Poetry

 

My Father Speaks In Poetry Too’ pamphlet published by PoetrySpace (Bristol) 2013, can be found here: http://www.poetryspace.co.uk/2013/06/my-father-speaks-in-poetry-too-jo-waterworth/

ANOTHER SPRING

‘Do I look older?’ he asked.

‘I feel older.’

He showed off

body frailties. Thin flaky skin.

Red bruising.

Under the clothes

his bones were bare.

Yet the face was still my father’s

until I came to leave

when it crumpled.

I’ve had poems published in a number of Poetry Space showcases: Spring 2016, Winter 2015, Autumn 2014, Winter 2013, Winter 2012 – find them here http://www.poetryspace.co.uk/category/showcases/

This poem won the Chipping Sodbury Poetry Prize in 2013 and was subsequently picked up by Huffington Post:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jo-waterworth/

Migrant

This language sounds like mountains,

tastes like the flowering of gorse,

looks like nothing from my earth.

It is not green. It is not damp.

This language is spoken by despots,

is spoken by young women who chew its vowels,

is spoken by boys with sure aim,

is misunderstood by all.

This language is not my birthright.

This language is all I have to eat.

And here is one from https://hedgerowpoems.wordpress.com/2014/10/24/hedgerow-5/

IN BED
She promises to make him a coat.
He promises to beat her carpets.
She kisses his little toe.
He kisses her breakfast bar.
She murmurs into his armpit.
He murmurs into her cellar.
She agrees to heaven on earth.
He agrees to a garage conversion.

(see also Hedgerow 7 & 9)

Further publications on Hedgerow blog include issues 30 and 31, including this:

hemming curtains by hand
suddenly my mother…
school summer dresses
sun breaks through the day’s cloud
now I can hang the washing out

and 32, 39, 50, 66 and 67:

How well can babies see? As far as the shadows moving across the white wall. As far as the elephant mobile spinning slowly in the breeze from an open window. As far as the wasp buzzing lazily against the glass. As far as her own fingers which reach out and grasp empty air when the door downstairs slams. As far as the unseen grandmother spirits hovering around her cot. Babies see things we’ve forgotten to notice. They don’t see what is unnecessary. They see what they need to see. Movement. Faces. Love.

Do check out https://hedgerowpoems.wordpress.com/

You can also find my work in Gnarled Oak http://gnarledoak.org/ and I Am Not A Silent Poet https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/about/

Reading at Poetry Space Day, Bristol, June 6th 2015

Reading at Poetry Space Day, Bristol, June 6th 2015

I do readings, either solo (such as this at the recent Poetry Space Day in Bristol, June 2015) :

and in combination with others, like the Waterwoven set by six of the Fountain Poets from Wells – first performed at the Day of Good Poetry in Bath, March 2015, and reprised for Priddy Folk Fair, July 2015, and Bristol Poetry Festival, September 2015.

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