 SetuVolume 7; Issue 3; August 2022Setu PDF Archives EditorialPoetry
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Special Edition: Freedom Guest Editor: John Maurer |
Showing posts with label Freedom 2022. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Freedom 2022. Show all posts
Contents, August 2022
Guest Editorial: John Maurer
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| John Maurer |
While India celebrates its 75th birthday and year of independence this very month, Ukraine is simultaneously fighting to maintain its democratic freedom in the Russo-Ukrainian War. We are at a global crossroads where we can see both the beauty of a blooming democracy and the resilience of another that is under attack and threatened with a loss of freedom. Where India achieved its freedom through peaceful protests directed at the British Empire, Ukraine has been forced to defend its freedom by repelling a Russian invasion. We are seeing the different circumstances where freedoms are withheld or threatened, as well as seeing the different ways that different groups of people respond, or are forced to respond, to these threats. We’ve come to see that freedom is delicate, fragile, and precarious; that the places where democratic freedom exists are places where people have had to fight for it, in one way or another, in more and more instances.
More than all of this, freedom extends well beyond just the political construct. It is a multi-faceted word that means different things to almost everyone. Some search for psychological freedom, to be free of worry or anxiety or other thoughts that restrain them. Others search for financial freedom to rescue them from the monotony of their daily lives, from their jobs, household chores, and worry for the future. Everyone has things in their life that they feel are holding them back, bad habits or being too busy or a lack of resources, financial or other; but everyone is searching for greater freedom within society, within themselves, and within our governments. Though our interpretations may differ, we all share in the desire for autonomy and freedom.
In this issue, the editors of Setu and I wanted to bring together poetry, prose, and visual art that spoke to all these facets of freedom, and perhaps others as well. I’ve curated a collection of writing and art from a diverse set of artists and writers; old and young, experienced and amateur, from a variety of countries, and with a variety of perspectives. Though all these artists and writers are from different backgrounds and have had very different life experiences, you will likely find that their ideas of freedom are far more similar than they are different. Though we may have different ideas of how to get there, we all are headed for the same destination, to a place of greater freedom for ourselves and others.
It has been a privilege and an honor to have had so many writers and artists share their work with me, as well as having the opportunity to guest edit this issue on a topic that is near and dear to my heart.
“Freedom, in any case, is only possible by constantly struggling for it.”—Albert Einstein
John Maurer
Guest Editor, SETU, August 2022, Special Edition on Freedom
Bio: John Maurer is a 27-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but their work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. When not writing, they enjoy spending their time playing basketball, making music, and taking long contemplative walks through the woods. They have been previously published in Setu Bilingual, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than a hundred others. @JohnPMaurer (johnpmaurer.com)
Special Edition: Freedom
Featured Authors
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1. Jass Aujla 2. Pallavi Baruah 3. Don Carpenter 4. Alice Chains 5. PS Conway 6. Kellasandra Ferrara 7. David Garcia 8. Athena Kaiman 9. Sasha Lauren 10. Frances MacGregor |
11. George Miller 12. Maria Perez 13. Giselle Phillips 14. Steven Ross 15. Crow Rudd 16. J.A. Savage 17. Angela Thompson 18. Samra WaHeed 19. Antonia Wang 20. Cassondra Windwalker |
Creative Collaborations: Paul Brookes and Jerome Berglund
Exposition
The notion of acclaimed English poet Paul Brookes—who had been interviewed in Setu—and myself putting our heads together through a collaborative process, to produce something blending our somewhat contrasting styles had been suggested to us by this journal’s wonderful, accomplished English editor—consummate, innovative proponent of conversation and dialogue in the arts, multilingual world-traveler himself, who publishes from India to Canada— Dr. Sunil Sharma initially.
Paul is a masterful, quite original haikuist, and I have also found great satisfaction and fulfillment exploring the rich tradition of economical literary snapshots, and their (most common) proverbial configurations of dual images juxtaposed. But while we both possessed some passing exposure and immense appreciation for the larger practice (including those seminal renga) from which the historical hokku was first derived, broke loose so to speak, and were extracted as individual set-pieces, neither of us had as yet experimented with the fusion cuisines blending these lasers of concrete meaning could be combined toward giving rise to and strikingly achieving between several participants working in concert.
Coincidentally, a very modern and sophisticated approach and technique for effecting such a collusion had just been wonderfully expounded upon at length in one of the latest issues of Frogpond, the official journal of the Haiku Society of America (a subscription to which is included with the very reasonable annual membership dues), and that fantastic article provided step-by-step instructions and made the practice so enticing that upon reading it an aspiring haijin like myself invariably becomes highly inspired to attempt at the first opportunity.
Thankfully Paul was extremely kind and generous, and expressed the utmost interest and enthusiasm for delving into something new outside both our comfort zones (“Love collaborating. Love learning new skills. Love working with folk that expand my own horizons…” he informed me commendably) so we immediately set about following the directions and prescriptions on how to fruitfully intermingle our Midwestern and Albion voices and sensibilities into jarring, provocative synthesis.
We began by determining two pieces each which seemed particularly suited for this process, having strong, discrete, somewhat contained lines and breaks which might conceivably stand-alone segmented. Our partner then provided two additional micro poems to be inserted into the gaps which arose when we allowed space between them for cooperation and solidarity. Within the first two lines and following the final one of the segmented foundations these two new additions were positioned. American readers might find a fitting analogue for the cross-sectioned sequence in those three buns of a customary Big Mac hamburger from McDonald’s.
After the collaborator added his two poetic responses to the original construction, the spinal column’s author contributed its final central heart of the sequence at the end, approximating the meat patty for our sandwich analogy, pi├иce de resistance of sorts to anchor it, signed, sealed and delivered. There are a few different approaches to the split, in certain circumstances they are done entirely by a single author, and others also prefer to have each of the inserted verses by the alternate party, which depending on objective can have its merits. But you may note that in this most common and popular arrangement each writer contributes six lines total, there is an even weighting and ideally a beautiful balance realized between the two voices on display, creating arguably a perfect Hegelian dialectic tension, bringing to mind competing magnets, see-saws, the Cold War, yin-yang…
Finally, we generated fitting titles with the intention—in a function not dissimilar to their applications via haibun or rengay—of their helping situate each work in its desired context of bondage and limitation, spatial or class, mental as much as relational, physical and metaphoric. I’m enormously grateful to Paul for so magnanimously suffering the six-hour time differences from Minneapolis over the pond to where he resides while working together with me, lending his inimitable spark and potent original edge to these works. Each of us being of a contrarian bent, admittedly somewhat unconventional in our own fashions and methodologies, these may well represent haiku[1] splitting unlike any you shall encounter anytime soon, I hope you won’t hold that against us too harshly! Thank you for reading, would love to hear your thoughts on our barmy escapades... :D
--- Jerome Berglund, Minneapolis MN
Collaborative Practice:
Quarters
---Paul Brookes and Jerome Berglund
parlor room
Wooden serviette
rings, from Woolworths kept special,
white linen napkins.
undercover maid is revealed
bowing under
weight seems to leer
arctic shelf
...if it weren't for you meddling kids!
dead ones dull
Yorkshire Stone cannot match the flashy
posh shiny granite
Chicken Wire
---Paul Brookes and Jerome Berglund
these millennials not having children...
root, rot, pit support
steel arches - the Drift darkness
often stared into mute
master forces captives
Llewyn Davis
takes requests
sitting for da Vinci
to multiply
once much clank, heat, scrape
busy dust there is left gust
heat slow dust turn light
Bird Rescue
---Jerome Berglund and Paul Brookes
All cages free caged.
ladybug
is not moving
chipped nail
Release imagination.
lamp helps avoid trip
on railway tracks, see roof yawn
cathedral crumble
Chains chafe, break blood out.
Walgreens lot
man approaches car window
mismatched shoes
Fish Tank
---Jerome Berglund and Paul Brookes
poison in veins frees
lonely blonde
balcony scene
torches doth teach
skin to need more poison pain
Nowhere to go dream
dependent. Free to roam, to contemplate.
Locked into four walls.
skewers a ladder
climbing this staircase
time and time again knees cry out
EscherCassondra Windwalker (Freedom 2022)
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| Cassondra Windwalker |
revolt
the ravens are all dead
the salmon choke out
on rocks at the ocean mouth
and the tide has cast off
the tug of the moon
no? no.
it is only one more skull
piled outside the city gates,
only one more feast to fill
the bellies of the fat,
only one more lie told as truth
to wax-filled ears
so, I will still pick among the carcasses,
make meat of misery, find food
for fury in the bodies of my brothers,
send sun-lit flames flashing
from ebony wings to the eyes of the blind
I will swim upstream, I will transform
from silent gray to crimson outrage,
I will plant my seed and glory
as its life consumes my own
I will turn to the moon
and say, drive me,
drive me against this sand
together let us mold
a new earth,
and alter all these shores.
***
Our Mother’s Children
I have forgotten their names,
she is muttering, her arms clasped
‘round her knees as she rocks herself
back and forth, and I must
lean in, strain to hear her
over the planes and the shouting
and the crumbling,
but I am grateful to pretend
this is more important, that her words
carry more weight than those bombs do –
whose names? I ask,
and her eyes clutch mine,
full of tears.
My children’s names, she says,
but she has no children.
likely neither of us
will ever have children,
likely neither of us
have more than a month, a week,
an hour of our own,
but now I too am crying,
rocking myself in empty arms like a babe:
we have all lost
we have all forgotten
the names of our children,
of our mother’s children
we heap graves upon them
we cannot mark.
***
April Eighth
away they would go,
and away they went
each clutching their scant hoard of self,
whatever that still comprised:
coats and hats and photographs
and ID cards and grandmother’s jewelry
and her son’s hand
and his daughter’s chubby little legs
slung over his shoulders
away they would go,
and away they went
away from screaming sirens
and bombed-out buildings,
away from bodies in the streets
and torture in basements,
from torn throats and torn skirts
away they would go,
and away they went
they were waiting on a train
that did not come,
in a graveyard where timetables stood crosses:
their tickets punched,
their journey ended.
away they would go,
and away they went.
***
Bio: Cassondra Windwalker is a poet, essayist, and novelist presently writing full-time from the southern Alaskan coast. Her novels and full-length poetry collections are available in bookstores and online. She enjoys interacting with readers and generally decent human beings on Twitter @WindwalkerWrite.
Antonia Wang (Freedom 2022)
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| Antonia Wang |
Broken Radar
Every bloom is a feast to the hungry bees.
They don’t mind that we haul them
to the almond fields.
Every flower gets a kiss.
Latitude is not freedom
without nectar.
Words revolt against a thought
unwinding from unknown spools,
the broken radar beats
a borrowed compass.
Who will survey the haunted forest
if not the lost,
the ones who can see the riddles
in the falling mist
and hear the clarion calls of wings
that will someday become extinct?
***
Only for a Breath
Silence shudders before the wind.
My pores stand in attention
to the waking beat.
I took pictures of a ram
settling disputes for the drove. He is still
a sheep.
But I am ether, grass and sea—
a fractal of a mountain
in the amalgamated ridge,
a complete tomorrow
when the moment still exists.
I am dispersed and collected,
in uncompromising dawns
that fade and last as long as I live.
I am free.
***
Southern Home
This home creeps around me a mile a minute.
It covers my face until I morph
into the Earth Goddess (with an outstretched hand,
spewing water).
It bears roots before it chokes me
between the windows and misgivings.
I trip on the encroaching vines
and touch can feel like cuffs on breathless mornings.
It once smelled like joy, so I jellied
racemes of blossoms. I pickled the leaves,
made soup with the oblong roots
for as long as my hands could move.
Paralysis. I can’t see the sun. The green
in my irises has dulled and winter is hopes away.
By then, I’ll be gone. I’ll be a wisp,
an apparition, a Southern ghost.
***
Bio: Antonia Wang is a foodie, poet, and yogi born in the Dominican Republic. She is the author of Love Bites, In the Posh Cocoon, Hindsight 2020, Retrospectiva 2020, and Palette. Her poetry has been featured in various literary magazines and anthologies. She writes in English and Spanish and lives in the United States. Connect with her on social media @tuttysan.
Samra WaHeed (Freedom 2022)
* 1 *
Today’s freedom
A series of letting go
Of your mind
Your programming
Your past
The parts of you that you thought were you but aren’t
Things you thought made you that hold you back
The moments of meaning
Ones you made in situations that did not exist
Except in your mind’s desperate attempt to be chosen
Shed your skin
Time and again
Leave the wreckage of your previous life
Where you made yourself small
And sat in dark corners to be forgotten, never missed
Your cloak of shame does not fit anymore
Shine Polaris
You guide ships still finding their way
***
* 2 *
I bought my freedom in exchange for years of bleeding
Broken at an early age
My father, ever a distant stranger in his chair
My mother a ghost
Later replaced, a skin filled in psychosis
Father filled his cup to forget
It worked well, he forgot us
But I could never forget that cup
I despised it
The smell sickened me
I did not always know what it held
But I knew it made me sad
And how I felt it needed to be washed differently than others
More slowly, with gentle hands, in my tears
This is the cup that made him talk to me like I had words
Even after his passing, his cup is my prison
Decades later
Still chipped in the same places
***
* 3 *
Free me to love and let love be… In all that is my essence
Let it reach from my toes and grow
Through the roots of my hair to its curled tips
Allow me to breathe in love and let it ripple out of my center
A deep indigo
In the stillness that holds tranquil the moon, in midnight sky
Fast, at the opening of day
Through to Evening’s embrace, on the back of Wind’s quiet chill
Where does my skin find humility and warmth to unburden itself
In the need for a sway, safe against insecurities, like bare trees in Autumn’s breath
My leaves are gone but I am still here
Waiting for Winter’s White to dress me in the cloth of cleanliness
Cloaked in beauty
***
untitled photo and painting by Samra WaHeed
Bio: Samra WaHeed is a dedicated elementary educator who enjoys teaching writing among other subjects. She completed a master’s degree in her field, focusing on equitable instruction. Samra began writing poetry in 2009 after making a life changing decision. Samra draws inspiration from her experiences and the beauty she finds in nature. She loves hiking, conversations and coffee, and music. For Samra, writing has been a space for self-expression and healing.
Angela Thompson (Freedom 2022)
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| Angela Thompson |
Victors
You’re above everything
momentarily
leaning into your
New Laws, imposing
monetarily on
preoccupied pawns
upholding promise
carefully versing
considering your
Cruel self-confidence
how your fervent sect
produces your cold,
zealous negligence
wields unseen weapons
upon workers and
children: how dare you
now descend on
communities—times
you created.
***
Diverted Potential
Days open like blooms
while no clouds overcast
plans: set dreams, seeds
when whetted rise aspiration
but give way, dampened
by forceful assertion
wielding passionate disregard
as if saving grace weren’t
mercy— kindness of humanity
which humbly extends
hands to meet need
without cajoling.
***
Free Play: Last Decades
snuck cigarettes taste
laughter inside cracked windows
fallen leaves crackle
under hidden feet
twenty inches from our chins
outside, feeling cold
below windowsill
flatware clanging, dinner smells
like winter coming
time, figments passing
twenty years plus ten
autumn has arrived
***
Bio: Angela is an experienced freelance writer and editor from the United States. Presentation, perception, and language drive her professional and creative works, the latter which seek to encourage enthusiasm for nature, diversity, and acceptance. She resides in the Southwestern U.S. with her marriage partner, where they dream of travels after retirement.
Ms. Thompson can be reached via direct message @CaTxAng
j.a. savage (Freedom 2022)
 |
| j.a. savage |
There's no way you could imagine
There's no way you could see
What you would do when the prison doors flew open
And you were told you were finally free
When you walked out into the blinding light
The time was one twenty-three
The transport you were promised was nowhere in sight
So, you found shade beneath the limbs of a skeleton tree
The streets and the town square were empty
There was no life anywhere to be seen
On the prison walls someone scrawled 'Satan please tempt me'
And you thought By God I know what that means ...
The evil that you do will find you out they say
If not tomorrow or next year then sooner than someday
of that you should be sure and have no doubt
Best secrets are best kept, don't retrace your steps or explain your whereabouts
When the sun disappeared and the night fell
The chill it quickly set in
The gates and doors locked at the prison
And you outside crying, begging to be let in
The hell of loneliness out there is worse than eternal or original sin
You rattled the gate and wept at your fate and begged again to be let in.
***
A Home Again
You can't get where you want to go
Till you've left where you don't wanna be
I was born a long way from my home
I couldn’t escape the chains of liberty
I was born in a strange and foreign land, I've had to cross a dozen seas
finding my way back to the home
Where I had never ever been
And set about searching for the family I had never seen.
They welcomed me with arms outstretched praised the earth I walked upon
showered me with love and riches and begged me never to be gone
I had no reason to leave this place still my feet they itched to wander
there were plenty other families out there to make my own in the next town or beyonder
I took care of them and all their needs were met
There was a lump in my throat for the home I left
It was bitter cold and I felt sad for a second
I kept my soiled gloves on, the wind called my name
and the open road it beckoned
It would be warmer weather where I was going I reckoned
***
Hum Drumming
In the mighty jungle of watermarked stipulations
through the skinny walls of codes and regulations
they stepped lightly over fire and foreign relations
and dismantled, reassembled and listened in to our conversations
Their uniforms were neat and scrubbed and starched
and steam pressed
they were armed with ideas they’d panel beaten and reprocessed
watching us closely while we were getting dressed and undressed
And resistance was futile and so was protest
every scream of no was received and recorded as “Oh, Yes"
And hailstorms, burning heat, sleet and snow gave us no rest
Who was surprised, who amongst us couldn’t see it coming
Bullets flew, bombs went off and it was pointless running
the courageous fell, the brave and gentle as well and
the spoils went to the cunning
We sang it’s all gone to hell
there’s no ringing of bells
just the nearby groan of drones humming
We clicked Yes to agree to their terms and conditions
subscribed distracted to the faithless suicide missions
our FAQ’s turned over into secrets and superstitions
And devices overruled and ruled over all our intuitions
Beyond the mists and in the distance
there are no drummers drumming,
no joe strummers strumming
we sing it’s all gone to hell
there’s no ringing of bells
just the nearby ongoing groan
of drones humming
***
Bio: j.a. savage is a South African writer and poet who has had a long career as a
music publisher. He continues to work in the creative world and lives near
Utrecht in the Netherlands.crow rudd (Freedom 2022)
 |
| crow rudd |
they came for the poets
they came for the poets
and we did not speak out
for we did not know it was happening
the burmese junta had switched off the
internet
and scraps of information
were barely making it
past the virtual blockade
they came for the poets
4 dead, over 30 imprisoned
and we did not speak out
for it did not make the headlines at
the time
outside of a few fringe reporters
"though i have different views
than you
i’ll lay down my life for you all"
k za win wrote
three weeks
before he did
they came for the poets
but khet thi made cake
ice-cream and poetry
before the violence of the military
coup
robbed him of his future
“they shoot in the head
but they don’t know
revolution is in the heart”
these words spoken
at k za win’s funeral
before khet himself was arrested
and beaten to death
they came for the poets
but kyi lin aye was a teacher
beloved by her students
her blood type on her arm
her last wish
that her body be donated
to someone in need
instead, the junta
harvested the organs
of those it murdered
they came for the poets
in the place poetry has thrived
since ancient times
the place political poetry
has been stifled
unsuccessfully
since 1962
the place poets
have been beaten
arrested
and killed
for generations
and the west does not blink
because poetry is the weapon
to unseat tyrants
and we are full of them
they came for the poets
and we are speaking out
because the most beautiful souls
are lost in the harshest of ways
and they must always
be
remembered
***
apanthropy
there are times i want the numbness to
take me again
to go back to my late teens
when we drowned our emotions
in ethanol and smoke
crushed pills and resin
and the mouths of everyone
too numb to care about us
i didn't care either
this is just how we passed the time
between friends getting sectioned
or driven to a&e
swallowing charcoal
and contraceptives
to make sure those nights didn't linger
our apathy would do the rest
time becomes a little unglued
when you don’t plan on sticking around
i think a year passed before i clocked
glances in the classroom
and it took another year to care
for the looks i was getting at home
unanswered questions about nights spent
under the bridge around the corner
spending whatever money i could get
at the one corner shop that didn’t ask
for id
there are times i wish i could
surrender
throw my arms out and trust fall back
into oblivion
take the bumps and scrapes
harsh words and harsher fists
only to forget what the fight was about
share a bottle of the strongest stuff
we could find
those wounds would reopen
only after we'd drank each other dry
it never really mattered
not like any of us had a plan
outside of who you'd bum your next cig
off
there are times i wish i didn't have to
feel everything
that the drugs had done their job
and stripped the burden of feeling
off this cage of flesh and worry
emotions permanently dialed to 11
the knob on the amp snapped off
grungy off-key notes strummed
on a hand-me-down guitar
followed by echoing shouts to turn it
off
i wish i could turn it off
there are times i wish i could reset
play the last few levels over again
i’d set new checkpoints
make sure to save my game more often
take power-ups over debuffs
and find more confidence for the boss
battles
i lost this game
and i’ll have to live with that
but the sequel is coming out soon
and i’ve got a new strategy
all cooked up
it’s time to win for once
***
little pigeons
"i always thought doves
were a strange choice
for a symbol of peace"
i hear from my hairdresser
mid trim
one wet thursday afternoon
i should preface this with the fact
that
my mum cuts my hair
maybe once a year
she was a ‘proper’ hairdresser
before she had my sister
i remember spending an hour or two
there after school most days
if i didn't visit wendy
the wonky old donkey
down on the beach
i was impromptu entertainment
for the women
who were monthly
or even weekly regulars
with stories about playground dramas
and how i did on my maths test
while she busied herself
tidying the grey curls that hadn't
changed
in over a decade
and how they'd chat
about the weather
their knitting groups
and how they'd rather come here
than the homes they
waited in
they never phrased it like that
but it was always the vibe i got
i never got the nerve to ask
what for
***
marvel movies
my father is a blank photo album and a
strong dislike for the smell of weed
he left me with a face i cannot love
and a distrust for authority figures
i set fire to my first relationship at
the age of 16 because i thought that's how it worked
i thought that's how men acted
i am not a man anymore
the idea became so repulsive that
instead of unlearning these behaviours
i shed the weighted vest of
expectations and dropped it into the sea
and then i set the sea on fire
now it just makes me angry
every hard line on my figure feels like
a failure
every macho bone in my body bends
against the softness i wish i inhabited
the roughness of my voice is the
villain of victims' nightmares
if i could wrench out my voice box and
still be a competent poet i wouldn't think twice about it
even my emotions are an edict to an
edifice i want no part of
the only thing i can claim as mine is a
heart
far too eager to sandpaper scrape
against old memories until it's ragged
now i watch time disappear like it's
afraid of me
i am told that women find me
intimidating
that trans people taking space is a bad
thing
and we all know men have been dangerous
for decades
so i wear dungarees with dinosaurs on
them
i avoid the gym and too much exercise
and try to convince everyone that i am
not a threat
that my darkest secret is that i just
want to be loved
try to convince myself that these
echoes don't define me
the kind of echoes that create bruised
ribs and split lips
the kind that gave my mother bruised
ribs and split lips
but i am not my father
i am
not my father
i
know i am not my father
but i am trying to teach myself not to
follow in footsteps i cannot see
try stepping out of a shadow in the
middle of the night
as a teen i filled notebooks with
reasons for why i shouldn't stay
i was righteous in my belief that one
quick fix would solve everything
i could make it painless
but thor 4 came out for my birthday
and there's talk of a young avengers
movie
and charlie cox is back as daredevil
and moon knight and blade and secret
invasion and kang the conqueror and–
i am alive because of marvel movies
i am alive because of all the reasons i
had to go
i told myself i could not leave until
it's finished
i cannot leave until i know how the
story ends
i cannot end this chapter while there
is so much left to know
and eventually i realised
every day is one extra than i ever
thought i'd get
every new experience is ecstasy because
i am here to see it
every new friend
every trip to distant cities
every new favourite food
every poignant moment between partners
every kiss and kind word and
every
marvel
movie
it's ok if the reason you haven't killed
yourself yet is a small one
sometimes it's all you need
i am alive because of marvel movies
and a desire to prove myself wrong
***
Bio: Crow Rudd (they/them) is a disabled nonbinary queer
internationally published punk poet, multiple slam champion, events producer
and workshop facilitator based in York. Their work focuses on the ideas of
mental illness, queerness, activism, grief, identity, queer love and the
importance of cuddles. Creator and host of Sad Poets Doorstep Club, founder of
the UK Trans & Nonbinary Poets Network and workshop facilitator for
They//Us, Crow has been published by Slice of the Moon Books, Paper & Ink
Literary Zine and Warning Lines, has featured at Manchester Punk Festival, Loud
& Queer Arts Festival and Leeds LGBT+ Lit Fest, and has headlined Punk in
Drublic, Switchblade and Incite!, among others.
Their debut collection ’i am a thing of rough edges’ is available from Whisky & Beards Publishing.
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