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Kate Garrett was born in southwestern Ohio in 1980, but has lived in the UK since 1999. At the age of three she fell in love with reading and writing, and after an eventful childhood and young adult life – during which she never stopped writing, but had no real direction – she finally earned her BA (Hons) in Creative Writing with first class honours from Sheffield Hallam University in 2014. She is now (slowly) pursuing postgraduate research at the junction of literature and folklore.
She is the author of several small books, including a previous Indigo Dreams pamphlet, The Density of Salt, which was longlisted in the 2016 Saboteur Awards. Kate’s work appears here and there, online and in print, in a variety of publications, such as Prole, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Rust + Moth, and The Black Light Engine Room, among others, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She’s also done many readings across the UK, including Sheffield, Manchester, North Wales, Oxford, and London.
In January 2015 Kate founded Three Drops Press, which exclusively publishes poetry and fiction based around folklore, mythology, legends, and fairytales, and is home of the webzine Three Drops from a Cauldron. In March 2016, she founded Picaroon Poetry, the web journal for rogue poems.
138 x 216mm
£6.00 + P&P UK
PUB: JULY 2017
These are poems about surviving doomsdays. People use the word doomsday to describe the apocalypse, and apocalypse simply means ‘an uncovering of knowledge’. Every life has its share of apocalyptic moments—not only great catastrophes, but also small secret revelations, and surprise twists of good fortune as well.
They leave you with lessons learned,
and stories to tell.
“These poems have glittered paint on their earth-caked broken fingernails. They dance the path between this, and the otherworld. Their vision is as bright and as ancient as the moon.”
Editor: Ink, Sweat and Tears
“Kate Garrett’s poems stride dauntless across a nostalgic landscape. They cartwheel through youthful nights of lights out-stories to the graffitied hell of love and womanhood, stumbling steadily toward inevitable wonderment.”
James H. Duncan
Editor: Hobo Camp Review
“Impassioned and otherworldly, You’ve never seen a doomsday like it is composed with shadows, “love built on endings”, and a thin but stunning light in the dark—a glimpse of what can be reborn. Encompassing the grace of a natural storyteller, Garrett’s poems unfold with haunting candor. Readers of this book will be transported where they unknowingly longed to be.”
April Michelle Bratten
Editor-in-Chief: Up the Staircase Quarterly
You've never seen a
doomsday like it
The circular route
my face is a filter on the city –
pupils, iris, woolly hat, orange
coat reflected back
through glass, colouring concrete
she’s there at the phone box
a pattern of keys
no one’s touched this year
hair the tarred
colour of tab ends
she exhales impatience
disguised as smoke
from thin nostrils
through glass, colouring my face
a filter of concrete
reflects back in pupils, iris
a pattern of touch
no one’s memorised this year
An august sacrament
The sun lowered itself into our six o’clock
armchair, blushing cream walls to the tune
of Dionysus’s blood, your faith between
my ribs chanting thanks to God for the static
and when the same sun has gone tortoise-slow
and quiet through the ground beneath us
the breeze that didn’t blow today transforms
a moonless night into myth – a remark thrown into shape:
it's summer, these things happen.
you would dance through
blackthorn if I asked.
I try to believe
in empires, effigies.
You’ve never seen a doomsday like it
He opens the car door for two sweat-and-dirt sculpted
children with ten cent hope – their earth-scent rising
as they root through decades of leftovers, synthetic dreams
once resting on every child’s lips: Smurfs, Garfield, He-Man.
My life at bargain prices, in stasis, this millennial cusp.
An askew Rockwell: the boy and girl treasure hunting
as the July sun makes toffee of the driveway, holds itself
multiplied in each cell of each husk of the rows of green corn
along the road from here to the village.
He asks where I’m going.
London, I say, the one in England, not Ohio. His face
doesn’t darken or cloud the way they say faces do;
his eyes stay the same blue when he says I am right
to get out. Either get away or load your gun. This year
2000 isn’t going to be pretty. These cornfields will burn.
Houses will be searched, he says, and I’ll be dragged away
like the rest. And he’s going to get his wife and kids
and keep driving. But you get on that plane,
he says, don’t come back –
my life spread out on folding tables between us,
the man laying down five American dollars for pieces
of my childhood; five American dollars
I will change to pounds sterling, while they’re
still worth something, while we have the choice.
He will send you a text by mistake addressed to his friend, saying it’s all too much, he got carried away, and you did too.
This you already know. You stay silent. You erase.
And you go to his house, he plays piano
for you, and the kisses are awkward, but his hands
wander anyway. You don’t know why you came here.
You were swept away by that aurora at your feet, where
the lamppost glow hits the winter street, when it’s cold
and London smells like frosted takeaways and it’s been dark since half past three. His eyes are coal before it burns, flecks
of black light that hide when he kisses your clove and nutmeg lips. You don’t want to see the solstice. You don’t care about
the sun. That evening he turned his head to the east; you could already feel his empty indent in your atmosphere,
the death of a dark star before its birth.