Archive | December, 2010


31 Dec

I feel that poetry has a reputation for being a bit stuck up, a bit whiny and middle-class, and I want to break through that prejudice with this deeply personal account of how difficult my life has been growing up with a double-barrelled surname. Read it and weep.


       Every time I have to sign my name
       I takes too long, I feel the prickling shame
       That I can never fit within the frame,
              With my double-barrel.

       Because I carry both my parents’ names with me
       It’s large, clumsy, and unwieldy
       Every time someone has to spell it they’ll look up at me–
       And I can see–
              They’re staring down a double-barrel.

       There’s no family seat, lawns or cream teas
       Just this unspellable verbal legacy
       From two young folkies with songs in their hearts,
       Who for their new family, for their new start–
       (They didn’t understand, they weren’t from ‘round these parts)
              They forged a double-barrel.

       Now there’s no escape, no anonymity
       Every time my mother (hi, Mum) Googles me.
       ‘Cause there’s only four people with this clunker the whole wide world,
       And the one mouthing off online is probably her girl;
       The apple of her eye, whose drunken bitching years ago
       Is now preserved on the long-forgotten account with Bebo.
       You really should be more careful, don’tcha know,
               Where you point that double-barrel.

       But I will always carry this one around
       No matter whether love throws me ups or downs
       Because I can’t imagine sinking sans bizarre compound
       Into being just another Hannah.
       And just to compound it all I’ll remain a Ms
       ‘Cause actually my marital status is none of your goddamn biznezz
       It’s just the way I was raised. This is me:
       My fault too now, but I’ll always be:
              Firing from a double-barrel.


In Tents

2 Dec

A poem of mine has just been published in Dot Dot Dash Magazine Issue 5: Feast. I thoroughly recommend you buy a copy and see the other (astoundingly good – seriously, I love most of it and that’s a rare thing) poetry – but I’m putting this up here now so curious mates can read this. Postal delivery from Australia just takes too long.

        In Tents

      In crowd
      In fields
      In the sun
      In our element
          In tents.

      In queues
      In stalls
      In fashion
      In aftersun
          In tents.

      In flip-flops
      In wellies
      In mud
          In tents.

      In tears
          In tents.

      In grass
      In smoke
      In heaps
      In giggles
          In tents.

      In bottles
      In trouble
      In hand
          In tents.

      In the morning
      In rizlas
          In tents.

      Into you
          In tents.

      In glances
      In love
          In tents.

      In hugs
      In hysterics
      In our prime
      In celebration
          In tents.

      In photos
      In memories
      In my dreams
      In goofy hats
      In arcadia
          In tents.
Mud, tents, mates.

Dedicated to all the Woodcrafters and festival-goers who’ve kept me entertained and debauched over the years. 🙂