A few things about myself - born and brought up in Lancashire - worked as a
science teacher for several years before giving it up in favour of a
breakdown. Since done lots of temping, a bit of literature development work
and having moved to London twelvemonth ago now work for the Arts Council
(for the education dept not the literature department - which thankfully
means I'm not involved in handing out money to poets!)

Writing wise - I did an MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster and currently
teach (on-line) for their distance learning department. Been published in
one or two small press magazines and done some readings here and there.
Poems have won prizes in Lancaster Litfest and Yorkshire open comp and one
was runner up in this years Arvon DT Comp. (Peter came second. ).

Apart from writing I play the piano (enthusiastically but badly which is
quite liberating), follow "the" cricket (I'm in decline until the next
England test at the end of Feb) and have a guinea pig which I dote on to a
rather worrying extent. Also a husband (who is occasionally doted on and
sometimes sworn at).

I'm sure I've gone on too much, so here's a poem. I'm messing about with non
standard English and ways of working with and transribing Northern speech in
a contemporary way.


Canteen

That were summer it started. Feranti's canteen.
I seen food for what it were. Frozen fat
on carcasses, giant tins o peaches
all slimy an crumbling. Right the way
to shinin pink bacteria like froth
on inside of that tank of a dishwasher.

After a few week I knew that even Rum Baba's -
all gold an sticky an temptin at first
were nowt but slops from moment
they first hit yer tongue. Ant littul pool
of syrup round base, like sweat
round yer bum on bus ride home.

First job each day was sarnies. Six ov us
in a line. Margein, Fillin. Liddin
Cuttin. Boxin. Sealin. Like the limbs an lungs
an guts of a monster. Six pair o legs
stuck out, like one o them Chinatown dragons.
An all the huffs an puffs an knocks
an gurgles an the beat of its heart
yer could never stifle not even wi shaggin.

I were quick. Not just with sealin
my bit o sandwich run that shined
the print off mi finger on otplate
but clearin too. Fastest trolley
this side o Stockport. Twenny bi two
trays stacked wi plates, and bigguns
on top o littluns an me just a blur
in blue nylon slip and mi pumps,

disappearin into mi own sweat.
An rest o factory tuned
into another channel. Me hummin
movin, bein in wavelength
that were never switched on.
An good at wipin. Not in circles
like you'd think. But end ter end
then end ter end the other way, obliteratin
where you'd been. And Brenda

big woman on Hospitality wi me
took a likin ter me. Slipped milk
left over on a Friday into mi bag.
"Yer'll fade ter nowt" she'd say
wheelin that china clunkin trolley
into boardroom, quiet as a mouse
an less seen. Hips swingin
like a muffled bell. Like she dint know.