The Vaginellas

THE VAGINELLAS

V.Press's first title – published June 2013 and performed at Ledbury Poetry Festival 2013.

Stark, ballsy and all-embracing, the poems in The Vaginellas are in turns very funny, very feminist and very empowering.

The strong distinct voices of these four poets – Catherine Crosswell, Jenny Hope, Sarah James and Ruth Stacey – explore the highs and lows of both the male and female body. No intimate parts escape untouched in this delightful concoction of fun, feminism, sauce and seriousness.

Their tight and engaging writing subverts the traditional triolet, sonnet, villanelle and sestina forms through subject matter and style, as these poets set mythology, metaphor and belly laughs alongside thought-provoking explorations of modern society, historical female creativity and contemporary cultural concerns.

That this should be V. Press’s first title, also seems particularly apt, given Tony Harrison’s eponymous poem V.

None of the language in The Vaginellas is gratuitous, every word serves its purpose – to captivate readers, be it in a lyrical, erotic, fun way or a reclaiming of historical terms that have been manhandled for years.

RRP: £5 / $8 / €6

Copies are now only available via Amazon.

SAMPLE POEMS

Cutting the Rose

Full summer and a blood-rose waits
to share her scent, her taste,
while he stands with a silver blade.
Full summer and a blood-rose waits
across the lawn, her life unmade.
He cuts her stem, lays her to waste.
Full summer and a blood-rose waits
to share her scent, her taste.

Jenny Hope

Little Red Riding Hood Reveals All

There are many myths told of down below:
the curly bush which hid that forest slit;
the blushing red cape with its silken bow;

how it fell from her skin, inch by inch, slow
hunger ruffling the wolf’s fur bit by bit
with a taste for myths about down below.

What big ears, what big eyes, what big teeth, oh,
the size of the beast’s wildness, as he split
open her red cape with its silken bow.

His nuzzling muzzle bent low – oh so low!
– exploring her woodland path lick by lick,
teasing out myths manmade down below.

So the forest fire raged. She felt heat grow;
its secret glow burned up from one lit tip,
hot as the red cape with its silken bow.

Thus the real fairy tale for all to know
of Little Red’s wood where she used to skip –
one of many myths hidden down below
the blushing red cape with its silken bow.

Sarah James

O’Keeffe

Georgia shapes the desert flowers into skin.

She uses a shard of mirror to see her core

whilst her skull of a sheep sits and grins.

Blunt mountains shift and the sand spins

the centre of an iris into something more.

Georgia shapes the desert flowers into skin.

The veil between fauna and human is thin,

paint seeks out what she wants to explore

whilst her skull of a sheep sits and grins.

Cobalt blue, olive green, zinc white within,

Alfred photographs her from outside the door.

Georgia shapes the desert flowers into skin.

Her pupils are wide as she glances at him.

She wants to perceive each pucker and pore,

whilst her skull of a sheep sits and grins.

The moon sets as she lifts a canvas to begin,

her vulva is a flame of life she can’t ignore.

Georgia shapes the desert flowers into skin,

whilst her skull of a sheep sits and grins.

Ruth Stacey

Full Scrotal Scronnet 

As your balls do loll on my plump behind, 
I feel the final thrust, then a slight ache. 
Engrained in the folds of my skin, I now find 
two of Mr Kipling’s exceedingly small cakes. 

Faux pas!! We forgot to clear them away, 
the biscuits, the cheese and the crackers. 
I did wonder of the rough chafing display 
rubbing me twixt the shaft and your knackers. 

Picnic grinding avec granola bar
delivered from the scruff of your scrotum. 
Juices sparking out of your brum brum car 
fuelled crème brûlé, caramelised potion lotion. 

The next time we dine, let us forsake all things food
and find a car bonnet to jump-start the mood. 

Catherine Crosswell