Blankpages Poetry Editor & Fiction Editor required.

The Portico Library requires a part time Library Assistant, Manchester. 22.50 hours per week, salary circa £7900 pa. CV and covering letter to charlotte.wand@theportico.org.uk

http://ping.fm/qzrgP

Really like this.

John North on Radio Cumbria

http://audioboo.fm/boos/428964-poet-john-north-reads-his-radio-cumbria-poem

Really like this.

Just finished reading Lele, a short story by Edwidge Danticat - superb

My First Day

"And this is one of the better ones?" I hear him say, 
As he is shuff shuff shuffled through
Corridors and bathrooms, chivvied over rugs and chairs 
A mirror, some photos of The Local History. 
A group of elderly women sit around a table, infantile in their stick and glue, glue and stick. 
"And this is one of the better ones?" Out into the outside; a bench, a pot, a pond. 
The cafe always set, the phone always ringing. Blue lights, bland eyes, beige, beige, beige. 
"Yes Ted, this is one of the better ones." 

Wirral Poetry Magazine

Hello hello, I just found out about Orbis, a poetry magazine that is based on the Wirral! 


Have a look: http://www.poetrymagazines.org.uk/magazine/index.asp?id=52

Paid Artist Opportunity Liverpool

Core Workshop Artist, Creative Alternatives

Sefton's arts on prescription service Creative Alternatives (http://www.creativealternatives.org.uk) is looking to recruit a new artist to deliver aspects of its core workshop programme.

This is a long-term commission with a fee of £75 per session.

We are particularly interested to hear from artists with expertise in drama, puppetry and/or creative writing who also have experience of working in arts & mental health contexts.

An artist brief can be requested by email from the programme's Arts Officer Jessica Bockler (jessica.bockler@gmail.com)

Sky Arts Ignition: Futures Fund

IdeasTap, the online arts and funding organisation, has teamed up with Sky Arts to launch a new bursary for young artists. The Sky Arts Ignition: Futures Fund will offer five young artists £30,000 each to fund their work for a full year. The fund is open to artists aged 18-30 living in the UK and Ireland, and is designed to bridge the gap between formal education and becoming a working artist.  The Sky Arts Ignition: Futures Fund is open to individual artists working in visual art, theatre, performance art, film, music, dance or literature. The scheme will also provide each artist with a mentor from Sky, who will help develop their skills and knowledge in the arts and commercial sector. The artists will also have the opportunity to showcase their work on Sky Arts – be it on TV, online or on demand.

The deadline for applicants is 19^th September 2011. Two winners will be selected during this round of funding. The next round will open in early 2012 from which three further winners will be chosen.  For more information, and to apply for the Sky Arts Ignition: Futures Fund, visit www.ideastap.com/skyartsfuturesfund.

Little Girl Yellow

Three years ago I lived in a house that came with a garden.

Curling and accommodating; south-facing, red door.

Pink Primroses and Partridge Peas; Pineapple Lily's and a 


Privet Tree,

Or maybe two.

                I had no need for it.

But a little girl would come. A bumbling girl who'd slip 


sloppily over, the smart, low brick wall.

Yellow wellies, yellow hair, sticky mouthed and cross. She 


would come to sit amongst the weeds.

Some times she would sit and talk.

Twiddling twigs into her hair, punching chubby arms to and 


fro.

“Off with the little dags head”, “Shut up you crones”. Like 


an angry drunk she'd spew and spout. Offering hasty slaps to 


conjured staff.

At other times she would dig deep wells into the mud. 


Cauldrons. She purred over them, dropping in remnants and 


ragged talisman.

“Frosted lice. Four mermaid gems. Lilac heads and moss”.

She produced beasts from those dank holes. Women mainly. 


Frightening women. Mismatched and welded by an untrained 


hand.

Where their breasts should be; oranges,

With little raisin freckles and marigold nails.

A horse would leap forth from between their legs and their 


feet lurched forward on wooden carriages; four wheeled 


skates. Tin foil eyes and teeth.

Craven ladies.

Or was that me?

I called them The Lost Misanthropists.

Her names probably sang to a different tune; Princess 


Priscella Pretty Betty Ann, or Mrs Mirabella Marmalade 


Moptop. 

Our Time

It’s night time.

The sun has shone madly all day,

And now, in this quiet hour, every rug, chair, picture-frame 


and book pulsates from the heat of the day.

The patio doors are flung open; aghast.

Phil is stretched out on the green velvet sofa.

A hint of red wine lingers on our teeth, betraying us.

‘This heat reminds me of my mother.’

I run my fingers around the edge of my wine glass. One. 


Two. Three. 

A Surrealist Painting, (by Dan Herrera and Ashley Harris)

You can’t see the forest for the foot:

Yet it’s all crystal-clear, chandelier.

Soil spreads out like a blanket.

Cushioning and deeply brown: tobacco.

And the little shrubby flowers:

Small and shrill and painted the colour of candy-canes,

See them; singing for a glance.

And the blue, bruised shadows loom from behind

Yet the foot. The foot shines through.

A woman’s.

Raised, slightly bent, mid-horse-trot.

Ruddy-rose skin.

And those toes...

Now there’s something new.

Gnarled; not from wear.

Wooden; not from substance.

A tree’s roots are sprouting from her foot.

They stretch out and down,

A living tree billowing from her.

Her foot

Hard rooted

to the

Forest

floor.

No longer able to step,

                                       Step,

                                                    Step. 

Return To Sender

In 1994 snow drops sank, and a woman died.  




They said: “Oh, isn’t it sad? Mrs Next Door has slipped 


away.”




“Passed on”, others said, “Gone to a better place”, said 


the rest. 


(But they were wrong, she’d just died).

A little time passed, and little less was said. 

But then they began to pack and to parcel. 

They packed and then they parcelled and then they 


packed some more.

 Scarves, silken and pressed soft. 


 Cats and dogs in miniature, a porcelain horse and cart.

 A woollen rug, from Widnes Market, that held over a 


 hundred species of flowers. 




 And three towels and some white plates, a fridge, some 

clippers. Even a toothbrush. 

 They packed and they packed.

 They would not stop; except for tea and “Maybe some 


biscuits?” She’d bought them in case of visitors.

 Marks and Spencer’s, of course.

 And then the rooms were bare. 

Stripped and white like a picked bone. Ugly. And we 


left, locking the door, heading home.

They changed their minds though and said they needed 


to pack and to parcel, “Just a little more”. 

 A box was bought, it was elegant and strong. Two 


yellowed feet were pushed in.

 And a white head, and nineteen fingers and a porcelain 


face. 

She refused to look, of course. 

Eyes clamped down in refusal. 

 The satin pillowed her (it actually out-staged her), 


glimmering, flirting with any wandering eye. 

 But they shut her in, to be alone with the silk. And fed 


her down, packed her over with peaty, moist soil. 

 And we left; they dribbling wet, hunched over and 


sodden from all that packing.

They took a little rest from packing. They even stopped 


parcelling. But then they started talking. 


 And I saw the scissors and brown paper peeking from 


beneath their chairs.

“Oh, she was always such a kind hearted little lady!” 


(But they were wrong; a beating red temper pulsed 


beneath them).

“She used to say good-morning to me every single 


day!” (I saw two snide words and a curling lip though).

They parcelled all of her. It took hours; wrapping. Cello 


tape and brown tape and parcel tape. 


Then the FRAGILE: TO BE HANDLED WITH CARE 


tape.


And then, we sent her off.

Posted.

If lost please return to sender.