“(m)othersongs is a moving, visceral exploration of the othering nature of un-motherhood. Body-shame, medical misogyny and grief are exorcised in shape-shifting forms with veins of pain running through them, in which everything from cloud formations to sea gooseberries on a shoreline speak of the changing seasons of the human body. This is a world where ‘wooden babies’ and rag dolls are born in place of children, and the womb – a ‘special bedroom’ haunted by endometriosis, fibroids and myths of creation – is surrendered with the mantra – ‘it’s only a pocket, and one you’re not using’. Both heartbreaking and strangely transporting, these are powerful and necessary poems.”
Polly Atkin

 “(m)othersongs is one of those rare examples of a collection of poetry that is both moving in content and accomplished in form. Each poem is expertly crafted, with a skilled use of structured form alongside beautifully crafted free verse. This textured and vibrant collection does not hold back, it faces the pain of endometriosis and infertility and holds that pain up to the light as valid experience of womanhood. The poetry world is enriched by this collection, and I shall return to it.”
Wendy Pratt

(m)othersongs is very meteorological and very moonlit.

ISBN: 978-1-7398838-6-7
32 pages
RRP £6.50

 A sample poem can be enjoyed below.

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(m)othersongs (with p&p options)
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This has been the sunniest May since records began*

said the weatherman and every day my skin
absorbed the air’s hot butter; every day
through May, a barometric melt and swelter
until I was slick with sunshine. My eyes
ripened from green to gold, and freckles
swarmed my arms like fire ants. Helium
trailed in my wake, a shimmer of heat-haze
to burn out the dazzled retinas, as mercury
rose from toes to thighs to breasts. I blazed
with the fizz and pop of hydrogen,
a meteorological Midas making a yellow 
mess of everything I touched, spilling
from room to room like steam, hissing
and flexing on limbs of plasma. I was fat
with photons, my mouth a glary corona
flaring electricity wrought from a heaving
belly. Month long, I radiated, basking
in the glow of my own brilliance, alive
with convection and luminous to the core.
But May broke like an egg, the sun’s
ruined yolk puddling round my feet,
as I succumbed to clammy blue in the rains
and the hail and the thunder of June.

First published in Finished Creatures 

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