow – bound <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">for
melting & morning-piss cloudy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">mouth-gas
coffee tinted & desire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">off
the leash of normal loving<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">you’re
like a day off school, lung-acher<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">spine-icer,
night-muffler, & my life <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">is
softer for your bundling in the middle<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">of
the park in the middle of still living then<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
<br />
<br />
<br />
*A brand new poem written from my current residency at <a href="http://www.schoolhousegallery.co.uk/">The New School House Gallery</a> in York, responding to Helen Chadwick's <i><a href="http://fineart.ac.uk/works.php?imageid=bt0005">Piss Flowers</a></i><br />
<br />
<br />sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-101076453330755592012-08-23T22:44:00.002+00:002012-08-23T22:44:55.788+00:00I WANNA BE UR MAYAKOVSKY<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
If I don’t see you
tonight I might die</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
on Old Street, on New
Change</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
at the old dyke bar
in Centrepoint</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
or knee-deep in the
marshes</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
shivering in the
lidos the ponds</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
high on the heath or
banging my head</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
off the brutal
concrete at Southbank.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I wanna be your Mayakovsky</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Bolshevik beatbox coming
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
drumming at your
chest your </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
dick made of stars
pulls me in a</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
strapon galaxy we
rotate around</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
on the DL on the
underground</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
at the stadia the
palaces we see</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
across a city filled
with tourists</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
whose cash lights up
the night</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
in which we dream
with the window</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
wide & flies in
to suckle</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
at our blood sweet
& salt from</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
the ferric cup from
which</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
we sip & come day
we sit</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
to scratch & seep
from each bite</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
& like an open
window</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I’ve kept myself ajar
tonight</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
& like a wound
that keeps refilling</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I got buckets of love
for you so come over.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->
sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-88606296025801669272012-03-21T16:18:00.000+00:002012-03-21T16:18:26.695+00:00the way she bends<center><br />
the way she bends:<br />
like a sailor,<br />
as luck would have<br />
it. & i am<br />
lucky. <br />
<br />
on television<br />
the starship troops<br />
are marching up<br />
to beat us to<br />
a pulp, for being<br />
found wanting<br />
too much: a place<br />
to live, to not be<br />
sick in, a fair<br />
go at it all<br />
or at it all<br />
again.<br />
<br />
when i say us<br />
i mean them -- i<br />
am not there i<br />
am with you, &<br />
thinking we cling<br />
to love in lieu<br />
of anything just.<br />
<br />
love,<br />
one step down from<br />
god.<br />
<br />
dragged out beatings,<br />
wreck of love's<br />
temporary<br />
dwelling, calling:<br />
what threat is posed<br />
by those who stand<br />
for everyone<br />
by kneeling in<br />
copper nests<br />
to feel the cold<br />
smack of cash they<br />
don't have? we have<br />
cash, a little,<br />
& are not<br />
buying it.<br />
<br />
being ‘personal’,<br />
i’d say for sure<br />
your love for me<br />
is equal to<br />
half of my love<br />
for you [currency]<br />
<br />
makes sense – i mean: <br />
you wouldn't buy <br />
yourself a present.<br />
you wouldn't write<br />
yourself a poem.<br />
you can’t arrest<br />
yourself in the<br />
dead night or keep<br />
yourself a secret.<br />
<br />
& besides: if<br />
i loved you like<br />
i love my country –<br />
if I loved you like<br />
i love me you'd<br />
be sorry. if i<br />
loved you like i<br />
love me you'd be<br />
dead –<br />
& what good would<br />
you be to me<br />
then.</center>sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-91536175001465085552012-01-03T23:27:00.002+00:002012-01-03T23:27:55.514+00:00Sonnet 101why is everybody always writing<br />
about fucking like me the more writing<br />
to be done the less time to do the<br />
necessary fucking for poetry<br />
<br />
which is just as well when “at a bar” or<br />
side by side alone & almost having <br />
sex but in the end we change our minds ‘cos<br />
work is early/harsh work makes you nervous<br />
<br />
lines up the days & besides you don’t love<br />
each other so much today as yesterday<br />
& that dwindle’s dampened the itch to do<br />
anything but write some stupid sonnet<br />
<br />
frigid at the kitchen table no damp<br />
itch to speak of no great love to leap offsophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-66777840413042338972011-04-12T16:17:00.000+00:002011-04-12T16:17:20.934+00:00from SOUVENIRi’m sick of love & sad for what I’ve lost:<br />
that bullshit fix of nervy hands has gone &<br />
rude spring’s a bully, sun & wavy cold air<br />
& you are well, i having never been well i,<br />
i want to meet you anew and be loved &<br />
not thought of as silly – to you now i’m<br />
a clown or a dog waiting to be put down<br />
& so my breasts are hairy teats for cubs i love<br />
& are not born, & not for you, my new nude<br />
is atrocious & i wonder who you<br />
think of in the shower, what wets your meat<br />
if not my putrid body you once & gently<br />
fucked & which i, promising it to you, have lost<br />
the receipt for. go away for a long time<br />
<br />
<br />
& meet me at the airport, run me a bath<br />
as before with water from the kettle so<br />
kind & we’ll shiver in two inches forever,<br />
thigh on thigh never shrinking from the<br />
moment but cycling it around the time<br />
we do have, having been given each other, &<br />
never unadorned or waiting to get broke.<br />
i’d wait to die forever to have unlost<br />
that time & die to lose it all again,<br />
having taken too much, having got<br />
love unspent not wanted & staid unhappy<br />
inside the kettle waiting to be filled kindly,<br />
touched on the cunt or met at the airport with the<br />
ghosts of animal kingdoms still inside me.sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-37673274461831685132010-11-25T00:10:00.000+00:002010-11-25T00:10:19.953+00:00parlourI saw pictures of them dressing, all breathing, <br />
all bare in the fires, the banks, the parlours,<br />
the coding heat, the topic shakes, slacks, <br />
looming ill over necks & ties, in my coat <br />
made of feelings, in the semi-dark <br />
of your smile I run away from naming.<br />
<br />
The parlour has collapsed, is filling with snow, <br />
mother is by the bureau, my schoolgirl god <br />
in a coat made for crying, lips like thick <br />
flames & she places her strange head upon<br />
my chest & begs to bend to each amber flag,<br />
hands about her ears in a clement gesture. <br />
<br />
We fasten ourselves up like girls in parlours,<br />
Shun sofa secrets, deaf words, these histories: <br />
Domestic relics, my baby gods, now dead—<br />
the sensation of it is gelatinous, <br />
piles of cold carpet everywhere underfoot, <br />
like snow – the room is filling with snow—<br />
<br />
mother is by the door, & it is hard <br />
to see her through the smoke, a sweet-smelling <br />
smog pooled around us & we are melting, <br />
we’re like honey – this is for you – I’m young & <br />
I know nothing – I occupy all of your time. <br />
I like having art poured into me wide-eyed. <br />
<br />
Mother’s by the mantle, it’s too dark to see, <br />
I’m freshened by hot bile, this nuance <br />
of your love’s long guts glued onto me. <br />
I like having money poured into me <br />
with eyes closed or rolled inwards<br />
in prayer, & that way I’m your trinketry.<br />
<br />
Soft fists tumble onto me like snowflakes: <br />
this is the louse of love, this is its bite. <br />
I am now covered in a brotherly blue, <br />
the ultramarine of fresh men – sticky, thick. <br />
Snow piles in each tidy corner. Elsewhere <br />
there are fires. Mother has left the room. <br />
<br />
The police are on their way. It is too bright <br />
to see. A series of arms appear <br />
to wrap around each other in blind <br />
solidarity. This is for anyone. <br />
A Molotov cocktail sings. This is not love. <br />
This is for no thing—sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-84600032585351436762010-08-09T23:13:00.001+00:002010-08-09T23:13:54.106+00:00Animal HospitalAnimal Hospital<br />
<br />
Some times like sin sugar that broke that crashes<br />
Bruise of rib like rip off cloth and let salt<br />
Winds scathe in eye in face I am sandy, <br />
Long for ocean grind – but shy, but shy – “I<br />
Don’t owe you any money don’t have to <br />
show you all my things” – just live, okay? ‘Cause<br />
all our money is etch-a-sketch, and I<br />
Think too often about the forward times<br />
When our things are out and old on the street,<br />
When we are out of time, stink, are the laughed<br />
At lucky ones or, worse, screaming in two<br />
Different hospitals, species strangers,<br />
Unknown/unknowing. <br />
<br />
This is the ailing<br />
Of peace, the rearrangement of passion.<br />
We do not kiss but strum ourselves apart.<br />
The sun has its sins, the heart its heavy.<br />
This poem should be longer, and more careful.<br />
Give me time.sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-27888579062708100222010-07-26T18:26:00.000+00:002010-07-26T18:26:30.626+00:00meditations on an empty room<object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/gPcT8j53m30&hl=en_US&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/gPcT8j53m30&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br />
<br />
from <a href="http://www.lesfigues.com/lfp/185/a">a</a>sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-67845860613138419502010-01-12T10:02:00.002+00:002010-01-12T10:02:00.348+00:00new poemToward her, a cantata of grace (part one: suture) <br />
For G.<br />
<br />
If I were you and you were me I would<br />
Turn and turn again, move my arms from left<br />
To right, I would large I would small I would<br />
Seek out all the danger. If I were me <br />
And you were a tall blue thing a light coming<br />
Out from the sides of all the sad then yes<br />
I would stroke your ruffled feathers sleepy<br />
And unknowing, blind in the bed which knows<br />
Us, fucking or not – being us – your or<br />
Me – is like getting away with it, laughing <br />
then being slapped away like being told <br />
we are too good – if I were you I would<br />
disappear, would fright myself away – if<br />
I were me I would beat myself across<br />
Myself would find myself out and just say,<br />
When you were a child you could not stay inside<br />
And now you still must be caught and brought in<br />
Clopping, cold and snotty from the wanting.<br />
Play your games on a Wednesday scuff your dust<br />
Do anything you would do if you were <br />
you and I were me I would eat the whites <br />
of your eggs your eyes and whisk the yolks out<br />
to form themselves anew. Terror masses<br />
around us – the whine of legitimate <br />
lovemaking. I have accomplished only <br />
you, am small and unable to shock. We<br />
are here, chewing the courser fat to forget<br />
the living freaks falling down like zips like<br />
propositions – FRANCE I LOVE YOU in food,<br />
sour and sighed, and if I were you I would<br />
move to a society dead of western<br />
grace – and yes we shall move with our<br />
motivations for moving writ large across<br />
the screen as in a silent movie. I <br />
Scratch myself deep inside the thicket of <br />
your charm and anything alright still<br />
Remains tough scuffing your oxfords<br />
Beyond frigidity the meaning of which<br />
Is caught in my wing and we acre carrying <br />
The sky as emptiness, sustained beneath,<br />
Sour and communicative…nobody’s<br />
Intimate taste is perverse, and a lusty<br />
Burning has set in between my scars, a<br />
Crippling freedom braided into us, skirting<br />
Savagely the legitimating reports<br />
Of our deaths. If I were me I would<br />
Be a bloated male goddess, as emotional<br />
As I am British. If I were you I would go soft<br />
Under the night’s shadow, I would kill the <br />
Prose, I would kill the film, I would sick up<br />
All the silence. If you were me I would<br />
Smell you automatically for <br />
What you are, manhandled automatically <br />
in the summer of individual problems, unable <br />
To talk anything out in a meaningful<br />
Or sustained way we die faster than all<br />
The other discourses. I have been growing<br />
This hair since I was eleven and I<br />
Quite like it, as animals like their<br />
Cellars. If I were you I would make<br />
Myself my pastime, young and difficult <br />
As I am. Constellations of honour<br />
Arrange themselves above us as we eat<br />
At the heels of poetry & I splay <br />
myself dizzy with the effort of<br />
Living like a sexy patriot spasming <br />
down my spine. This light has never been in<br />
my control, my living pose unearthed<br />
and taking form in slow in fast inside<br />
the pulse of your neck in repose, <br />
rigid with freedom. If I were you<br />
I’m not sure I’d stay, but that does not <br />
Make your lascivious goodbye any more<br />
Charming.sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-9342268822151331372010-01-11T12:44:00.001+00:002010-01-11T12:47:27.399+00:00The Other Room, Manchester, December 2009I read at<a href="http://otherroom.org">The Other Room</a> in Manchester last month, with Nick Thurston. Here be documentx. Great and provocative event, worth the train zoom up.<br />
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<a href="http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=101192680" style="font: Verdana">Sophie Robinson</a><br />
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<a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=497467235" style="font: Verdana">Other</a> | <a href="http://vids.myspace.com " style="font: Verdana">MySpace Video</a></font><br />
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<a href="http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=101184775" style="font: Verdana">Sophie Robinson interview</a><br />
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<a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=497467235" style="font: Verdana">Other</a> | <a href="http://vids.myspace.com " style="font: Verdana">MySpace Video</a></font>sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-14870492562983948662010-01-10T15:53:00.003+00:002010-01-11T02:01:46.509+00:00Things To Love, 11. Amy King is the bomb, and her new collection <i>Slaves Do These Things</i> looks great, though I have yet to get my sticky fingers on it. I have been mostly addicted to <a href="http://www.ashokkarra.com/2010/01/amy-king-the-always-song/">'The Always Song'</a>, featured on Rethink this week. <br />
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2. <a href= "http://www.pamelaklaffke.com">Pamela Klaffke's </a>photography, esp the <a href= "http://www.pamelaklaffke.com/bestiaparvulus.html">bestia parvulus</a> and <a href= "http://www.pamelaklaffke.com/ladiesofthebalaclava.html">ladies of the balaclava</a> series. Analogue joy. <br />
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nByNgtrtw9s/S0n4UjLS-nI/AAAAAAAAACk/gpt0ggBopxU/s1600-h/careergirl2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nByNgtrtw9s/S0n4UjLS-nI/AAAAAAAAACk/gpt0ggBopxU/s320/careergirl2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425140258068167282" /></a><br />
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3. <a href="http://www.myspace.com/gagglespace">Gaggle.</a> 22-piece all woman alt choir. I can only listen to them for about 4 minutes without wanting rip my own hair out, but in limited doses I think they're fucking brilliant. Maybe it's my predictable, optimistic new years nicotine starvation but <a href ="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQw1gJ5DJds">I LIKE CIGARETTES</a> is my favourite (performed at Barden's Boudoir, where we went last night and had a grand ol' time...more on that....)<br />
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4. <a href="http://tavi-thenewgirlintown.blogspot.com/">Tavi,</a> my 13-yr-old fashion guru. Georgie thinks it's creepy. Soz.<br />
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5. Last week G and I managed to just catch Sophie Calle's <i>Take Care of Yourself (Prenez soin de vous)</i> at the Whitechapel Gallery, before the exhibition ended. I <3 Sophie Calle more than most things, but haven't seen much of her work exhibited before. The concept behind the exhibition was, typically for Calle, a matter of the heart - a lover broke up with her by email, signing off with the phrase 'take care of yourself'. Calle then gave the letter to a load of women, chosen on the basis of their skill/profession, and asked them to 'translate' the piece. The exhibition documents these translations from psychologists, police, actors, musicians, dancers, philosophers, writers, and a parrot - amongst many others - in a multimedia frenzy. The exhibition is well curated but was obv crowded on the last weekend of its run, and besides there's just too much text to read in one go. It reminded me of Roni Horn's <i>Another Water</i> in that respect, and the volume of responses, text, sounds, images and respondents - all repeating, in various way - the same page of text - all serve to highlight the gravity of damage done. I love the way that Calle externalises the personal in this way, making art of our need to repeat a story in order to grieve. And it's totes more productive than boring your friends with your post-breakup, wine-fuelled melancholy night after night. I bet that email guy is really kicking himself, but it was a bit of a foolish move, let's face it. <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2007/jun/16/artnews.art">Guardian Interview</a> / <a href= http://www.actes-sud.fr/pg/calle/extraits.php>extracts from book</a>. <br />
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6. A bit late, but the <a href="http://www.dusie.org/dhem09.html">Delirious Advent Kalender</a>, co-ordiated by wonderous Dusie Press (aka Susana Gardner) has been such a yummy daily treat for me the last month. 25+ (extra treats for xmas day) audio poems - all up now, obv - gorge yourself. Like finding your advent calender, slipped down the back of the radiator on Dec 2nd, in early Jan. Except nothing's been compromised by improper storage. End of dubious metaphor. Faves include Gardner herself, Emily Critchley, Marianne Morris & Cathy Wagner.<br />
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7. Last night - Mofofest = whisky/bands/djs at Barden's Boudoir in Stokey. We saw a lot, but my faves were ultra styled electro <a href="http://www.myspace.com/bunnycome">Bunny Come</a> - who must be complimented for their awesome dance moves and totally great stage presence despite having an audience of, like, 12 - and <a href="http://www.myspace.com/chapter24">Chapter 24</a>, who might well fill the small hole in my heart made by The Long Blondes breaking up. Happy dancing in sparkly pants with edge of unhinged lunacy. Just my cuppa.sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-32710329094472649002009-12-04T12:50:00.000+00:002009-12-04T12:50:00.096+00:00glove barkA regime devoted to time<br />embodied in the colour of a wall or running<br />repeatedly into yourself<br />spattering thighs; knee-deep in lard<br />breath-by-breath attack<br />starving for a digital release I<br />am accurate – moot musculature –<br />diligently flowing<br />outward away from posterity whipped <br />into relief the texture of<br />beaten leather;<br />suction cups, monster artists stuck to myriad<br />bathroom floors as a naïve <br />defence against anxiety –<br />Billie Holliday vox<br />tremors soaked in deep red quiet amid <br />the itchy knife<br />of emotional compromise – <br />inventories of abstracted<br />feeling burned into grids as markers of<br />claustrophobic unlovability, which <br />worn as a crown demands<br />the question<br />why am I here – <br />what did my tidy heart want<br />to witness?sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-43616453221694201852009-09-28T12:49:00.000+00:002009-09-28T12:49:00.520+00:00hunch & shuffleThe modesty of caramel – burned, earthy<br />& smashed against my wanton mouth in stickled<br />smudges – make a meal of my gushing brains, take<br />my faith as fallen & my delicate curls<br />unshaven. Pimp your pickles with my bluish <br />pelvis. I crook myself upon you, dribbling<br />with an anorexic urgency, and I don’t see<br />your workload lightening beneath the crusted<br />halo of your charm, cowboy, so knuckle down.sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-83304727731643802182009-09-25T12:49:00.000+00:002009-09-25T12:49:00.635+00:00flesh leggingsA persuasive blackness of spirit touches <br />you, & I do not have the answer you <br />Feel you deserve. Your olive-oil stomach<br />Is calling out for the thrill of lips, &<br />Your hurt curls are enshrined in cotton.<br />Small and puffy by the door, a backless<br />Vibration falls amongst us, a low-flowered<br />Anger. You hold out your palms of feel the<br />Chesty pulses, and soon it creeps in you,<br />Harping over and over the hands and<br />Cities. The loving diagnosis of<br />Your hip shot from grace – a stapler greeted<br />By skin, broke, fell to earth like a gazelle.sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-50600788177452466342009-09-17T14:39:00.001+00:002009-09-17T14:39:00.707+00:00Upcoming Readings<strong>DESPERATE FOR LOVE]<br />22nd September 2009<br />Komedia Studio Bar, Gardner Street, Brighton <br />8-11pm / £3.50 </strong><br /><br /><strong>Keston Sutherland </strong>is a Brighton based poet. He teaches at the university and through his editing of the poetics journal Quid, co-editing (with Andrea Brady) of Barque Press, and most notably through his own poetry, has already made a huge and pemanent contribution to poetry culture in Britain. His most recent collections are: Hot White Andy, Neocosis and Neutrality. He's read all over the world and his poems have been translated into several languages. Keston's a brilliantly engaging reader. His poems are spiked and sticky, spattered with jump edits and blurt jargon, precise in their articulations of the millivolt twitching of difficulty, and funnier than you think or deserve.<br /><br /><strong>Sophie Robinson </strong>is a London poet who's work has appeared in various online magazines including Pilot, How2 and Dusie as well as Jeff Hilson's Reality Street Book Of Sonnets and Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century (Bloodaxe) Her most recent collection, 'a' (Les Figues Press) is a magnetically fascinating tender and beautiful book about loss. Everyone we've shown it to has been transfixed by it. I hope she brings some so you can all buy one.<br /><br /><strong>Neil Palmer</strong> is Brighton's foremost and only Hauntiquarian. A mage of divergence, his stuff is: punk rock, words, tailoring, speculative enquiry. All conducted at the sub-rumour valency. Provisional cassettes, secret discographies, unmaintained websites, and a recent chapbook Hillwaking all testify to his fierce, baffling, kind, impatient intelligence.<br /><br />PLUS: Desperate For Love regulars reading, Alan introducing people and rambling slightly, Steph from Born Bad playing beautiful and apposite records, and a free chapbook for the first 50 of you through the door. Fraser behind the bar, Lisa on the door, it's a family affair. If you come, you're family. You are so coming.<br /><br /><br /><strong>14 HOUR : VOICE RECOGNITION SPECIAL<br />24th September 2009<br />Whitechapel Gallery, Whitechapel High Street, London E1 <br />7.30pm / FREE ENTRY </strong><br /><br /><br />To mark the release of Bloodaxe's anthology Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century, 14 Hour presents 5 of its poets.<br /><br />AMY BLAKEMORE + HEATHER PHILLIPSON + ADAM O'RIORDAN + SOPHIE ROBINSON + AHREN WARNER<br /><br />"Who are the best young poets today? Which new poets are most likely to become the defining voices of their generation? Two young editors, JAMES BYRNE and CLARE POLLARD, set out to answer these questions in Voice Recognition, a vibrant anthology introducing 21 of the most exciting young poets of the 21st century.<br /><br />"Voice Recognition showcases the work of a talented new wave of poets from Britain and Ireland who are just now starting to make their mark. None has yet published a first book of poems. All are likely to produce distinctively different debut collections in the next few years.<br /><br />"Influenced by poetries from across the world, and unafraid to take risks, all these poets are committed to extending and remaking the traditions of poetry in a fast-changing new millennium. Their poems show a lively range of styles and subjects - sometimes sexy, sometimes dark, but consistently brimming with vitality. The future of poetry begins here. <br /><br />"Voice Recognition includes: Jay Bernard, Emily Berry, Amy Blakemore, Siddhartha Bose, Ailbhe Darcy, Joe Dunthorne, Miriam Gamble, Sarah Jackson, Annie Katchinska, Mark Leech, Toby Martinez de las Rivas, Jonathan Morley, Adam O'Riordan, Colm O'Shea, Sandeep Parmar, Heather Phillipson, Kate Potts, Sophie Robinson, Jack Underwood Ahren Warner, and James Womack." - official blurb.<br /><br />● <strong>AMY BLAKEMORE </strong>was a Foyle Young Poet of the Year in both 2007 and 2008, and has since been highlighted by the Times as one of the top ten rising stars of British poetry. Her work has been featured in various places, including Iota, Brittle Star, Rising and Pomegranate. <br /><br />● <strong>HEATHER PHILLIPSON </strong>has received commissions and awards for her writing, including the Michael Donaghy Poetry Prize in 2007, an Eric Gregory Award in 2008, and a Faber New Poets Award in 2009. Her pamphlet will be published by Faber and Faber in October 2009. She is also an artist and exhibits nationally and internationally, with recent shows in London, Paris and New York. She has a PhD in Fine Art practice and received the Sir Leslie Joseph Young Artist Award 2009.<br /><br />● <strong>ADAM O'RIORDAN </strong>was born in Manchester and educated at the universities of Oxford and London. From 2008 to 2009 he was Poet-in-Residence at The Wordsworth Trust, the Centre for British Romanticism. His first collection will be published by Chatto and Windus in 2010.<br /><br />● <strong>SOPHIE ROBINSON </strong>was born in 1985, and lives and works in London. She has an MA in Poetic Practice from Royal Holloway, and is currently working on a practice-based PhD at Royal Holloway. Her first chapbook, Killin'Kittenish!, was published by yt communications in 2006. Since 2005 she has performed at numerous events in the UK and the US. Her critical and creative work has been featured in Dusie, How2 and Pilot. <br /><br />● <strong>AHREN WARNER </strong>has published his poems in magazines including Poetry Review, Magma and The Wolf. He has work forthcoming in several anthologies, including Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century (Bloodaxe) and Identity Parade: An Anthology of New British and Irish Poets (Bloodaxe). He also has a pamphlet forthcoming from Donut Press. He maintains a keen interest in post-Heideggarian ontology and aesthetics, and kittens.<br /><br /><br /><strong>OPENNED: LAJEE FUNDRAISER</strong><br />6th October 2009<br />The Foundry, Great Eastern Street, London EC2A<br />7.30pm / FREE ENTRY<br /><br />The next Openned night, the Land for Lajee Fundraiser, takes place on Tuesday 6th October. <br /><br />Confirmed readers so far are: Sean Bonney, Sophie Robinson, Harry Gilonis, Josh Stanley, Tim Atkins, Nat Raha, Posie Rider, Peter Philpott, Alan Hay, Michael Zand, Amy De’Ath, Elizabeth-Jane Burnett, Frances Kruk, Raz, Andrea Brady, Justin Katko. <br /><br />Publishers donating to the book table include: Barque Press, Reality Street, Bad Press, West End Lane Books, Critical Documents, Grasp Press, Hot Gun!, Veer. <br /><br />Come along and buy amazing books to support the Lajee Project. Visit <a href="http://www.openned.com ">Openned</a> for more details about the night and the project.sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-41204035227387338922009-09-16T14:33:00.002+00:002009-09-16T14:38:02.999+00:00Voice Recognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nByNgtrtw9s/SrD4PFT2n5I/AAAAAAAAACc/WuVWz7uUrp0/s1600-h/VRpage"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nByNgtrtw9s/SrD4PFT2n5I/AAAAAAAAACc/WuVWz7uUrp0/s320/VRpage" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382074492714917778" /></a><br />Who are the best young poets today? Which new poets are most likely to become the defining voices of their generation? Two young editors, James Byrne and Clare Pollard, set out to answer these questions in Voice Recognition, a vibrant anthology introducing 21 of the most exciting young poets of the 21st century.<br /><br />Voice Recognition showcases the work of a talented new wave of poets from Britain and Ireland who are just now starting to make their mark. None has yet published a first book of poems. All are likely to produce distinctively different debut collections in the next few years.<br /><br />Influenced by poetries from across the world, and unafraid to take risks, all these poets are committed to extending and remaking the traditions of poetry in a fast-changing new millennium. Their poems show a lively range of styles and subjects – sometimes sexy, sometimes dark, but consistently brimming with vitality. The future of poetry begins here.<br /><br />Jay Bernard • Emily Berry • Amy Blakemore • Siddhartha Bose • Ailbhe Darcy • Joe Dunthorne • Miriam Gamble • Sarah Jackson • Annie Katchinska • Mark Leech • Toby Martinez de las Rivas • Jonathan Morley • Adam O’Riordan • Colm O’Shea • Sandeep Parmar • Heather Phillipson • Kate Potts • <strong>Sophie Robinson </strong>• Jack Underwood • Ahren Warner • James Womack<br /><br /><a href="http://www.bloodaxebooks.com/titlepage.asp?isbn=1852248386">Voice Recognition @ Bloodaxe</a><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/1852248386/wwwbloodaxdem-21">Buy the book on Amazon.co.uk</a>sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-48399131417699111402009-09-04T12:48:00.001+00:002009-09-04T12:48:00.357+00:00hunky doryStruck acute, I dine alone<br />& sad; like a burned<br />out carcass of a car in<br />a ghetto in Paris I<br /><br />am too tired to riot.<br />You cling translucent<br />To my rustic children, a<br />Petrol-slick & I long to<br /><br />Say hello. Tears in my soup,<br />eyes in my mouth. How<br />can we have an exchange when<br />you’re being so quiet. Hello.sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-37316051152140506292009-08-04T12:52:00.000+00:002009-08-04T12:54:06.390+00:00preshusAbove all things I must remember to ART to wrap<br />My children up in blankets like pigs to the slaughter &<br />To keep my them my sausages in the fridge that’s where I <br />Like them best.<br /><br />What is love but last year’s hate. What is hate but last<br />Year’s death or travelcard or cardigan or anything<br />Else you have to lose to drop off<br />The edge. Follow the river<br />Around drink whiskey <br />For the corpses. <br /><br />At the sink I have been silly with myself in the past I<br />Will admit I have been careless - <br /><br />Blackouts. <br /><br />Tease me feed me neatly to your dogs. Do not let them<br />Gobble. Do not scratch yourself in public YOU<br />Are as noisy & ineffectual as a travel hairdryer,<br />ma noisette je te promets, do not sadden swallow <br />til you vomit or bust wide open but never never not<br />To ART or drink whiskey or play amongst the<br />Thighs of your favourite your only horse, stabled, <br />Skin-drunk and this is the year that matters or <br />You will rot.sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-62825535635206004762009-03-17T08:10:00.001+00:002009-03-17T08:11:26.632+00:00Pulchritudinousthe proud line of your tailoring moves<br />me. Tuck the sag of years into line; crop<br />each spasmic landmine to its limit <span style="font-style:italic;">you<br />were my favourite unplanned closure, you<br />were my best sign of misdirection </span>beset<br />with grime you groove foggily to the lapsing<br />beat-heart of my weakest pet, my sickly <br />sparrow wormless and breaking in a bath<br />of porridge – goopy flapping of the end<br />of days – <br /><br /> <span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">¡compadre!</span></span><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">do not leave </span>I have sweeter <br /> meats to feed you yet –<br /><br />Our lament: left alone, like so much lunch,<br />overcharred, undersundered – nude hams,<br />merely basking in the burn of your urbanity.sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-70190679384202641222008-11-06T18:25:00.008+00:002008-11-07T13:16:13.491+00:00captured on film<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/rhVyk02_1F0&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/rhVyk02_1F0&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />video courtesy of Daniel Ereditario & <a href="http://www.orgs.muohio.edu/meshworks/">meshworks</a><br /><br />Alternative Cabaret @ The Other Place<br />SoundEye Festival, Cork<br />4th July 2008sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-550564078598045962008-11-04T10:23:00.001+00:002008-11-04T17:44:30.112+00:00THE TRANSGALACTIC INTERWOMAN POETIC EXPRESSWAY<div>THE TRANSGALACTIC INTERWOMAN POETIC EXPRESSWAY<br />brought to you by <a href="http://www.myspace.com/langoustine">La Langoustine Est Morte</a><br />ONE TIME ONLY!!!!<br /></div> <div>Nov 8th 2008 7:30<br />Poetry Cafe<br />22 Betterton Street<br />Covent Garden tube<br /><br />£5/ 4 concessions<br /><br />HOSTS: Anthony Joseph and Sascha Aurora Akhtar<br /><br />Representation from all distant and not-so-distant planets<br /><br /></div> <div><strong>Jamika Ajalon</strong> (U.S.A by way of London by way of France)<br /><strong>Olumide Poopola</strong> (Nigeria/Germany)<br /><strong>Valeria Melchioretto</strong> (Switzerland)<br /><strong>Shanta Acharya</strong> (India)<br /><strong>Frances Kruk</strong> (Canada)<br /><strong>Ziba Kirbassi</strong> (Persia)<br /><strong>Sophie Robinson</strong> (the most exotic of them all Old Blighty!)</div> <div> </div> <div><strong>Frances Kruk</strong> lives in London in the presence of cats, moss, glue, scissors, oil pastels, and dark chocolate, all of which make for an unspeakable atrocity. She does not write real poetry.<br /></div> <div>The Nigerian German writer and performer <strong>Olumide Popoola</strong> has performed her poetry internationally, collaborating with many different artists and musicians. Currently studying for a MA in (creative) writing she is exploring all sorts of genres and styles, deepening her practice of writing for performance in particular.She won the May Ayim Award for Poetry in Germany 2004 and has seen her work published in anthologies, journals and newspapers as well as featured on radio and documentaries.<br /></div> <div><strong></strong> </div> <div><strong>Valeria Melchioretto</strong> is a London based artist and award-winning writer.<br />Her poems have appeared in many prestigious magazines and anthologies. The End of Limbo, is her first full collection for which she received a bursary from the Arts Council<br />and it was published by Salt in 2007. In 2008 became a Hawthonden Fellow.<br /></div> <div> </div> <div><strong>Ziba Kirbassi</strong> is a rara avis. Seen only sometimes for short periods of time if you are lucky.<br />Her work is visceral, hallucinatory at times and from the passions and conflicts of being<br />born into a country where violence has caused her untellable strife. Her work will be read in Persian and translated by Stepehen Watts.<br /></div> <div> </div> <div><strong>Shanta Acharya</strong> was born and educated in Orissa, India. In 1979 she won a scholarship<br />to Oxford, and completed her doctoral thesis in 1983. Between 1983-85 she was a Visiting Scholar, as well as a Teaching-cum-Research Assistant at Harvard University. In 1985,<br />she moved to London where she has lived and worked since. She is currently Executive Director, Initiative on Foundation and Endowment Asset Management at London Business School. Her doctoral study, The Influence of Indian Thought on Ralph Waldo Emerson, was published by The Edwin Mellen Press, USA, in 2001. Her four books of poetry are Shringara (Shoestring Press, UK; 2006), Looking In, Looking Out (Headland Publications, UK; 2005), Numbering Our Days' Illusions (Rockingham Press, UK; 1995) and Not This, Not That (Rupa & Co, India; 1994). For more information, visit her website: <a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://www.shantaacharya.com/">www.shantaacharya.com</a><br /></div> <div> </div> <div> <div><strong>Olumide Popoola</strong> </div> <div> The Nigerian German writer and performer Olumide Popoola has performed her poetry internationally, collaborating with many different artists and musicians. Currently studying for a MA in (creative) writing she is exploring all sorts of genres and styles, deepening her practice of writing for performance in particular.<br />She won the May Ayim Award for Poetry in Germany 2004 and has seen her work published in anthologies, journals and newspapers as well as featured on radio and documentaries.</div></div> <div><strong></strong> </div> <div><strong>Sophie Robinson</strong> was born in 1985, and lives and works in London. She has an MA in Poetic Practice from Royal Holloway, and is currently working on a practice-based PhD at Royal Holloway. Her first chapbook, Killin'Kittenish!, was published by yt communications in 2006.<br />Since 2005 she has performed at numerous events in the UK and the US. Her critical and creative work has been featured in Dusie, How2 and Pilot, and her chapbook<span style="font-style: italic;"> a</span> is forthcoming from Les Figues press in Los Angeles in April 2009. </div><br /><strong>Jamika Ajalon</strong>, charismatic American poetess, film director and long time Zenzile collaborator based in London, released her debut solo album the 5th march 2007. «Helium Balloon Illusions» showcases a range of influences, mixing hip hop and electro, dub and spoken word all built on a foundation of amazing grooves and incisive lyrics.Anyone who has followed her work with Zenzile since the late nineties, will already be familiar with her phenomenal energy and sensual delivery, which has seen her dubbed "the female Tricky" and the "underground Grace Jones" by some reviewers. Born in St Louis Missouri, Jamika has lived in London for ten years, after studying in Chicago and spending time in New York.She claims: «I have always considered myself a poet at root and by route, using different media to express the poetic: including spoken word, music, visual arts and the fusion and blending of these different media. I like to blur boundaries of genre and form and draw from all my influences in creating something that is truly an expression of my unique vision." ». She now lives in France.sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22318893.post-20000102290885442172008-11-03T19:22:00.001+00:002008-11-06T14:57:13.696+00:00Things Lost & Found in Edinburgh 1Along with Tom Pinhorn, I directed the lovely & late Aerin Davidson's <span style="font-style: italic;">Darning Jilly </span>at the Edinburgh fringe this year. The whole experience was amazing and insane and sort of great but awful at the same time. I have never had less sleep, seen such a quantity of amazing and truly terrible things or experienced such a degree of general daily debauchery in my entire 23 years of life. A lot of what went on in Edinburgh will stay in Edinburgh, but these are some gems I brought home with me:<br /><br /><br />1. <a href="http://www.trwarszawa.pl/en/home/616/index.html">TR Warszawa</a>'s production of 4.48 Psychosis<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nByNgtrtw9s/SQ9G6pUdOwI/AAAAAAAAABQ/mM8gARXm59o/s1600-h/4.48psychosis7eif2008.preview.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 209px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nByNgtrtw9s/SQ9G6pUdOwI/AAAAAAAAABQ/mM8gARXm59o/s320/4.48psychosis7eif2008.preview.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264504462757411586" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Shown for 2 nights only as part of the Edinburgh International Festival, this Polish translation of Kane was totally absorbing and horrendously moving. As far as I could tell, the script had been shuffled around and edited to form more of a narrative arc, held together by Madalena Cielecka as the protagonist desceding into a personal hell. There was a large supporting cast, including a small child and a skeletal old woman, who shared out the rest of the script, or the bits that appear to be dialogue. The fact that this was such a high budget and technically slick production, as well as the quality of the acting and the innovative direction, made the piece all the more immersive. Basically the whole audience are dragged into hell with this woman, and the effects were so real that were this play staged in a more interactivity-friendly environment (as many lower-budget fringe productions were) then I feel like someone would have intervened. As it was, we all (over 200 of us on the night I went) just sat there, paralysed, as Cielecka, wrists slashed, threw herself against a wall over and over again, covering the stage in blood.<br /><br />"It is myself I have never met, whose face is pasted on the underside of my mind<br /><br />please open the curtains"<br /><br />These last lines were followed by silence, then the last number of the play, which seemed to count down in a series from 100 to mark changes in scene, echoes repeatedly through the theatre, a kind of call to action. "2" over and over again, & the lights went down on the stage and up on the audience, as all you could hear are uncomfortable coughs and the occasional sob. After a few minutes of absorbing the shock, the paralysis was broken by a solitary clap. Somehow everything on the stage had vanished without us seeing. There was a halfhearted applause and we all filed out into the night, a bit broken.<br /><br />I felt - unfashionably - involved, invested and fucking heartbroken by the whole thing. At the same time it struck me that something was maybe being said about the futility of art, like there was this beautiful thing happening which was actually just horrible torture and death, and the fact that we were all sitting there with no idea what to do or how to react, that all we could do was absorb and walk away, that you probably come to the play with all this knowledge of Kane's life and suicide shortly after she wrote the play, that you still go and see it & that seems voyeuristic, & then you struggle to divide the two because that's also unfashionable...it seemed to all say a lot about Kane's work, both playing with the idea of theatre & then being an intensely subjective and involving story, & also the relationship between work & writer. Complicated, beautifully wrought, irreconcilable.<br /><br />Part 2 shortly.<br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magdalena_Cielecka" title="Magdalena Cielecka"></a>sophie robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16996691550514901536noreply@blogger.com0