Monday, July 18, 2011

poetry snapshots: pat jourdan

Strategy Sleeve-Notes

A whirr of plane

disturbs a summer night,

its pathway shadowing across

snazzy granite-topped kitchens,

streets bristling with white paint,

trim-paced black shiny railings.

Where is the poem about rendition?

Closed-door meetings,

masked movements above us,

hundreds quietly removed.

They fly above our expensive roofs

past the expanse of evening

that supports no regime

stalking the streets of London below.

We have the solace of pure cotton sheets

but even as we touch

the night is fucked.

This poem is taken from the new collection "Citizeness", Motet Press c/o

Pat Jourdan was born in the centre of Liverpool, where she studied painting at the College of Art. Exhibitions of paintings and readings of poetry have been held in London, Norwich, Dublin and Galway. Winner of several poetry and short story awards in Ireland and England. She keeps on painting while finishing the next novel, (after “Finding Out”) with two collections of short stories and two poetry collections already published.

Websites : and

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

the dead snail diaries

Here's an innovative launch idea - for The Dead Snail Diaries, the third poetry collection by Jamie McGarry, the founder of Valley Press.
On Thursday, 28th July, Jamie and some assistants will be performing the entire snail book in Scarborough Library, starting just after 6pm - tickets £3 on the door. Should be fun! Here's a poem from the book.

A Love Poem: From Snail to Slug

God made us brown so we’d be hard

to spot upon his fertile soil,

to hide from the birds...which he made as well...

to cower, dodge, to postpone hell.

But slug does not hide, or flinch back.

His coat? Uncompromising BLACK.

He turns defence into attack.

Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

God gave us shells to weigh us down.

Without them, we would HURTLE round,

so common sense suggests. Who’d beat us,

across a distance of ten metres?

But slug, dear slug, you have the grace

to not rub freedom in our face,

to slow your stride to match our pace.

Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

God made us quiet, thoughtful, wait.

He taught us manners, and restraint.

He taught us not to stay out late,

we’re model garden citizens.

But slug, he DEAFENS when he speaks!

He goes out seven nights a week!

Beer-swilling, hard-living, party beast.

Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

I’d sell my soul to be like him.

Vacate my shell, and dye my skin.

I’d go twice weekly to the gym,

if doing so would let me in

to doors in town that say ‘slugs only.’

But slug accepts no fake, no phony.

I’ll love, but I will never be

a slug – oh glorious slug.

Monday, July 04, 2011

poetry snapshots: emma lee

Still Life with a static Matrix Screensaver

Only the dust and crumb-filled keyboard

and photo of a blonde toddler hint

at human life. Neat matt-black ring-binders,

stuffed with minutes and agendas,

line-up vertically like school children

who know today is not a day to distract teacher.

On a blank screen, green machine code hangs

like crimped string, each alphanumeric

glows slightly out of focus as if stuck

in a quantum state – simultaneously yes and no,

waiting to drop into decision.

Published in "Not a Muse", Haven Books.

Emma Lee’s stories and poems are widely published. Her poetry collection, “Yellow Torchlight and the Blues” is available from Original Plus (UK) and novel “Bitter Fame” via She blogs at