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NA LISTI Od 04.8.2010.g. /
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Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić, MSc Sarajevo & Bugojno, Bosnia and Herzegovina MI OBJEDINJUJEMO RAZLIČITOSTI... WE ARE UNIFYING DIVERSITIES |
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Helen Ivory, Norwich, United Kingdom
Helen Ivory was born in Luton and has a Degree from Norwich Art School. She spent most of her 20s and early 30s working as a free range egg farmer, and a laborer and brick layer. She now edits the webzine Ink Sweat and Tears, and is an editor for The Poetry Archive.
She lives in Norwich with her husband, poet Martin Figura, where they run the live lit organization Cafe Writers. She regularly posts poems and new artwork on her blog.
Publications
The Breakfast Machine Bloodaxe Books, 2010
The Dog in the Sky Bloodaxe Books, 2006
The Double Life of Clocks Bloodaxe Books, 2002
Awards
Writers Award, Arts Council of England, 2010
Author’s Foundation Award, 2008
Writers Award, Arts Council of England, 2005
Eric Gregory Award, 1999
“A direct approach, via deep folklore and dream imagery, to the conundrum of being a woman…in keeping with what I think we mean when we say ‘women’s writing.’ This book is mischievously dark, rick with anti-logic and harnessed to the power of something we used to call magic.”
Katy Evans-Bush
“A visually precise poet, with the gift of creating stunning images with an economy of means…Ivory has established an eerily engaging style. Her poems are like mobiles suspended on invisible threads, charming to watch as they seem to spin by themselves in the air, but capable of administering more than a paper cut on the sensibility of the reader.”
James Sutherland-Smith
She lives in Norwich with her husband, poet Martin Figura, where they run the live lit organization Cafe Writers. She regularly posts poems and new artwork on her blog.
Publications
The Breakfast Machine Bloodaxe Books, 2010
The Dog in the Sky Bloodaxe Books, 2006
The Double Life of Clocks Bloodaxe Books, 2002
Awards
Writers Award, Arts Council of England, 2010
Author’s Foundation Award, 2008
Writers Award, Arts Council of England, 2005
Eric Gregory Award, 1999
“A direct approach, via deep folklore and dream imagery, to the conundrum of being a woman…in keeping with what I think we mean when we say ‘women’s writing.’ This book is mischievously dark, rick with anti-logic and harnessed to the power of something we used to call magic.”
Katy Evans-Bush
“A visually precise poet, with the gift of creating stunning images with an economy of means…Ivory has established an eerily engaging style. Her poems are like mobiles suspended on invisible threads, charming to watch as they seem to spin by themselves in the air, but capable of administering more than a paper cut on the sensibility of the reader.”
James Sutherland-Smith
VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33,
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Perception perfectionist
If there is somebody who could be a part of certain (and exact!...above all) group of the poets dedicated to the perfectionism within postmodern presentation of the poetry, for sure Helen Ivory is the part of it. And not just a part, but also being on a peak of it, as well. Why? Simply, because the time has arrived when everybody writes a poetry...really everybody (just check on Facebook statuses). That is why is not so difficult to recognize a poet who live poetry through the presentation of their thoughts within the verses. But, not just common, simple dedication to love, hate and/or soul. Not at all, but only those poets who are, while writing, deeply are within the strength of the movements which heads towards the perfection of thoughts and feelings. Intertwine with each other with a just one goal. To write, as simple as it is, and to send the message as complex as it should be. Vice versa, also. By the way, it is difficult to explain the simplicity of complexity. Maybe as perception of perfectionist? Editor's word Sabahudin Hadžialić 23.09.2011. |
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How to make a pot of tea
Take a bowl of weed from the sea, plunge in your hands, wrists, then up to the elbows. Soon you are wading, you are waist-deep and before you know it you are living under water. Time passes. You have a new job, have taken up different hobbies, have learned to burn sea-coal to warm yourself. More time passes, and your life has become a series of complicated pretends, and you imagine you were born here; were brought up in a family of part-fish. Then you find the syringe in the pocket of your old coat. It’s filled with air that wants to bubble into your veins. When you climb from the bowl you leave a puddle of water on the kitchen floor. You fill up the kettle and forget to turn off the tap. Another 3am Call Every night, my grandmother rehearses her journey into the otherworld as her womenfolk stand by, rooted to this world by strong cups of tea. The air is electricity and it’s easy to imagine my grandmother’s travels and how superfluous slippers might be. We dress her in her wedding gown, her auburn hair with violets. On the walk home night fits around us like a freshly torn coat. Hospital Visit The waiting room is full of all sorts, pretending to be awake. The bad mother, deaf ear cocked to the incubator; the bogey man, painted eyeballs on his hands, wedged upright in the corner. Even the alchemist has discovered a way to shoe horses in his sleep. MEOW I have always suspected but now I know for a fact that I am not a human being. As children, my sister and I were cats. We would slink about the house, pause, scratch at fleas and demand our mother feed us saucers of milk on the kitchen floor. Now, my sister was only playing. Her movements were not fluid, and her meows were unconvincing. Dolly, the family cat and I would laugh at her as we washed our faces together. My Mother was unaware of our rapport. I was ten years old when my Mother took Dolly away in a cardboard box. I never saw her again. Every night, I scratched at the back door to be let out so I could be with Dolly. From then on, I only spoke in cat language. My Mother was at first angry and then upset. When I was fifteen my Mother took me away in a cardboard box. I never saw her again. Every day I am bought food on a plastic plate. They no longer leave a knife a fork. At night I call to Dolly in our language and sometimes she comes to me. We wash our faces together. |
The Orange Seller
A woman on the bus is selling oranges; mouldy little oranges with no juice inside. Yet people are buying them and peeling them with a grim-faced determination. She is shoeless, and chirrups like a ragged little bird. And still we buy her oranges. Her hands are outstretched, as if expecting rain. Her Uncle’s New House Her parents had gone there for serious talks but the dumb waiter spent all night conveying food though the storeys. The head of a pig, cooked till its eyes were cataract milky, jaw fallen open to a wise-cracking grin. A rabbit blancmange wobbling through each jolt of the hoist, fiercely trying to keep a straight face. Visit In the very quiet of an early morning a bird tries every window of the house, feathers bristling with effort. Only the eldest girl hears and creeps downstairs in her nightdress. She knows nothing of the persistence of birds has only seen them distant in trees or making patterns in the sky, so the dark bead of its eye unnerves her. Still she opens a window. It perches on the back of a chair, claws grazing at lacquer. When it speaks, it is raw crow, earthy, guttural, with scant punctuation no openings for niceties or how-do-you-dos. Her ears hurt with the noise of it, she tries dreadfully to understand but she is only a girl. As it departs, the bird filches a snag of her hair to weave into its nest. SPIN CYCLE I have been suspicious for some time about the washing-machine. At first it was the odd sock or handkerchief that went missing. Everyday occurrences nothing to be concerned about. But then there was the Aran sweater put in on gentle spin, never to be seen again. It was washed on its own so at the end of the cycle the drum was entirely empty. This was a concern. And this evening I came home to discover that the curtains had vanished from the kitchen window. There was a trail of soapy suds across the floor stained with burgundy dye. I tried to open the washing-machine door but it was locked tight. There was a weird gooey gurgle from deep inside its belly, causing me to jump, and back away. I ran upstairs to find that the duvet and pillows were also gone and the floor was awash. There was a pervasive smell of Spring Fresh hanging cloyingly in the air. |
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Copyright © 2014 DIOGEN pro culture magazine & Sabahudin Hadžialić
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara.
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić
All Rights Reserved. Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić
WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com
Contact Editorial board E-mail: contact_editor@diogenpro.com;
Narudžbe/Order: orderyourcopy@diogenpro.com
Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić,
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara.
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić
All Rights Reserved. Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić
WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com
Contact Editorial board E-mail: contact_editor@diogenpro.com;
Narudžbe/Order: orderyourcopy@diogenpro.com
Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić,
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina