Toria Garbutt
Toria is a writer and performer from
Knottingley, West Yorkshire. She is a regular tour support for Dr John Cooper
Clarke and has performed in some of the UK’S largest and most prestigious
theatres. In 2016 she released a poetry album with record label Nymphs
and Thugs and her first poetry collection was published by Wrecking Ball Press
in 2018. She writes for award winning theatre company Not Too Tame
and has had her work showcased at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Toria
recently appeared on the front cover of Big Issue North and in The Guardian's
article 'The Rise and Rise of the new poets'.
Toria teaches English and Creative Writing
in a variety of settings including a democratic learning community and the
Criminal Justice System. She believes in the transformative power of words and
using poetry to turn pain into purpose.
Having returned from a European tour with
John Cooper Clarke, Toria is currently writing her first one woman show,
'kicks'.
hot
plastic moon
it's all t'time these days a can't think
straight need a break a fag to lose some weight
it's all t'time these days and it dint
usesda be all t'time not much not much a bit a bit
a bit of a kick off now and again a bit of
a hole-punch now and again when t'doorbell dringged or t'kettle shot hot clouds
from t'spout
first thing on a morning or last thing at
night when you XXXX find your keys your cards your fags
your trousers for work
when your mam rang in secret and went
"aw he's had ard time please understand he's had a tough ride just try to
be loving and loyal like me be busy making lists n cooking his tea and popping
to t'shop for Pepporami hots n bog roll n bin bags n kitchen cloths be busy be
thin just be good to him and you waint even flinch when he bruises your skin
cos you'll know ahhh you'll know that he loves you too much to be yourself
loves you too much to watch you laughing wi somebody else"
but when it's all t'time it int easy to do
it and when it's today I waint ever get through it and there's nowhere to go
when t'days so late no change for a bus no credit no mates no sugar in t'bowl
to sweeten the blow and the kettle's on the lino
a hot plastic moon.
Nowt
Matters Now
In Knottla
we smoke smack
for pain
to hide the guilt
and blame
and shame
of unemployment
we play guitars
and gaze at stars
to feel warm
and safe
and happy
we're grungers
and flower children
90s mop haired lovers
and swaggers
who pile into
transit vans
and blag it
into Glastonbury
Our art is beautiful
it's Hendrix n Pixies
n 60s psychedelia
n Cecelia is brekkin
are hearts man
she's brekkin are
XXXXin
hearts
Oasis hats
tinnies n flares
Britpop blasts n blares
through Warwick Estate
on carnival day
we win goldfish
then we eat em
for dares
Act a XXXX
infront o t'mayor o Ponte
'are kid' this n 'are kid' that
are nasal tones raight
suited Manc
mi mate Roachy
wa mad for it man
He showed me this trick
wi his fist
in t'pissin darn rain
in t'park
we held invisible umbrellas
owwer us heads
n stayed art til dark
dry as mi nanna's scones mate
You wa this ballerina boy
in a hat
on a mission to Brov woods
wi a guitar on your back
wi weed n beer n stories
n smack
n all t'time in t'world
to do mad stuff like that
Thought we'd be here forever
weightless n old
burnin rocks
instead of coal
burnin for us fathers
n us grand father's souls
But muckers dunt stay muckers
when t'sun's gone down
when t'honeymoon is owwer
n you're rattlin for t'brown
n you'd rob your mother's
wedding ring
n flog it up town
cos nothing is sacred
when t'sun's gone down
when you're gagging
for a bag
n your nose is on t'drip
n you'd tek your mam's
last tenner
for a quick n easy fix
cos nowt matters nar mucker
nowt matters nar
That night you walked home
from your dad's
you dint mek it
past t'railway tracks
wa you actin stupid?
Did you lay down to look at stars
n fall asleep?
or did you weep
n wait for death
to tek you?
Mate
I wish that I'd bin with you
cos id've held mi fist above you
n kept you dry
Dares
not to dream
Shit sticks in corners of forgotten towns
where mams shoot smack in dressing gowns
where old women,
weathered as wellies
sit by their sens
sup pints
at eleven
No coffee mornings
for these
old lasses
no OAP yoga classes
They've come here to forget
they've come to put
their minds at rest
and what a XXXXing dreadful mess
what a XXXXing
mess
They are strong
as Yorkshire tea
wear rings like
Indian feathers
Chiselled from
the rocks of Leeds
this is where they live
and breathe
this is where
they can not sleep
this is where they weep
at night
this is where they weep
And her head’s hurting
just there
Chicken hand
on silver hair
when she remembers
Blows smoke rings
up to heaven
wipes froth
on a buttoned sleeve
dares not to dream
dares not to dream
dares not to dream
Jeanette
Hattersley
Jeanette Hattersley’s poetry has
appeared widely in magazines and anthologies over the past forty years and in
two collections: Call it Mature (1988) and Time of Her Life
(1993), both from Smith Doorstop Books. She co-edited the small press poetry
magazine The Wide Skirt between 1991 and 1997 and is currently seeking a
publisher for a new collection of her work entitled Washing Nellie Paisley.
Pictures
In the afternoon the woman who made wedding dresses
for half the town paints, like a child, a bouquet
of primary colours. The stems run down the paper,
flatten on the lower edge like a stagnant pond.
The woman who drove a van, delivered milk
to half the town, paints a house with no curtains.
The windows are empty, no sign of life.
The woman who baked, who mended and sewed,
whose grand-daughter lives with a man “out of wedlock”,
loses all patience and throws her brush down.
The woman who ran the riverside caf├й, a day out
for half the town, paints a tree without leaves.
All of them smirk at each other’s efforts,
hold their own out for the others to see.
Washing Nellie
Paisley
To the memory of my
Great Aunt
A kindly voice, conspiratorial,
like velvet soft skin unfolds
in the morning scent of sleep.
We undo a nightdress,
home- made before the knuckles
became useless.
Roses shower down wallpaper.
Do I have any boyfriends?
She winks like someone at school.
Suds on skin taut
on swollen vertebrae.
A nice clean young man,
none of this long hair eh?
The voice deepens,
tea thickens
in a white china cup.
Oyster coloured, the corset
is eased on,
a second spine of little hooks.
Don’t let anybody down,
she whispers, behave yourself.
A modern song bursts
from a portable radio.
She knows all the words.
They’re grand lads,
she says as the clean-cut trio
fill the room.
We draw back the quilt
before we leave.
Squares from sheets and shirts;
pyjama stripes and florals
sewn on winter nights.
Tiny stitches , unbroken.
Eden
A mild green river. We swim across.
Beyond, a sandstone bridge, a sky
free of factory smoke.
Wet skin fizzles dry, we stretch
in long grass like cats.
Back home, the Don oozes
between blackened mud -banks.
We speak a foreign language;
shopkeepers lean forward, squinting
till the penny drops.
Aye you mean baps.
We have apple cake and girdle scones,
we shell peas on the doorstep.
Soon, we sing our speech like the locals,
join in the street-skipping.
Bonny back home means portly.
We stretch like cats in long grass.
Nobody asks for a fight.
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