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Amy Kinsman is a genderfluid poet and playwright from Manchester, England.
As well as being the founding editor of Riggwelter Press, they are associate editor of Three Drops From A Cauldron and the host of the regular Sheffield-based open mic Gorilla Poetry.
They consider themself both a written and performance poet and are currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Sheffield.
138 x 216mm
£6.00 + P&P UK
PUB:26 MARCH 2018
Just like the symbol itself, the poems in & are the moments in between. These are poems of choice, refusing to choose and having our choices made for us – where everything hangs in the balance and we must decide who we are and what that means.
“A collection in which profound intimacy meets true poetic intelligence - all the old sorrows and joys given voice through a new form of contemporary romanticism.”
“Intimate, surprising and bold, the poems in & announce themselves with formal dexterity. Amy Kinsman achieves what so many writers strive for: the ability to be knowing and awe-struck at the same time, to approach the world with both wisdom and incredulity. This is an exciting debut.”
“& is a collection of gorgeous, vibrant and powerful poems of being and becoming in, through and by way of language within the complexities, dark nooks and crevices as well as enlightenments of the craft of poesis in the making, metamorphosing, drifting, hovering even between being and being again in the playful threesome of language, lover(s) and self(ves).”
Winner Indigo Dreams Pamphlet Prize 2017
the moth, the moon and the bathroom light
it beats its body against the walls,
loops about searching for where it entered
and, looking for escape, rams itself into the mirror.
the moth knows nothing of lycanthropy –
satellites, orbits, celestial bodies, gods, tides,
devoted insect that it is, hurting, forgetting,
with every dizzy wingbeat against the bathroom light,
all laws against idolatry. the smallest of sins
is held inside it, a halo burnt onto the retinas.
i, some damp and naked giant, observe
the divine ecstasy of loving, the masochism
of devotion as it scalds itself against white heat.
look at me, pitiless, apathetic as a spent bulb.
i am thinking of a dent in a set of iron railings;
how the bend backwards still aches in the struts
as if, even now, these bars are straining
to pull away from their wrought framework,
the echo of a spine’s final, awful contortion.
they’re reporting that he was an actor, a young man
with kiss curl hair and dimpled cheeks, still keen
to talk about stanislavski. they’re printing his face
in an oval beside a photograph of the damaged fence,
and i am thinking of him pinned there like a butterfly,
his lungs fluttering in the darkness. they’re saying it
probably took a full minute and asking what he was
thinking stood there with the engine running.
perfect posture. isadora duncan. nobody’s watching.
freak accident, they’re calling it,
and i am thinking of how some things
can creep up on you, like a jeep rolling
backwards down the drive,
whilst you’re facing the other way.
lovers with lysergic acid diethylamide
a white half-moon in tinfoil // keeps corrupting light out // melts into reflection // against tongue
you swallow me in your ocean // in your cerulean & amaranth // there’s nothing so ecstatic as drowning // your voice pouring chlorine // without smell // without sting // i’ve had enough // duck egg blue // baby sick yellow // geography green // speak my colour // i’ve always seemed translucent to me
taste of rust filters up from downstairs // dining room // someone is corroding // back & forth // & back & forth // across carpet // stuck on the word // escalator // escalator // escalator // escalator // fucking escalator // escalator // escalator
open palm // clenched fist // closed palm // open fist // there is a weight to you // fingers lay down // & rise again // grasping // you make my hands so heavy // don’t you know // what this gesture means
teeth against teeth against teeth against teeth // open wide // set them free
what i mean is // holding you // in the morning rise // is not dreaming // but close your eyes // it could be
(( some nights // your arm on my waist again // lurching past // clairvoyance ))
from it's like this
vi. it’s like this:
two of your lovers stand before you. the one on the left is the first person you ever loved though you only know this in retrospect. the one on the right you recently realised you are in love with. the winner is whoever’s name is the first out of your mouth. both of them are women with scrutinising gazes whose eyes glisten with mania through their curtains of dark hair. both of them lower their deep, brassy voices. somebody turns off the light. all of you are counting the seconds.
vii. it’s like this:
you are having a threesome with two of your lovers, both of them men, both of them avoiding looking the other in the eye. one above, one below, the two of them are locked in a tug of war over the spine of your being. the pressure builds. you cry out i don’t bend like that, but they continue as if they have not heard. your bones splinter at sacrum and coccyx. you snap in two. the winner is the one holding the larger part.