Book Trailer for my new book has been released!

Book Trailer for my new book has been released!

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[video width="1280" height="720" mp4="http://alicewroteit.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/Project_03-02_HD.mp4"][/video] I've been working hard behind the scenes to pull together this Book Trailer for my newly published poetry collection "Fear Country" - available to buy right now by clicking this link here. This short film has been a labour of love, featuring an excerpt from my poem "From The Ashes" (performed by me). Film footage and photography by me, along with some additional royalty free stock images (no attribution required). Music: Royalty free, "Someday" by Alexander Delarge from Fugue (https://icons8.com/music)
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My New Poetry Collection “Fear Country” is Available Now!

My New Poetry Collection “Fear Country” is Available Now!

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It is the last week of February 2019. A year ago I handed in my notice to my old job and now, here I am, a fortnight after publishing my first ever collection of poetry. Whaaaaat??? I know, right? Crazy. Yes, yes that is awesome – thank you for noticing. My new book "Fear Country", is out right now, available for you to own for the mere price of £8.99 (less than a Domino’s pizza). You can get it on Kindle too for £5.99. I said, when I left that job, that I wanted to write, and that’s exactly what I’ve done. I mean, there was a lot of other stuff packed into the last year, too – developing worrying attachments to the diverse and complicated plot arcs of Peak…
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From The Ashes

From The Ashes

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It's not that you've forgotten how to feel, It's just that scar tissue goes numb after so many years. If you focus, you can still see the afterglow of all the hands that let go Or held on so tight That you still wake to the choking of them in the night. There are things you are too terrified to unpack and know, So you drag these boxes like Marley's ghost with never a backwards glance. No wonder you never felt comfortable in your skin, You never stuck around long enough to unpack and begin to make it a home You never stuck at anything long enough to figure out how to sit still and grow. You used to smoke - You said it's what artists do, they burn, But…
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Yellow Is A Sunshine Colour

Yellow Is A Sunshine Colour

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I'm filling up my home with yellow. I'm filling my lungs with burnished well-worn hellos Instead of the long drawn out shadow-and-dust goodbyes, I'm drawing down the sun one golden sunset at a time, I'm buying armfulls of sunflowers, I'm adorning myself like a goddess in gold and cinnamon, Instead of my native black and silver secrets. I'm filling vases with corn and wheat-grass I've started singing in the evenings, Filling creeping shadows with mellow jazz. I'm lighting anything that'll burn, I'm turning sunshine on a dime, Hoping to unwind the doubt that always Seems to knot itself in sheepshanks Beneath my kitchen sink. I'm drinking amber-coloured rum In some bar somewhere by a river, I'm laying honey prayers on parched lips, I'm dripping butter on every inch of this…
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Best of Me

Best of Me

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You have been the best of me, You are the whetstone Smoothing each ragged breath Caught in my sandstorm chest. You leave candles burning In all your windows So I can always find you In my darkness. You harness the hurricane in me, Always leave me tea and toast To warm my brittle bones, You sail my gunship home. You are every holy sunrise In my mourning heart When I have been sure The dawn would fail me. Your hand pressed against the War between my shoulder blades Is my safe haven.
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Stars

Stars

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My heart is a comet, A chaos of battered ice trailing Bright tails across my bruised skies, All contradiction and complication and old pains Hurtling a billion miles an hour around the sun, Screaming "Wait!" Screaming "This heart is too soft a thing to be Thrust so fast into such a violent spin!" Comets spell omens of disaster from the Misplaced letters of "bad star"; I guess that makes sense. Humans are terrible messengers. We never remember the right parts, And every pass close to the sun melts another Frozen moment from this fragile heart. But I made my wings from wax and Eventually begin to come undone. I can't figure out what to hold on to, What things to let fly. Newton said humans have never figured out How…
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Onomatopoeia

Onomatopoeia

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We were taught To use words that sound like what they are, Like round vowels and esses For softness and caresses, Like the rolling susurrus Of soft rain in tall grass, The murmur of low laughter, the gentle whisper or hands Grazing hips, Like her name blossoming on your lips.... Sounds a lot like love.
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the beautiful people

the beautiful people

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Who are you when the world stops watching? Is there anything real left at all? Some pale flickering idea of a person Locked behind the dry ice and mirror-balls? At the end of the night when the music has stopped, Do you shiver Are you lonely? Are you lost? Do you peel off tonight's skin in a shed story to Drop discarded beside the bed? Do you even believe the lies You've steadily fed into your own eyes? Have you stitched yourself a home From the ripped patchwork of your life? Do you long to crawl into the lap of belonging? Do you ache and wait for its tender touch, To tuck your brittle hair behind an ear, Kiss your haunted eyes And tell you Of course Your matter and…
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people will sing

people will sing

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One of my best mates boxes. He gets up early on Sundays and makes his way to the gym To spar with a kid five times the size and half the age of him, He says they taught him to keep his eyes open when he gets hit, And that shit just hit me in the gut like - We can stare down a fist but we close our eyes when we kiss. Like, we can sit at the table with own our violence but We can't bear to be in the same room as our own gentleness. It's these kind of dichotomies that keep me awake at night, you know? Like how we really only come together for Weddings or funerals or sporting events, And the rest of the…
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Kentish Heart

Kentish Heart

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This bucolic place, This idyll, This church-bells-and- Whack-of-a-cricket-bat place, And stone faces strewn with ivy and wisteria, Here, the long perpetual summer, The sweet rum and sponge cake of a summer fete, The white-tipped Oast Houses and hop kilns, Beyond, the rolling hills and scudding clouds, And still, always, the green of it. This place brings my soul to soar, The roar Blake wrote of fills my ears, These darling buds may comfort all My aching years And all the winding country roads to roam. Always, I am coming home.
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