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Susan Jordan moved to Devon a few years ago, having lived in London for the greater part of her life.

 

She is glad to have escaped from the city and enjoys being near to Dartmoor and the sea.

 

She read English at Oxford and has an MA in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University.

 

Susan has always written both poetry and prose. Before joining Jo Bell's online poetry group '52' in 2014 she saw herself mainly as a prose writer, but since then poetry has played a greater part in her writing life. She has had poems published in a number of print and online magazines and is an active member of the south Devon poetry group Moor Poets.

 

In November 2016 she self-published a collection of pieces from her blog,

The Belated Writer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry

 

138 x 216mm

 

68 pages

 

£9.99 + P&P UK

 

ISBN 978-1-910834-56-5

 

PUB: 11 SEPTEMBER 2017

 

 

ORDER HERE

 

 

 

 

 

 

In A House of Empty Rooms Susan Jordan writes about her family and Jewish background, about love and loss, and about the lives of famous people. Some of the poems are serious and elegiac, while others are ironic, blending pathos with wry humour. We are rarely far from the presence of death, but there is lightness here too.

 

******

 

"A House of Empty Rooms is filled with deftly crafted, nuanced poems which explore the meaning of family, of mortality and change with tenderness and integrity.  Susan writes, ‘I didn’t say my heart/ was a house with all its doors wide open/ or that it was you who’d opened them’ but that is exactly what these poems achieve."

Rebecca Gethin  

 

"Susan Jordan conjures scenes from childhood that bring you in and seat you at the family's table. There's a lot of grief in this finely worked collection, but it's tempered with an inner humanity. A rich book, which rewards a careful reading."    

Simon Williams  

 

"Susan Jordan's first collection roams over many subjects and the poems are sharply observed, poised, and unfold pleasingly and coherently. Whether she's speaking of breaking breakfast taboos or of lost or  unrequited love, the poems crackle with acerbic insight."    

Roselle Angwin

 

 

 

Susan Jordan

 

A House of Empty Rooms

 

 

Aldous’s Last LSD

 

Though almost blind, he saw

more clearly than we want to see

the cracks in our pretences,

history’s endless failures.

 

What he didn’t see so well

were ordinary things: road signs,

sharp corners, small gestures,

expressions not caught in words.

 

The end didn’t come as a surprise:

Laura beside him, music playing,

tablet taken to guide him to the light

his lack of vision couldn’t hide from him.

 

Slowly the capacious mind fell through

its net of words into the space beyond.

He didn’t hear Kennedy had been shot.

 

 

The Graduate

for Adrian

 

Not graduates yet, we sat holding hands,

you in your flowered shirt, me with eyelashes

like stiff-legged insects, both as uncomfortable

as Benjamin in his snorkelling gear, eager

to learn more of life – for life read sex –

too gauche to find another’s gaucheness funny.

 

He wasn’t like you, but the way

he bumbled into Mrs Robinson’s room,

his seriousness, the intensity in his eyes

reminded me of you, a clever boy

who was still learning how to be a person.

I couldn’t emulate Elaine, even less

 

the one who twirled those tassels on her nipples,

but wished I could have been that kind of girl,

equal to everything life threw at her.

What I remembered after was the music –

Simon and Garfunkel’s sweet close harmonies –

our palms sweating into one another.

Four Apples

 

In these fruit you caught the light

that escaped your other paintings:

four apples on a crumpled cloth,

three large ones close together,

the fourth smaller and apart.

 

That sole apple, was it you

busy herding us into a family,

or my father, shrinking away

inside the world of his paper;

or was it one of us children

preferring our own misery

to your comfortable half life?

 

You and my father are gone

and cold years of silence

have barred me from my brother.

I am left with the apples.

 

 

Bluebells

 

You wouldn’t pick them but took home

the broken ones. The sad heap

drooped between us on the splintery log,

keeping us apart. You’d made tea

for both of us, carried my flask,

laughed when I said it wasn’t fair.

I saw grass transformed to blue

through your camera’s eye, heard

the birds’ song through your silence.

 

You gave me this place, shared

your love of its wild inhabitants:

orchid, campion, those white stars

I couldn’t name. Beyond woods

evening softened the sea; behind us

the embrace of green hills. We smiled

at one another. I didn’t say my heart

was a house with all its doors wide open,

or that it was you who’d opened them.

021 9781910834565