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Hi-Vis Press Podcast – Interview With Miggy Angel

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

 

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Shrinking Ultraviolet by Rebecca Bird – reviewed by Adam Steiner

Shrinking Ultraviolet

by Rebecca Bird

(Eyewear, 2017)

 

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”

A Burning House Press Interview With Lydia Towsey

Lydia Towsey interviewed by Trevor Wright for Burning House Press 

 

lti01

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”

Book Publication Announcement

Burning House Press are excited to announce that our first book publication forthcoming in 2018 will be ‘Gospel Of Aberration’ by Rob True – his first full collection of stories. More details to come.

 

3 Poems by Debra Watson

A Woman Needs A Coat

 

A woman needs a coat

And a hat

And a roof

A woman needs a friend

And an enemy Continue reading “3 Poems by Debra Watson”

Visions Of Morandi

By Fredric Nord

I realize how this obsession has gone too far. I’m in a bus cutting through Stockholm, it’s a smug city but easy on the eyes. I’ve dressed up for this. I’m on my way to see Morandi at Artipelag, beautifully situated in the archipelago. My expectations are high, feeling a bit too happy for paintings, a bit nervous. I’ve seen so few of his works in real life, only once before, and they affected me so profoundly that the big painting next door, some ceiling job by some dude named Michelangelo, left me cold and meh. I seem to have something at stake here.
And for this text, I will be Don Quixote de la Costanza.

Continue reading “Visions Of Morandi”

An Interview with Physicist and Poet Florence Lenaers

by Amee Nassrene Broumand

 

Hello Florence! Thanks so much for agreeing to speak with me here on Burning House Press. I’m fascinated by your bio: you’re a PhD student in physics who also writes poetry. I’ve got to ask, why? What draws you to both physics and poetry?  

Hi Amee! Thanks a lot for this opportunity. Oddly enough, the driving force was, & still is, the same in both cases: a thirst for equilibrium, the urge to build an extension upon my collage-like experience of the world; to challenge myself out of my comfort zone, towards areas left uncharted on my maps; to counterbalance an excess of centripetence; to overwrite certainties; to ride a Trojan horse within my own fortress, then to open the gates to cross-pollination.

“my favourite places to roam are borderlands”

Continue reading “An Interview with Physicist and Poet Florence Lenaers”

What trumps love

by Fredric Nord

You complete me, he says. In the movie. Manufacturing swoon and meme for the masses. Romance aside: I stare at art. I’m stunned by some lines of charcoal on paper. I’m liberated. It completes me. A moment of Eureka soft as morning. An Oh Snap gentle as the night. Our habit is of completeness: Each irregularity will eventually be found by a being that seems born to complete it. Our habit is of individuality, and then overcoming it. Continue reading “What trumps love”

“She Begins Again To Live in the Past”: On The Ravishing of Lol Stein by Marguerite Duras

I don’t know how to write about Lol Stein. I’ll start there, with an admission of my own limitations, a confession that any review that I write will fail to encompass all that I felt while reading it and all that I feel all these months and years later. Anything I write about it will be mired in my own history and my own memories.

I hate writing reviews because words never touch the experience of reading a book. This review can’t make you feel what I felt, holding the book in my hands, discovering the words on the page, all the moments in which images and scenes have flashed in my mind. But I want to say something about this book. I have so much that I want to say.

Continue reading ““She Begins Again To Live in the Past”: On The Ravishing of Lol Stein by Marguerite Duras”

3 Poems by Thomas McColl

FIRST KISS

 

Bone tongue sticking out of grinning knee,

a mouth where it shouldn’t be,

wet and pink like a lizard’s gawp,

a mean mimic of the mouth

that’s screaming into silence

the whole of the playground. Continue reading “3 Poems by Thomas McColl”

‘Shimmering Pebbles’ by Martin Dean

Shimmering Pebbles

 

May your world be cast

Into tiny shimmering pebbles

Set upon a bookshelf

Arranged in the chapters of your life Continue reading “‘Shimmering Pebbles’ by Martin Dean”

“Tell me what you know.” – by Jonathan Taylor

the following story contains content relating to self-harm which could be triggering to some readers

 

“Tell me what you know.”

 

“I don’t know anything.”

            “Tell me how you feel then.”

            “Honestly, I don’t feel anything. Please. Please don’t. Fucking hell. Please don’t do that.” Continue reading ““Tell me what you know.” – by Jonathan Taylor”

Place Waste Dissent – Paul Hawkins

Between the years 1990 – ’93, the poet Paul Hawkins was squatter/occupier/protestor in one of the most contested of spaces in the U.K.’s recent and past history of place-and-occupancy wars. Claremont Road, in London’s East End, was an occupied site and scene for the protests of the ‘No M11 Link Road Campaign’. Paul Hawkins was there, and has documented what took place in his book, Place Waste Dissent, published by Influx Press.

In the foreword to the book, Alice Nutter refers to Claremont Road as ‘the symbol of resistance to the road-building programme of the early ’90s’ – Place Waste Dissent operates not only as flame held close as intimate torchlight illuminating that symbol, but as intravenous entry point into the sign itself. An immersive invocation of the sign and the times it symbolises, a border-shamanic reanimation act that brings Claremont Road back breathing bleeding spitting and bounding into the now. Into the Now that requires reckoning with what was and is still its Then.

 

pwdpagecover

 

Continue reading “Place Waste Dissent – Paul Hawkins”

‘Hush’ by Kate Berwanger

Hush

 

Our girls walk with their hands in their pockets. Arms over bellies.

Slip through this city.

 

Stay soft, our girls are told. Stay quiet.

 

Our girls who drop their chins and gazes as they pass your boys.

Your boys who smile like they’ve never known sadness. Continue reading “‘Hush’ by Kate Berwanger”

‘Year 1’ by Shae Davies

I woke up thinking of you,

and the word, Komorebi

Japanese, for the light

that filters through the trees

 

I woke up and thought of the sunshine I found

in your arms

in your eyes

 

Year 1.1

Continue reading “‘Year 1’ by Shae Davies”

3 Poems & An Interview With Poet Amee Nassrene Broumand

The Sandpipers

 

It’s time for a ghost story—now,

while opalescent giants, dark-robed, stride

over us, hair blazing with the night

to come—

they imagine themselves

masked, bejeweled, descending

to the asylum window. The inmate’s lament—

 

They came in the night and stole my head.

What did they do with it? My old green head. Continue reading “3 Poems & An Interview With Poet Amee Nassrene Broumand”

3 Poems by Rob Plath

bloody phantom planet

 

ghosts aren’t

invisible

or made of strange

otherworldly

vapors

look around

you

every occupied

house

is

haunted

&

ghosts are

made

of meat Continue reading “3 Poems by Rob Plath”

‘my body is not my body’ by Nadia Gerassimenko

my body is not my body

 

when i’m held mouth wide open, blood oozing, dreading your extraction of part of my body. i’m only six. i’m not asleep. i never forgot.

i’m eighteen. adult, or so they say. part of my body breaks so more space is filled with you & all you carry. it hurts. in retrospect, it always hurt. it always will. Continue reading “‘my body is not my body’ by Nadia Gerassimenko”

‘Walking Towards Death’ – 5 Essays on Mortality by Arathi Devandran

Part 3: ‘Discussing Death’

My first memory of death is linked to a man I never knew. My mother’s father died of a heart attack before I was born; the irony is that I know more about his death than I do about his life.

The entirety of the man has been reduced to a single black-and-white obituary photograph that my mother faithfully keeps at her prayer altar. Then, there are the stories. The stories of what an influence he was in my mother’s life, how he used to work with the British Royal Navy (this was in the 1940s and 1950s, in a pre-independent Singapore that seems as much of a myth as my late grandfather), and of course, the stories about how he died, and how that changed his entire family’s life.

It is funny, what death does. It slowly morphs to form the central narrative of a person’s life, as if only through death did his life gain meaning and importance and weight.

Continue reading “‘Walking Towards Death’ – 5 Essays on Mortality by Arathi Devandran”

‘Halfway Up The Street’ – an extract from the novel ‘Billy and The Devil’ by Dean Lilleyman

Halfway Up The Street

 

She stops to light a fag, watches some sparrows fight over batter-bits, left by a slow-blown chip-paper that tumbleweeds across the Courthouse grass.

From the pavement she squints to make out the headline exclaiming Sandie Shaw a winner.

She drags deep on her fag, exhales, puts both hands back on the pram and starts walking, steering around a curled mound of dog muck.

Jean and her sisters watched the Eurovision on their new second-hand black and white TV on Saturday night, bought by her mam the weekend before from a woman at work.

Jean and her sisters gasped when Sandie’s microphone didn’t work at first, and then moved as one to the edge of the new second-hand settee when Sandie’s voice came through loud and clear.

Jean would like her hair cut like Sandie’s, but for now she wears it in a beehive.

She stoops by the cenotaph to pull the backs of her sandals up, and to stop her heart beating fast she sings the first line of Sandie’s chorus, almost breathing it into the mouth of the pram.

Say you love me madly, I’ll gladly, be there.

She frowns, drags on her fag, then starts reading the blackened names on the cenotaph.

For those who fell.

She gets as far as Evans G, then understands these names mean nothing to her, and placing one hand on the pram, she moves on in slow measured steps, fag in mouth, using her free hand to check her hair.

In the mirror this morning she thought she looked older. This is something she wants, and has been practising an older face. The older face doesn’t smile.

She takes her fag out and glances down to her belly and legs as she walks. In her brown suede miniskirt her belly has lost its little pudding, and she thinks her legs have gained nothing after the birth.

In the distance, the Post Office clock looks like it reads a quarter to one, but she can’t be sure without her glasses.

Jean puts the brake on the big old pram and moves around to the side of it, peering into the flaky chrome struts that hold the hood up. Her black eyeliner is thick today, and her slate-grey eyes stare back between curls of peeling silver.

She rubs the loose flakes off and wishes she had a new pram.

When the woman from the Social came to tell her someone had donated a used pram and did she want it, Jean felt happy. She walked all the way across town to a big old house to collect it. The woman who was donating the pram smiled at Jean, but she could tell the woman was judging her.

Jean’s mam warned her people would be like this when she came home with the baby.

Jean knew this anyway.

Lifting the brake with the toe of her sandal, Jean and the pram move off slowly. She still has quarter of an hour until she meets Mick, and Mick is always late.

Her heart starts beating faster again when she thinks of him, and she hates herself for not being strong and calm like an older woman would.

She parks the pram by the bench and sits down, pulling her skirt down lower.

Stamping her fag out, she remembers Mick’s face when she told him she was pregnant. She remembers the flicker of shock in his eyes, the blink, then the grin, the Oh well I suppose we’d best get married then.

Continue reading “‘Halfway Up The Street’ – an extract from the novel ‘Billy and The Devil’ by Dean Lilleyman”

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