The hoof-beaten brain
a recipe of tears and sweat
and this utterly speed of rhythm
kneads her thighs to the saddle
stirs her into the summer blues
away and away with.
She knows his sandshape grip
his brutal bit that pulls a grin,
that gags a want to crawl
towards the ever there darkscape,
A match striking the moors
she sparks her blood to sand
that moulds its gritty mirage
through vein and artery
leaving scorched earth
and a blister of sun..
Not for nothing do the scorned
fall on their own sword
or, in this case, take the sharp and tapering
end of a horn to heart.
Love’s triangle, pin-prick sharp, now clouds
and beside its token gesture, martyrdom beckons.
All was equal, equilateral but not so now.
He no longer fights his corner.
He bares the body, bares the head,
becomes the colour of quicksilver
in the quicksand of a cell
but must be seen to suffer
so has the wall’s one scar open;
has it neat and shapely;
has it as a portal to his pain,
its point arrowing to his showy surrender.
Mark Sheeky’s Oil Painting: The Death Of Man (available for purchase)
A fairy-feller hides in emerald shades
While feathered faces dance the perfect dance
Evading hope in pale, despondent glades
Where shadows stumble on a wild mischance:
And all of this beyond the edge of sleep
Where dreamers kill the things they care to keep.
A wedge of futuristic steel observes
And coolly calibrates this elfin scene
Kissed by a savage sun along its curve,
No form more dread than this has ever been:
It brings the future and the end of days
To wayward dreams and errant human ways.
Who knows if at some cold and vast remove
The wedge will raise again these faerie lands
Within its clouded circuits? Dreaming groves
Of rusting trees where still the gnomon stands:
Where robot birds hail corrugated skies
And elves of chrome kiss iron butterflies.
Mark Sheeky’s Oil Painting: The Paranoid Schizophrenia Of Richard Dadd (available for purchase)
Your book Is Monogamy Dead? has made it onto the long list for the Polari First Book Prize, which recognises the best LGBTQ débuts published this year. Congratulations! Can you tell us about it? Have you a short extract to share with us? Where can we get a copy?
Thanks. It’s based on my comedy show of the same name which I took to Edinburgh a few years ago. However, I realised that I had lifted the lid on a very complex topic indeed. There was way more to say than I had the chance to in a fifty-minute stage show. So I began writing more serious articles exploring the real science behind why humans struggle with long term fidelity, then a TEDx talk and a Radio 4 Four Thought piece. Eventually, I managed to get a literary agent and a publisher. Although the book includes interviews with friends of all genders and sexual orientations, it is written very much from the perspective of a gay woman. I wouldn’t define it solely as an LGBTQ book, but that’s certainly a core part of my audience. I was delighted to feature on the Polari list as it also included Sally Rooney and a few other authors I really like. The book is available in all good bookshops (including fabulous indies Gays The Word, Housmans, Bookseller Crow, News From Nowhere, Lighthouse and Five Leaves) or can be ordered via Waterstones, Amazon et al. There’s an extract from the opening chapters available at Boundless.
You have written for many websites and newspapers including The Independent, The Guardian, New Statesman, The Sunday Times, Diva and more. What is your background in literature? Where/when did it all start?
It started when I moved to London in the mid-1990s straight after my degree. I threw myself into the music scene, joined bands and started reviewing gigs for some local London newspapers. Time Out’s then music editor Laura Lee Davies gave me a chance to start working for the magazine after I wrote a letter to her. That was back in the days when we were just before the Internet becoming a thing and Time Out was an essential part of getting around London.
You are also a stand up comedian, having appeared on multiple Radio 4 shows and at major festivals. What is your secret to a good comedy performance? What is it, do you think, that makes people laugh? The truth?
Yes I think there’s often an element of a ‘recognition factor’ and a sense of ‘oh yes, I do that!’, but it’s also very subjective. One audience might love you, and another hate you.
What is it like to perform at the Edinburgh Fringe?
Edinburgh Fringe is hard, hard work. Most comedians who go up are producing and marketing their own shows as well as performing every day. I’ve had some really fun experiences in years gone by. But sadly the Fringe has now become too corporate and the indie grassroots artists have been priced out of going.
Tell us about The Break Up Monologues.
Thanks for asking. The Breakup Monologues is a podcast that I created last year. It was inspired by the response I had to my solo show The Conscious Uncoupling, the final part of a trilogy about love and relationships that also included The Science Of Sex and the original version of Is Monogamy Dead? Lots of performer friends and audience members started telling me their own breakup stories and I decided that it might be worth opening up a space for a conversation about heartbreak and getting together and looking back and laughing at our actions as a therapeutic bit of fun and a way of feeling less alone. The full first series of ten episodes is available now to download for free at iTunes, acast, Spotify, tunein radio and all good podcast platforms. We also have two live recordings coming up on 5 October and 9 November at very swish London venue Kings Place. You can book for those at Kingsplace
What’s next for you?
I’m performing a funny talk about the book at festivals throughout the Autumn, including Oxford Science and Ideas festival, Cambridge Literary Festival and more. I’m also doing standup gigs in Berlin for the first time – at an English-language comedy night thank goodness! I’m seeking a commission, sponsor or funding for a second series of The Breakup Monologues and I’m gathering ideas for a book about breakups that will be a loose companion to the podcast. I haven’t started pitching that one just yet. It will be similar in style to Is Monogamy Dead? in that it’ll be immersive, narrative nonfiction where my scientific discoveries, interviews and ideas are embedded within my own personal journey.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than 250 other publications.
Tell us about your journey towards literature. What inspired you to write?
For some odd reason writing always come naturally to me. I was noted for the quality of my words when I was in middle school, consistently received the highest marks in every class throughout high-school as well. When I was 16 I was quite bored with school and began to write a novel. It was published then in a small press in Europe. I proceeded to write a few more. Some were slated for publications, others not. I then continued my studies in college and found myself studying literature. I wrote on and off for a while, but three years ago I had a number of poems and a friend suggested that I send them out to see. It has been great ride since, and I continue to work on my writing focusing on poetry.
Tell us about The Chimes.
The Chimes is the Arts and Literature magazine at the Shorter University where I teach. I have been working with the students in the group for four years. My role, and my heart, is in guiding them through the process, and to help them in any way I can. But I do not ultimately tell them what should or should not be published. We work together and produce a print copy here in my little office on my personal equipment. It is a blast.
You are also a photographer. Tell us more.
Photography is something I grew into at the same time as I did into writing. I have done a little but of everything, but again, ultimately it is not about a job, or making ends meet, it is about expression. Photography is another language. Barthes wrote about it beautifully in his book Camera Lucida. The medium must connect, almost grab the viewer in the stomach and bring him/her closer. I travel to photograph everything. As for poetry, it is a matter of when, not so much what? It is also a matter of how and what detail I choose, not necessarily the whole picture. I am more interested in precisionist and the vastness of any landscape, the opening of a horizon line spreading through time and space.
Can you share with us a couple of your poems and the inspiration behind them?
To the grail
It is a symphony of feet in the midst of fireworks and lights;
they come, they go, hesitate, return, turn around, and back;
insane in their indecision, shoes of sports, and pumps of circumstance,
molding unruly ankles, protecting their wiggly toes.
And what do they want these calves, unable to take a moment’s
rest. Wrapped up in silk, enveloped in cotton, even boldly plain?
A door opens, another closes, and again the silly melody;
voices contract, voices retract, while many convey.
A mad world constrained, as in an alley where elbows are at war.
He and she, past, new, with the little one often or a friend,
Maybe. Hustle, bustle, rustle, wrestle also on this hectic morn’;
joy, smiles, laughter, and the flow of plastic into the register.
The deed is done; life begins anew there, elsewhere,
with the sweet aroma teasing the noble nostrils of all lovers;
hands on the wheel of destiny, fortune is theirs,
now that they have earned and secured the holy grail.
To the Grail is a playful one. I wrote it while I was sitting at a coffee shop. I would spend every hour there on one cup of coffee, observing in the delight of others, their rush, their smiles, and the aroma. It was fun to watch their feet as they came and went, moving from one station to another, ordering, collecting, sweetening, sitting down, opening that laptop or arguing about contemporary politics.
Fluttering with your butterflies
The room is vast and empty,
with only she facing the tall glass;
standing she teases her hair once more;
peace seems to surround her.
Still then, she wonders as she dives
into her own soul, tingling inside;
her soft hand touching the womb;
a slight sigh, a smile and a memory.
In the corner, lost in this immensity
of barren walls, a window so far,
a door unattainable; in the distance
solidity fades, colours vanish into oblivion.
Tall, thin, in a light gown of stars and fairy dust,
apparition, a breeze heaves the adored breast,
her hair plays hide and seek behind her lobes,
tickles the shoulders; she tilts her head.
Another brush stroke, the lids wink in the mirror,
she knows the presence is near, tingles again,
her eyes close, the arms press against her sides;
the breath is of pleasure, it is of life, hers, simply.
Fluttering with your butterflies is a love poem, and it includes hints of Quantum Physics (the butterfly effect of course!) She is the muse, the one I want to tease, touch, and move so she will smile because she knows the universe is in love with her.
What themes keep cropping up in your writing? What do you care about?
Would you believe “love?” Aloneness, and the search for absolute Truth. I suppose the latter is very much connected to the theme of “love.” I care about the universe. Corny? cliche? Not sure! We read quite a lot of pointless literature out there. It is rather easy to line up a few words and call it writing. But what does it really mean? Is it vulnerable, accessible? Does the author let you in and claim: “I am here for the taking; hurt me if you have to, but read me, pull me apart, but most all walk away with something personal!’ That is what I need to do, what I hope many would like to do as well. DO I want to be loved through my words? No! Not at all! Known? Yes! Played with? Why not! Nurtured? By all means, so I can grow a thousand miles away in the hearts and souls of complete strangers!
What advice would you give to new poets? Any tips?
Read everything you can. Write as much as you can. Don’t let anyone tell you how to write. Don’t let anyone tell you your work is bad. Don’t let rejection affect you at all. Keep writing to enjoy, to the point where you are addicted to writing (and nothing else!) You will discover so much about yourself, you will become a walking gift to all. Having read this, please do go and write a few lines. Write everywhere, all the time. Get up in the middle of the night if an idea hits you in your sleep. Don’t even let it get away.
Who inspires you and why?
Would it be silly to state that “life” inspires me? In fact it is not so much what, but when? Everything inspires me; what matters is the moment the “inspiration” comes. It could be from a feeling of slight anger, or joy, or a stick on the windshield of my car. The universe is a great question, and I explore it continually. It would be a search for absolute truth. I had this discussion a few days ago with another poet and friend. I know I have a responsibility to the world to write and I must make every effort to do so as often as possible, so readers can be connected to life at a deeper level (hopefully?). I suppose I have a muse, also. A muse need not be a “she,” but in this case, she is. The muse is a woman, or object we cannot touch, only reach out to in the hope of something making contact. Should we touch, the magic would end. I believe Baudelaire would agree.
Tell us about one of the best days of your life.
I don’t have any idea when this was. I have had many great days. But the one I can remember is based on one of self-discovery, and it goes something like this: “The day I became happy is the day I realized I knew nothing!” Things have been great since. I am a sponge to everything around me, for I know I have everything to learn, everyday. I will thus never grow up at all. I hope more people feel this way.
What are you reading at the moment?
I am reading the classics. My latest was Sappho. I know, it is only fragments, but it is so interesting to discover the words of a woman who lived 2,500 years ago, but tells of passions we all carry with us today, and possibly always have. Those are a constant. War or peace are not.
What is next for you? What plans have you got?
More writing, more photography and helping, perhaps even inspire others to do what I do, be better, and enjoy it, not for fame or money, simply for the joy of sharing, making oneself vulnerable to the world, the universe. I enjoy reading about Quantum Physics, and I find that we are all interconnected with everything to infinity. There lies the truth, and that is why I explore what I hope may be the most mysterious realms of our so called realities.
Poetry Drawer: Jagged Little World by Fabrice Poussin
Poetry Drawer: Holding Time In Their Arms by Fabrice Poussin
I once had a friend who was a microwave oven
She heated up quickly but had a cold heart
Nothing lasted with her. She never felt anything
I went to high school with her
We kept in touch over the years
She made bad decisions at critical moments
She sabotaged herself
It had something to do with being the child of alcoholics
She married a man
because she believed that as he aged
he would grow more and more to resemble his father
whom she greatly admired
But, as he aged, he became the antithesis of his father
It made her bitter
Her glass door became greasy
You couldn’t see what was in her
Whatever seeds of goodness her husband might have had
dried up
He didn’t water them
He watered his badness
He grew cruel
He verbally abused their children
I wanted to punch him
He always called me’Sir’-as if he were still in the Military
My friend was a microwave
As she aged, the hinges on her door weakened
and she began to release dangerous radiation
It dribbled out on the sides
like gravy dribbling out the sides of a sandwich
Her children-their children-grew to hate their father
They warped, similar to the way their father was warped
but there was still hope for them
I talked to her on the phone
I was thinking about all the appliances that I’ve owned
and that have broken down
and I’ve thrown away
I once had a friend who was a microwave oven
At night, I would imagine myself spinning on her carousel
and would get excited
and couldn’t sleep
I would get up and take a shot of Irish whiskey
but that only aggravated my insomnia
I had a friend who was a vacuum cleaner
I had a friend who was a dishwasher
I had a friend who was a ceiling fan
My wife tells me that all my friends are marginal
which is the way she tells me
how marginal I am
I would be even more marginal if I didn’t live with her
I would be a jumble of broken parts
that don’t add up
to make any one machine
Inky Interview: Author Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois from Denver, Colorado
Flash In The Pantry: Serotonin Reuptake by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois
Flash In The Pantry: Mandela Warp: A Moment in History by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois
Flash In The Pantry: Cooking Shows by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois
Flash In The Pantry: Still Wet by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois
The naked light bulb
hanging in the chicken coop
just beyond the reach
of their beaks–their sole
source of winter heat,
and a strained, brittle light
the small flock will ponder
throughout these bitter months,
like an idea of summer.
Inky Interview Special: Kevin Casey
Poetry Drawer: Quotidian by Kevin Casey
Ghosting for Beginners by Anna Saunders is a wonderful collection of poems centred around the themes of haunting and loss. The poems expertly weave in and out of each other using characteristics of mystery, folklore and tradition. It left me with an overall sense of ancient fairy tales and contemporary ghost stories. A concept which worked incredibly well as a collection.
Saunders is haunted by many things. Grief, politics, environmental issues, humanity and religion all feature throughout this collection. She writes with strength and clarity, in a style I find extremely effective.
In ‘A Murmuration is Seen Above the City’ instead of starlings, Saunders invites us to see the ghosts or souls of Cabinet Ministers. Describing them as:
Black spots, iron filings, broken particles..
and a
fluid mass with one mind
Circling in the sky Saunders tell us that they are:
wishing that in life
they had acted differently
but airborne, and dead, it is too late.
We look up from Food Banks
to watch the sky teem
The poem finishes with a reminder that the Cabinet Ministers are “fat from stolen fruit”, but the reader is left watching:
…them wheel and turn,
our bones almost through our skin
Powerful words indeed.
There are some beautiful lines and poems in this collection. One of these, focusing on memory, is ‘Ghost Horses’. It starts with:
Do not think that after death
the Mind dismounts.
Do not think that once the race is run
the Mind puts down the reins
I’ll admit that this poem stayed with me for a long time after I’d first read it.
I loved the idea of humanity and missed recognition which appears in the ‘The Prophet is Mistaken for a Fare dodging Hipster on the London Overground’, and the humour of a confused angel over wind chimes and scented candles in ‘The Angel of Revelation visits a New Age Centre.’
Dressed only in a cloud, he can bear the temperature
of the central heating turned up high,
but the scented candles are noxious
with their chemical rendering of Heaven
As you read further into the collection, the poems seem a little darker and a lot more personal. Saunders’ Father is mentioned throughout, and her grief is evident in ‘The Ghost Room’ and ‘The Ventriloquist Dolls of the Dead’.
I enjoyed reading this collection, and I’m sure it’s one I will return too and look at again. I found the concept original and creative, the poems individual and thought provoking. The collection is available from Indigo Dreams Publishing.
Here in the home of smoke and smog, my hometown grey,
heirloom of mines, the steam and the fog, where evening plays
on the moorland spine to colliers’ paces
and the northern wind that weathered their faces
still gnarls in the teeth of the two a.m. frost;
here where tomorrow is always lost
in the death of the streetlamps hung in their hats,
their spluttering, fizzling, last-rite laughs
like the dark psalms stammered in the vestry’s dusk;
here where communion no longer tolls, where cathedral musk
is a godless ghost beneath ten dead bells,
and the cold throat belfry is an old-shack-shell
for the alleyway hobo in his passing breath,
and his cat which brims on the edge of death;
here where the fieldlamp’s first candled flame
is its last, and the quarry’s trace, a stain
over skin, casts the shadow of a grieving face,
(the memento mori of this town), this dead grey place
where the factory black is the cradle we sing to,
the sack where we sleep is the home that we cling to,
only here come here to the city’s dark heart,
only here come here to the tubes in its arms,
the industrial crack, these towers of ash,
where we think of the poverty coffins we’ll have.
Grow what your garden will allow, my mémère
used to say, but another summer’s gone
and the chartreuse faces of tomatoes,
plump and unripe, line the kitchen windowsill,
frowning outside at the season’s first frost
like sulking children kept in from the cold.
August found the corn grown to half the size
of a chiding finger before the raccoons
came again for their yearly moonlight feast,
threading their way through naked stakes
to leave stalks splayed across the rows like the spokes
of a broken wheel revealed once the sun rose.
Soil sweetened, hoop houses and fences built,
I’ve grow weary of arguing with this plot,
of sowing far more than I’ve harvested.
And as I stand among the weeds grasping
scant handfuls of leeks and bitter greens,
I see her–Grow what your garden will allow–
the bottom corners of her plain-sewn apron
raised to hold more than her portion of what
the long decades were willing to provide.
Inky Interview Special: Kevin Casey