Tag Archives: Kirsten Irving

clinic II

clinic is a poetry, arts and music platform based in New Cross, South East London. They hold multi-disciplinary events which aim to bring together poets, artists and musicians – both emerging and established in their respective fields – in an ongoing artistic collaboration.
Following a sell-out run of their first anthology, clinic return with the second installment in the series: a more ambitious endeavor collating the work of the most exciting young poets, illustrators and photographers. The book stands as a manifestation of the workshops, readings and exhibitions that clinic have orchestrated over the UK in the past year.
Poets in clinic II
Rachael Allen, James Brookes, Sam Buchan-Watts, Niall Campbell, John Challis, Kayo Chingonyi, Tim Cockburn, Sophie Collins, Dai George, Matthew Gregory, Nathan Hamilton, Emily Hasler, Oli Hazzard, Kirsten Irving, Luke Kennard, Amy Key, Caleb Klaces, Alex MacDonald, Edward Mackay, Toby Martinez de las Rivas, Harriet Moore, Kim Moore, Andrew Parkes, Abigail Parry, Declan Ryan, Jon Stone, Ross Sutherland, Olly Todd, Jack Underwood
Hanna Andersson, Kohei Ashino, Sophia Augusta, Alexey Berezkin, Harriet Bridgewater, Michael Dotson, Mike Goldby, Jack Hudson, Rob Hope-Johnstone, Paul Layzell, Bob London, Aaron McLaughlin, Olja Oblvco, Sean Roy Parker, Aimee Parrott, Thom Rees, Jack Teagle, White White Brown Twig
The publication includes, at its centre, the photo essay, ‘Modern Times’, by Patrick Tsai, documenting the tumultuous cultural concern of China in the Twenty-First Century.

© Aimee Parrott

Olly Todd
Through the dark hallway of antlers,
dozens nailed high to the splitting oak,
she walks before strolling
out to the summer garden
with the nap of the lawn and, blowing
into jars says, ‘candles, why candles?’
Although the flowers don’t need it
she cuts shorter their stems and rearranges
them in their green glass vase.
Lilac and white blouses and pants
pulled earlier along the line.
He brings the whisky bottle wrapped
in the white serviette. They have never
jumped into a river holding hands.
Never have they jumped in a river and
only for peace does he agree the nightingale
at the fountain is romantic
The Drowned Fields
Kim Moore
Although being without him now
would be like standing on one leg
still everything seems paper thin.
If my foot slips and breaks the surface,
I’ll fall to a land of drowned fields,
where the only language is the language
of the sky and the birds make endless
patterns in the air and the pools of water
are words the rain has left behind.
The birds are like shadows in the corner
of my eye, or silver, as if the sky
is throwing money to the ground.
Next to the path the grass moves beneath
my feet. Hummocks store black water
while his thoughts, impossible to ignore
push their way across the land like large
enthusiastic dogs. The lives I could
have led are silver threads across
the drowning land and birds come
together , then spread apart, as if the sky
opened its hand and let them loose.
Tim Cockburn
I love you because you are like love
a flimsy and preposterous thing,
like a deco bedside cabinet
whose gold trim is coming away,
whose quilted sides are yellow and punctured,
but that you buy anyhow,
if only because, among the serious junk,
its cheerful stab at flair seems
a certain defiance, a retort.
Talking Panther
Sophie Collins
paces the room, his raised tail beating
in time with the grandfather clock.
His long claws click against
the polished wood floor. He wears a crisp blue suit
to compliment the iridescence in his fur.
His cravat was a gift,
from a benevolent tsar. His cufflinks are fangs
won in a duel with an Indian rattlesnake.
He tells me the panther is a solitary animal.
He tells me they are under threat
but they are skilled climbers.
He tells me of his scaling the Norwegian coastline;
he is the only quadruped to have conquered
the Seven Summits.
As he chews and licks at his words
I notice his gums are black. He never blinks.
He is about to recount an early memory
from his birthplace of Burma
when his perfect head bursts
into the greenest of flames.
Order clinic II here.
clinic II was made possible, in part, by a donation from Ideas Tap, and is co-published by Egg Box Publishing.
Visit clinic’s website.

© Tom Rees

Birdbook I: Towns, Parks, Gardens & Woodland

Sidekick Books is a London-based publisher of exclusively collaborative poetry projects, including micro-anthologies and (forthcoming) poet-illustrator team-ups. It is run at the behest of excommunicated alchemist Dr Fulminare and his demonic familiar, Bandijcat, but most of the legwork is done by poets Kirsten Irving and Jon Stone, who kicked off the press with Coin Opera, a book of computer game poems, in winter 2009. Books can be bought from http://www.drfulminare.com and currently all four micro-anthologies plus Birdbook (April 2011) are available for £20 (plus P&P).

Birdbook 1: Towns, Parks, Gardens & Woodland
£10.00 + postage, 158pp 
Featuring poems and artwork by:
Rachael Allen, Rowyda Amin, Hannah Bagshaw, Becky Barnicoat, Simon Barraclough, Julia Bird, Niall Campbell, Michael Chance, Tom Chivers, Hanna Terese Christiansson, Monika Cilmi, John Clegg, Dave Coates, Phil Cooper, Lois Cordelia, Lorna Crabbe, Caroline Crew, Nia Davies, Lizzy Denning, Isobel Dixon, Philip Elbourne, Dai George, Matthew Gregory, Cliff Hammett, Aiko Harman, Emily Hasler, Holly Hopkins, Nicholas Hughes, i-lib, Kirsten Irving, Andrew Jamison, Amy Key, Judith Lal, Alexandra Lazar, Natalie Lazarus, Katherine Leedale, Roddy Lumsden, Edward Mackay, Marion McCready, Siofra McSherry, Matt Merritt, Kate Parkinson, Saroj Patel, Kate Potts, Richard Price, Fiona Purves, Declan Ryan, Bethany Settle, Jon Stone, Jennie Webber, James Wilkes and Chrissy Williams.
Lesser Spotted Woodpecker
James Wilkes
We would like to know when all these deer actually work as you never see them at it. Their spoor is stacked in the form of logs. A plastic chair nailed halfway up a tree. Climbing into its cup we surmise it is for shooting the deer if they fail to complete their quotas. A death perspective snaps open. Across this, the looping movement of a slight bird. It all goes strangely quiet as it drums a hollow tattoo of ants and bracken in the smell of rain-to-come. 
St Jerome and the Chaffinch
Emily Hasler
More usually with a lion he can’t shake off,
and always with a book – but,
sometimes, he appears with a chaffinch.
Animals love him. And it’s a symbol
of celibacy to be accompanied by a chaffinch.
The colourful male winters less far away than his mate.
He becomes known as the bachelor bird
and also the harbinger of rain.
But only sometimes does he sing for rain,
other times he sings for sun, or for his mate.
The French say gay comme un pinson
but we are not always so gay
or so serious. Bosch paints him this way.
I cannot say why he sings, only that
the chaffinch, sometimes, appears with St Jerome.
Willow Tit
John Clegg
Her beak is a split thorn
carving a zipline,
undressing a seedpod.
Ignore her calls,
those sudden shudders
of breath in a pinetree.
Ignore her completely.
Some birds in China
sculpt nests from spit;
she’ll hammer a home
in your huge neglect,
eyeshadowed, black-capped.
In the land of the dead
the judges will balance
your heart and her feather.

Tacc Tacc, Blackcap
Edward Mackay  
Tacc tacc;               creetily creetily – akerah creektur
turrturr               you will be taken hence     turr creetily creetily;
akerah, and from there                   creetur creetur –
turrturr,             to a place           akerah akerah creetah.
A place Akertah! of lawful                 tacc tacc
creetur execution       tacc tacc…          creetily tacc
where you will be creetily creetily tac tac
hanged tacc tacc by the neck creetily
until dead tacc tacc     And may the creetily akerah tac
Lord tacc tacc have mercy creetily on your
tacc tacc akerah soul            Tacc.
Wood Warbler
Nia Davies
In the unaxed oak and the underleaf,
where a feast hatches
for a hidden eater or
a smallish singer,
a Thai green belly
is patched over by tree.
And it blows those calls:
a reedy woodwind
with kora playing
tapped melodics,
trying to elbow in
a slice of bandwidth
amongst Buzzard,
Thrush and Chiffchaff,
hipping up the trunk
with a draw-string beak,
shutting-up from singing
till there’s hush
in the barging forest,
till there’s space in
the rustling arena,
from the chainsaw
and the twitcher,
and all those other
tiny gladiators
tangling for flies.
from Birdbook 1: Towns, Parks, Gardens & Woodland.
Order Birdbook 1: Towns, Parks, Gardens & Woodland.
Visit www.drfulminare.com