Posts Tagged ‘kerry hardie’

I wrote some stuff you might like to read.

Saturday, December 22nd, 2012

My review of Kerry Hardie

So, I mentioned last week that I wrote a review of Kerry Hardie’s most recent collection, The Oak & The Ash & The Wild Cherry Tree for The Edinburgh Review Issue 136. You can now buy the issue online! BUT, you can also read my review free and gratis — the folks at Gallery Press liked it so much that they put it on their website. Thanks folks!

The UFOlogists podcast

You may also remember me writing a few weeks ago about the launch of sci-fi poetry anthology Where Rockets Burn Through: Contemporary Science Fiction Poems From The UK? I was super-chuffed to have three poems in it, and I’m even more super-chuffed that the folks over at Nature picked one of them to go in their “Where Rockets Burn Through” podcast this week. Thanks again!

Scary

Aaaand this is a bit of a scary one, but I am proud of myself for writing it and chuffed that it was published at xoJane, which is rapidly becoming one of my all-time favourite sites. I’ve written here before (but then destroyed the link in post-publication-panic) about my teenage struggles with a rather extreme form of thanatophobia. It seemed pertinent to write about it in a rather more serious way, given the recent OBSESSIVE APOCALYPSE HYPE that I’m sure you’ve all noticed. Of course, the world didn’t end yesterday — hooray! But I wanted to draw attention to this anyway. And for the first time ever, I connected to a fellow thanatophobia sufferer (in the comments), so double hooray!

Happy holidays!

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Found online this week: Kerry Hardie

Wednesday, October 28th, 2009

I think I should rename this series “not actually found online, found in a book, and by the way it’s another female poet.” Far more accurate…
So I actually found Kerry Hardie in Being Alive, an anthology I’d recommend you all get. It took me a while to get “into” this book, for two reasons — one, because I was finding it very difficult to write and thus resented every poem I read, and two, because I wasn’t a huge fan of Staying Alive, its predecessor (it’s bad, but I can’t stand anthologies of “the old favourites.” Anthologies of really good contemporary stuff, the majority of which I’ve never seen before — this one, this one! — are so much more my bag). However, after a couple of days of huffy page-fluttering, I came across the first of several poems in the book by Kerry Hardie. Thank you, madam — you not only opened by mind to the book, but you also seem to have cured my creative block!

Hardie — there’s a very comprehensive bio here — writes a great deal about sickness, death and loss. Morbid perhaps, but these are topics I find fascinating, and often write about myself. They’re also rather tricky topics to “get right,” as I have discovered many a time — but Hardie has a deftness of touch that makes it look easy. When you read her poems about her own illness or the death of someone close to her, you feel like you’re reading a chronicle, an account — but one that demands to be read, one that says “look, this may be mundane, but it’s important that I show you.” It’s refreshing to find someone who writes about mortality in a matter of fact but beautiful way, without feeling the need to make large and grandiose points about life, the universe and everything. Of course, Hardie’s poems can’t help but touch on deeper issues, but essentially she’s saying “here’s what happened, here’s how I felt.” It’s a simple honesty that I also love about poets like Sharon Olds and Liz Lochhead, but Hardie’s work also posesses a modesty and quietness that Olds and Lochhead sometimes lack. With a lot of her poems I found myself nodding in agreement as I read, thinking “yes, that’s exactly what it’s like.”

Then I would want to praise
the ease of low wet things, the song of them, like a child’s low drone,
and praising I’d watch how the water flowing the track
is clear, so I might not see it
but for the cross-hatched place where it runs on a scatter of grit,
the flat, swelled place where it slides itself over a stone.

from She Replies To Carmel’s Letter

She never liked pansies. All those little faces,
looking at you. I always made a point of sowing them.
When I left it late, I bought young plants in trays.
It was against my husband as well.
Not that he minded what flowers I grew,
but she was his mother:
it was my small gesture of defiance,
a staking of territory; mine, not hers.

from Now That She Has Gone Away

You can buy Kerry Hardie’s books here, or from the Gallery Press website.

(Photo by felixspencer2)

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