Dickens and Quips - Poetry Pod

Hello everyone. As is said in the announcement, I have been quite unwell over the last few weeks, so am going to take a rest and go on hiatus until the new year.

Thank you so much for all your support so far, I am grateful to each and every one of you.

Have a great December and I will see you all in January.

Make good choices, write great poetry.

email: [email protected]

twitter: @dickensandquips

insta: @dickensandquips

Dee:

twitter: @thepontypoet

insta: @thepontypoet

facebook: facebook.com/deedickenswriter

Welcome to the twelfth episode of Dickens and Quips!

This week we have a Hannah Edge special on the show and I shall be reading from her upcoming collection Those Days, These Days along with a bit of Anne Sexton.

You can preorder Hannah's ebook here and I will update these show notes when the paperback is available for preorder too!

Find Hannah at

observeandmuse_ehjee on Insta

@edge_hannah on twitter

We are at

Twitter: @dickensandquips

Instagram: @dickensandquips

Email: [email protected]

Prompt for this week is "Football" and you don't have to be an established poet to submit a poem.

Welcome to the eleventh episode of Dickens and Quips!

It is a bumper episode this week with some juicy language but it is well worth listening to us go down some amazing poetry rabbit holes.

This week we have Whisky and Beards own Connor Sansby on the show and I shall be reading from Chick by Hannah Lowe

Find Connor at Connor Sansby Wordstuff on Facebook

@whiskybeards on Insta

@whiskybeards on Twitter

Whisky and Beards Publishing on Facebook

Hannah Lowe can be found here

And on twitter @hannahlowepoet

We are at

Twitter: @dickensandquips

Instagram: @dickensandquips

Email: [email protected]

Prompt for this week is "all bears are gud boisl" and you don't have to be an established poet to submit a poem.

Featured collections:

Chick by Hannah Lowe

So You Want To Be a Writer by Charles Bukowski

Welcome to the tenth episode of Dickens and Quips!

This week we have Seterah Ebrahimi on the show and I shall be reading from Imagined Sons by Carrie Etter

You can buy Seterah's pamphlet In My Arms here

You can buy Carrie Etter's Imagined Sons here

Carrie Etter can be found here twitter.com/carrie_etter

We are at

Twitter: @dickensandquips

Instagram: @dickensandquips

Email: [email protected]

Prompt for this week is "I wait and wonder" and you don't have to be an established poet to submit a poem.

Featured collections/poems:

Imagined Sons by Carrie Etter

Skeleton by Rosemary McLeish

Line that makes you go OOOOOH!

Imagined Sons 29: The Friend (Part 4)

“I press my lips to each letter of his name”

Welcome to the ninth episode of Dickens and Quips!

This week we have Dervla O'Brien on the show and I shall be reading from Cake, Liberty and Other Inexplicable Phenomena by Joe Thomas

Find Dervla at

DervlaOBrien on Insta

DervlaOBrien on Twitter

The festival she was talking about is accepting proposals here

Joe Thomas can be found @Joefishthomas on twitter and insta and Joe Thomas Writer on Facebook

You can buy his book Here

We are at

Twitter: @dickensandquips

Instagram: @dickensandquips

Email: [email protected]

Prompt for this week is "sticky floors" and you don't have to be an established poet to submit a poem.

Thank you to Roger Waldron for your poem this week.

Invite

inviting me round

to talk overyour

world beating veggie lasagna

you apologise for the kitchen

carefuldon’t stick to the floor

we talk about

being married

that B&B in Scarborough

where they askedif we wanted

dessertwhich turned out

to be Pears in sticky Rice Pudding

you asked

if we’d ever be a pair

againyou asked if I would like

puddingaftersetc

I declined all 3careful not to stick

to your floorwondering

what makesyou think like that

Featured poets:

Paige Lewis

Sarah Kay

Welcome to the eighth episode of Dickens and Quips!

This week we have Kate North on the show and I shall be reading from More Than You Were by Christina Thatcher.

Find Kate at Kate North, Author on Facebook

Website www.katenorth.co.uk

katetnorth on Twitter

Christina Thatcher can be found @writetoempower.

We are at

Twitter: @dickensandquips

Instagram: @dickensandquips

Email: [email protected]

Prompt for this week is "what does thinking mean?" and you don't have to be an established poet to submit a poem.

Thank you to Camille Brouard for your brilliant poem.

Featured collections:

Welcome to the seventh episode of Dickens and Quips!

This week we have Sven Stears on the show and I shall be reading from Mostly Hating Tories by Janine Booth.

Find Sven at Sven Stears on Facebook

Sven_Stears on Insta

SvenStears on Twitter

Janine Booth can be found here.

We are at

Twitter: @dickensandquips

Instagram: @dickensandquips

Email: [email protected]

Prompt for this week is "birds aren't real" and you don't have to be an established poet to submit a poem.

Featured collections:

The BreakBeat Poets

Mostly Hating Tories

Prompt for this week is Birds aren't real.

Welcome to the sixth episode of Dickens and Quips!

This week we have Mithago Craze on the show and I shall be reading from To The Sofa and Back Again by Roath Writers

Roath Writers are @roathwriters on Twitter.

We are at

Twitter: @dickensandquips

Instagram: @dickensandquips

Email: [email protected]

Prompt for this week is "Ball Gown" and you don't have to be an established poet to submit a poem.

Featured poems:

A Prayer Is a Beautiful Thing

-though some may see in it an echo

A palimpsest of other, broken beliefs.

They may see gold-plated faith or

trust misplaced in midnight

power long-gone

or worse,

corrupt.

My prayer-book is different

Mine are love-letters to hope,

Gratitude to libraries of humanity

A patronage.

I pray to poetry groups.

I pray to book clubs, dedicated

To slowing down

time,

To taking a seam ripper to the straight threads of sentences

and the curved loops of letters

and seeing how the garment was made

I pray for their patience.

I pray for their keen eyes,

Their strong hands flicking pages in

The dead of the night.

I congregate in the silence

Of the line-breaks

and indents,

And as the ministers preach

Meaning into every comma,

Depth into every unfinished

I sign my love-letter with a kiss

And find their words guide me,

Map my (spiritual or not) path to the

X

Dervla O'Brien

Changeling

Fairy child,

where did you come from?

Is there a kingdom that misses you?

Who is the child

in the court of the Fairies?

She wears your dresses and

spins around twirling

with the Queen of the Elven

as they dance with the moon.

Ancient eyed child,

who has seen and knows all,

your soul windows green

when the others have brown.

Your hair softly sea waves

while the others wear springs.

Their laughter like starlight,

your silence the dawn.

Changeling child,

who cries in the darkness,

you dream of the fairies,

the dancing and feasting

with creatures so

stunning, their brightness

blinds you. Unable to speak

to tell their story, you hide

behind smiles and eyes

older than time.

Outsider child,

whose sadness drowns hope

don’t you know it will change?

You will be the story,

the changeling who lived.

You will float down stairs

that are chandelier lit

in a boa of feathers.

Embracing your faeness,

you will sing out the twilight

and welcome the darkness,

twirling for the moon.

To know that something inside me is still alive

Dee Dickens

Both available in To The Sofa and Back Again by Roath Writers

Welcome to the fifth episode of Dickens and Quips!

This week we have Alice Gretton on the show and I shall be reading from Kumukunda by Kayo Chingonyi.

Find Alice at @jalicegretton on Twitter and @alicerosegretton on Insta You can also find her on Facebook @alicegrettonartist

Kayo Chingonyi is @kayochingonyi on Twitter.

We are at

Twitter: @dickensandquips

Instagram: @dickensandquips

Email: [email protected]

Prompt for this week is "beehive" and you don't have to be an established poet to submit a poem.

Featured poems:

OCD poem by Neil Hilborn

The first time I saw her,

Everything in my head went quiet.

All the ticks, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.

When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don't really get quiet moments.

Even in bed, I'm thinking:

Did I lock the doors? Yes.

Did I wash my hands? Yes.

Did I lock the doors? Yes.

Did I wash my hands? Yes.

But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips..

Or the eyelash on her cheek-

the eyelash on her cheek-

the eyelash on her cheek.

I knew I had to talk to her.

I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.

She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.

On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or talking to her..

But she loved it.

She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times at different times of the day.

She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.

When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely lock the door eighteen times.

I'd always watch her mouth when she talked-

when she talked-

when she talked-

when she talked;

when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.

At night, she'd lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off... And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.

She'd close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.

But then... She said I was taking up too much of her time.

That I couldn't kiss her goodbye so much because I was making her late for work...

When she said she loved me, her mouth was a straight line...

When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking...

And last week she started sleeping at her mother's place.

She told me that she shouldn't have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but...

How can it be a mistake that I don't have to wash my hands after I touch her?

Love is not a mistake, and it's killing me that she can run away from this and I just can't.

I can't go out and find someone new because I always think of her.

Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.

I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars..

And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.

I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel...

How she turns shower knobs like she opening a safe.

How she blows out candles-

blows out candles-

blows out candles-

blows out candles-

blows out—….

Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.

I can't breathe because he only kisses her once—he doesn't care if it's perfect!

I want her back so bad...

I leave the door unlocked.

I leave the lights on.

Some Bright Elegance by Kayo Chingonyi

For the screwfaced in good shoes that paper

the walls of dance halls. I have little patience.

I say dance, not to be seen but to be free, your feet

are made for better things. Feel the bitterness

in you lift as it did for a six year old Bojangles

tapping a living out of Richmond beer gardens

to the delight of a crowd that wasn’t lynching

today but laughing at the quickness of the kid.

Throw yourself into the thick, emerging pure

reduced to flesh and bone, nerve and sinew.

Your folded arms understand music. Channel

a packed Savoy Ballroom and slide across

the dusty floor as your zoot-suited twenties

self, the feather in your hat from an Ostrich,

the swagger in your step from the ochre dust

of a West African village. Dance for the times

you’ve been stalked by store detectives

for a lady on a bus, for the look of disgust

on the face if a boy too young to understand

why he hates but only that he must. Dance

for Sammy, dead and penniless, and for the

thousands still scraping a buck as street corner

hoofers who, though they dance for their food,

move as if it is only them and the drums, talking.

Some Bright Eloquence by Dee Dickens

After Kayo Chingonyi

To the black girl sitting in the corner, surrounded by white friends, I see you. I see you wearing a weave that marks you as a fern among English roses

I was you.

This is for you.

You are beautiful as you are.

So, dance, without trying to ape the shapes of your contemporaries.

move as though the mothers of your mothers taught you what your body is for,

unashamed, unembarrassed, a vessel for the universe to play its music.

Let your arms embrace the sky as your feet absorb

the rhythm of the earth, spin with its axis.

I see you, worried about how you look, absorbing words likethiccso you can embrace rather confront the curves yourgrandmothers gave you.

I was you, starving myself so my breasts and backside wouldn’t show in a world that already sees us as inherently sexual,

Trying to make myself invisible.

You are perfect as you are.

So, eat, mango and papaya, and chicken your mates proclaim they’re too white for. Use your hands, and let the juices run down your smiling chin, pity laughing at the ones who have never chewed the meat from a pork chop bone.

Savour every bite of rice as wild as you are, know that it was sorted by hand to weed out imperfections.

I see you, struggling to accept your hair, using unguents and lotions and straighteners and perms.

I was you. Getting perm upon perm, killing my hair to look like the colonisers, anything to fit in, whatever you can to be unnoticed. Please don’t see me, please don’t hurt me, please don’t kill me.

You are faultless as you are.

So, get your hair cornrowed, feel the fingers of yourgrandmothers entwine their stories into your tresses, making them yours to pass along. Tell your stories to girl children who are struggling, make sure they understand, they are stunning as they are.

I hear you, your voice trembling as you claim your space in the world.

I was you, whispering into the void of my mirror, hairbrush microphone, falsetto with fear. Fear of being heard, fear of being noticed, fear of the ridicule that comes with breathing, fear of the pain of taking up room, fear of being here.

So, sing, let your soul resonate, release the pain, the joy, the sheer immediacy of being alive. Open yourself to be a conduit for the ancestors, let your song come from a choir of colour, let crowned black cranes burst fully formed from your chest.

To the black girl sitting in the corner, surrounded by white friends, I say this to you.

You are made for better things. Take them. Embrace them. Be them.

Welcome to the fourth episode of Dickens and Quips!

This week we have Claudia Volpe on the show and I shall be reading from River Hymns by Tyree Daye..

Find Claudia at Claudia Volpeon Facebook

@_claudnine_on Instagram

We are at

Twitter: @dickensandquips

Instagram: @dickensandquips

Email: [email protected]

Prompt for this week is "chicken" and you don't have to be an established poet to submit a poem.

Featured poems:

I Like It Like That

You turned the lights off

saying you like it like that

and I wonder

what’s there to like

if I don’t see what

I’m touching,

kissing,

holding,

if I don’t see where my skin ends and yours begins

and I can’t connect the dots on your stomach,

then how do I know

what’s my favourite constellation

to spot when we lay together

in this private garden

of pillows

and blankets

and more pillows because

you like it like that.

You said

You want your body on a soft cloud

to follow your head

all the times it goes up there

and doesn’t come down any more;

You said

it’s so far you can never reach it,

always an inch away from your grasp,

from your heart,

From all the do’s and the don’ts

And all the pros and cons lists you make -

Hanging around your room

because you like it like that.

You said

they remind you of every decision you had to face,

of what’s best for you

but hurting others;

and happiness has a price

sometimes -

But, darling -

I like it like that.

I say

I’m ready to pay any price

for your happiness

and your lists

and your clouded head

and the pillows where you rest your face at night

and the blankets we hide under

I say

Leave on all the lights,

Because I like it like that.

I say

I want to see the curve of your smile

Right before I hold your face,

kiss your freckles,

touch every single inch of you,

and make you

my everlasting supernova.

Claudia Volpe

She Tells Her Love

She tells her love while half asleep,

In the dark hours,

With half-words whispered low:

As Earth stirs in her winter sleep

And put out grass and flowers

Despite the snow,

Despite the falling snow.

Robert Graves

Chicken and Bun

After Tyree Daye

“chop the chicken,

just so”.My auntie Veronica

said the bones added to

the flavour.

When she died, I

could only ever

picture her in

sundaygloves and hat.

Until I cooked her curry.

I remembered

the way the sun reflected

off the strands of hair

fighting to stay

in the tight bun at the nape

of her neck.

The way her hands

wafted steam from

burned sugar and tomato

towards us.

How much pepper

we needed,a whispered secret.

I remember her laugh

was a waterfall,

a river,

a splash of water on

hot oil.

Dee Dickens

River Hymns and more information about Tyree Daye

Prompt for this week is Fire Extinguisher