Christmas 2009

As the fresh breath of new year approaches I thought I would comment on my Christmas. I would say it started with the Cherryade Christmas party in which I read my poem and compared for most of the night. I also made some lovely vegan mince pies, a very slushy nut roast and some delectable vegan shortbread, see the Shrieking Violet January issue for the recipe! I also made an adorable handmade mouse with a string tail for my beloved sister Lily. The performace I saw at the Dukes, Lancaster of The Wizard of Oz was a exciting, contemporary take on one of my favourite children's classics. My favourite aspect of it was the puppet Toto and other textile quirks which really revitalised the performance. I am still to eat the Christmas pudding I bought from the Coop and sadly the Gingerbread house my friends and I made collapsed but did not spoil our fun at Your mama's cookin'. I hope to have such a fun and revolutionary year as I have of 2009 but perhaps with a wiser owl perspective.

A Christmas Echo

My Christmas poem featured on Cherryade's Christmas album 09 and the December issue of The Shrieking Violet, (An alternative fanzine guide to Manchester) I made the mouse for my little sister Lily, She loved her and named her after my pet rat Pandora.

A Single Candlestick flickering in the shattered light.
I thought I saw a shadowed illustration of you on this cold December night.
Tinsel laced Christmas trees, ribbon wrapped gifts, gingerbread biscuits, a misplaced mistletoe kiss. You couldn't possibly resist.
You worry now your hands become cold, you were bad this year now coal lines your stocking sole. You wonder if you will grow tired and alone, no candy striped treats will surround your home.
The sweet sick smell of cloves, suffocate your old dusty lungs. Remember the carved wooden hearts together we hung?
The place where the Christmas tree once sat echoes now the love we once had.
I sliced my hands on the Christmas tree ferns. Buttons of blood fell to the floor. Now when I think of you it makes my heart burn.
As I walk through the cold, I feel strange steps as I saunter through the soft sludgy snow. But no footprints are left as I step through winter's bitter glow.
Ribbon red twirls, curls and swirls, tinsel lace wrapped around your wrist, pulled so tight blood
drip
drip
drips
A Christmas tinsel tingle brushes past my neck. was that Father Christmas I saw put presents by my bed?
Not for me you fail to let me forget.
No presents are left for those who are now dead.



Merry Christmas! x