Goat an invite fae the boy up the stair. A wee pairty he wis huvin fur his birthday, an he wondered if Ah fancied comin up fur a couple o beers. At first Ah thought, Christ, a room fu o folk Ah dinnae ken, drinkin, gettin pished, mibbie talkin aboot fitba or politics or that. Ah cannae be daein wi aw that cairry oan. Continue reading “‘Pairty’ by A.G. Kayman”
Burning House Press are proud/excited to announce our 2nd publication in 2018 will be the 1st poetry collection by the amazing Anna Wall. More details to follow shortly Xx
“London was cloaked in a strange orange glow after Storm Ophelia caused a dust phenomenon and turned the sun red.”
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Hi-Vis Press interviewed Burning House Press’ chief Arsonist Miggy Angel – Covering the subjects of art, recovery, class, mental health and addiction, and his journey from South London to become a writer and poet – check it out here! Xx
by Rebecca Bird
Rebecca Bird’s first poetry collection is a fierce, accomplished and empowering call to find your own identity.
What makes one writer different from another? As much as any poet is unique and their writing is particular to them, they still work within (and out of) forms and conventions.
For me, all writing bears the fingerprint of its author’s character, even though we are often using the same building blocks of language – and this is what I find most inciting and insightful in Shrinking Ultraviolet. Continue reading “Shrinking Ultraviolet by Rebecca Bird – reviewed by Adam Steiner”
We first met at the launch of the Refugee anthology, Over Land, Over Sea. Poems for those Seeking Refuge (Five Leaves Press 2015). What was that project like for you?
It’s been very positive – a great idea. As an ordinary citizen, especially, or even in our current political climate, it’s easy to feel powerless. Ambrose (Musiyiwa) whose poem The Man Who Ran Through the Tunnel stimulated the anthology) thought this would be a way to mobilise lots of voices, not just from Leicester but from across the country and the world. Continue reading “A Burning House Press Interview With Lydia Towsey”
‘Ye’re so fuckin tense,’ he says. An in ma heid Ah’m like, whit the fuck, if ye want tae make somebdy less tense then the worst thing ye kin say is ‘Ye’re so fuckin tense’. Ah mean, whit guid is that gonnae dae?
Ah actually feel like sayin that tae him, bit Ah dinnae want tae end up back oan the rock ‘n’ roll, so fuck that fur a game o soadjurz. Jist huv tae grin an bear it Ah suppose – minus the grin obviously.
‘Seriously, man, jist relax,’ he says. ‘Ivryhin’s easier when ye relax, take it fae me.’
Ah take a deep breath an look at the flair. ‘Yes, chef,’ Ah say.
‘Look at me when ye’re talkin tae me,’ he says. Continue reading “‘Relax’ by A.G. Kayman”
Billy and Ian are walking along opposite sides of the high street in Cambridge, pretending to throw an imaginary ball across the cars that glide by in the darkness. It’s really windy so if there was a ball, it would have flown off in the wrong direction by now, but these boys don’t seem that concerned by the laws of reality at the moment – the party in their fuzzed up heads is much better than what’s going on out here. Continue reading “‘1st Weekend’ by Terence Corless”
Called by their kindness, some, and
cursed to serve, others, but
I am just hungry, from room
to room nick-nacking
He sets the oven doors ajar
and moves the pictures all awry:
the house is breathing on the shore,
the house is angled at the sky. Continue reading “3 Poems by Edwin Evans-Thirlwell”
Bill Moran (Good Ghost Bill) is a poet, performer and writer from Austin, Texas – and Bill was in Nottingham to perform for us at Speech Therapy whilst on his recent European tour back in May. Continue reading “‘The Good Ghost Bill Moran’ by Miggy Angel”
One moss harbor,
winding clocks in center’s orbit, wobbling
three camera’s, a candle vessel – paddling through power lines, black then white.
Sure – a noise dreamt cricket –
Weave these prayers into flux –
refine metals, resemble the limbo we sing in fisheries,
shining onto one light, our mugwort song. Continue reading “2 Poems by Fin Sorrel”
Five hundred miles off
On a night of no surrender
Amid the bedrock and the pine
In the anonymous rooms
Where we whisper salvations
To the prayer flags on the walls
For the sake of our sins
Now fixed upon the surface
Of the love we yield to the grave
At the gates of some heaven
When the message comes clear
This damn destiny is all we deserve