ARTICULATE LAUREATES

Lindsay Balderson

Lindsay Balderson loves words and the intimate relationships they form with one another. Humour plays a big part in her poetry, she is a natural performer and likes nothing better than to make her audience laugh. Lindsay is a typical Piscean and has a deep interest in the mystical and magical and these often weave spells in her writing. She was born and raised in Darlington and lives there still. She has a full-time job as a busy P.A./Supervisor and is also a complementary therapist. Lindsay joined Vane Women in December 2001. Follow the links to read Lindsay's pieces on this site: Fortune Teller, Kyoto The Devil's Sonnet Tea and Puns The Night Before the Morning After High Force to Low Force

Joanna Boulter

Joanna Boulter grew up in Wiltshire and sampled several countries in the Far East and Middle East before moving to Darlington with her family in 1989. She's been writing poetry forever, but in common with many other women wasn't published until she was 40. Since then her work has appeared in many magazines and she's had several competition successes. Her latest is to win First Prize in the Poetry London competition. Her first collection, Running With The Unicorns, was published by The Bay Press in 1994. In 1997 she won a Tyrone Guthrie award from Northern Arts, enabling her to complete a long sequence of poems, On Sketty Sands, based on her maternal family history (right back to the ancestral Welsh pirate!), published by Arrowhead Press in September 2001. Her third collection The Hallucinogenic Effects of Breathing is from the same press, published May 2003. She won a Northern Promise Award this year to continue research into her sequence of poems on the composer Shostakovitch. Joanna received mentoring, as part of the Award, from David Morley of Warwick University. Follow the links to read Joanna's pieces on this site: A Visitation The Might of a Pig Bulletin I Could Bless This Secluded Island The Woman In White If I Were a Giant

Diane Cockburn

To say Diane Cockburn has an unusual view of life is an understatement. Her style is black humour with a slight bias towards vegetables, moths and assorted toothed creatures. She was brought up in Belfast during the Troubles, so Death regularly appears in various guises: sometimes as a potato, sometimes as a mound of saturated fat. Her first collection, Under Surveillance was published in 1999 by Vane Women Press. You can also seek her out at the sign of the sanctuary knocker . . . She is to be found on Durham Writers. Diane joined Vane Women in February 2001. Follow the links to read Diane's pieces on this site: Advice On Being Offered Hawthorn Blossom Hair Today Do You Fancy a Paddle? Growing Green Following Tradition

Anne Hine

Anne Hine is a poet who thinks deeply, unafraid of questions of spirituality in a world often violent and uncaring. A love of language, sensual word-play and humour make her poetry speak as it enlightens. She has lived in the North for the last twenty years and has used her many life experiences as material for her writing. Her first collection Dark Matters was published by Vane Women Press in 2001. See Lowdown. Follow the links to read Anne's pieces on this site: Out of Whom Seven Devils Were Cast Female am I Sea Offerings Blank Page Syndrome Concluding Pink Pebbles

Pru Kitching

Pru Kitching: born in Sunderland, schooled in North Yorkshire and County Durham; wrote a lot; trained in theatre in Manchester; wrote a lot; married a painter and was widowed; didn't write; ran away to Copenhagen; travelled a lot; came back to Weardale in the North Pennines; writes a lot again. Her first collection All Aboard the Moving Staircase was published by Vane Women Press in 2004. She joined Vane Women in 2006. Follow the links to read Pru's pieces on this site: I Am

S.J. Litherland

S.J. Litherland's work encompasses love, politics, loss, and philosophy. She has five published collections of poetry, The Long Interval (Bloodaxe 1986) Flowers of Fever (Iron Press 1992) The Apple Exchange (Flambard 1999), A four-part book, The Work of the Wind published by Flambard in July 2006, and a sequence of poems about former England cricketer Nasser Hussain The Homage from Iron Press, October 2006. Her work has appeared in various anthologies, New Women Poets (Bloodaxe), Forward Book of Poetry 2001 and North by North-East (Iron) She has received two Northern Writers' Awards for her writing. Originally from Warwickshire, she has lived in Durham City since 1965, bringing up a son and daughter. She has four grandsons. Follow the links to read her pieces on this site: Aneirin and the Sea Fears at Fourteen Sonnet 61 Enginehouse near Burnthouses XXXI Durham Bus Station XXII The Eclipse for Linda The Quartz in Your Valley for Barry MacSweeney

Dorothy Long

Dorothy, Dot to her friends, is wife, lover, mother, grandmother, ex-teacher, borough councillor and for one year only, Mayor of the Borough of Darlington. Her work, mostly poetry with the odd short story reflects this varied world. Family, friends, loves and irritations, politics and prejudices are her subjects and to write a novel is her ambition. Domestic in scale, though varied in style, her poetry demonstrates an interest in pattern and form, repetition of sound and rhyme. Follow the links to read Dorothy's pieces on this site: No Random Loving One Lamp Louie Beach Betty Blue Dresses Big Top

Marilyn Longstaff

Did lots of writing for work and politics; made up stories and silly rhymes for children; flirted with academic style in pursuit of higher qualifications; creativity moved from knitting to writing in 1994 when she joined a women's writing class at Darlington Arts Centre. Since then she has read a fair amount, been on a few courses, done an MA in Creative Writing at Newcastle University, had stuff published in magazines, received a Northern Promise Award from New Writing North. She has two published collections of poetry: Puritan Games Vane Women Press 2001; Sitting Among the Hoppers Arrowhead Press, 2004. At present, she is trying to write the odd thing and learn how to be an editor for Vane Women Press. Follow the links to read Marilyn's pieces on this site: Abandoned Homework Darlington Tea and Puns Engine House (Burnthouses) Promoted to Glory Dale View Gayle Maud

Pat Maycroft

On the fells of the upper Gaunless Valley in the wind, rain and snow is the place where Pat feels at home. A visual artist who writes about the history of place, the events of daily life, of death, and of the after life. In 1998 Pat gained a first class Honours Degree in Photography at Cleveland College of Art and Design. As a member of the Royal Photographic Society she is currently recording some of the Nation's listed buildings to provide images for a web site created by English Heritage. Through this work and the discovery of ancient parish boundary stones, Pat has been inspired to write some of her best poems, appearing here. A major selection of her photography appears with poetry from Pat and Vane Women in Northern Grit (Vane Women Press) launched at Durham Lit. Fest and Darlington Arts Centre in July 2002. Why not take a look at some of her photographs? www.imagesofengland.org.uk Follow the links to read Pat's pieces on this site: Inglenook II Halloween Thought for the Day Eggleston greets Marwood Traffic Choked City Yellow Tulip Stone

Chris Powell

Chris Powell lives in Weardale and teaches performing arts in Sunderland. On her journeys between the two she composes fragments of deathless prose in her head, and then forgets most of them. A number of the stories she has managed to recall have been published in various magazines and anthologies and broadcast on Radio 4 in the afternoon reading slot. Her first collection of short stories Burning the Blue Winged Boys was published by Vane Women Press in 2005. Chris joined Vane Women in 2006. Follow the links to read Chris's pieces on this site: Extract from Adele's Amazing Electric Shepherd

Margaret Rule

Margaret Rule is a mixture of Yorkshire common sense and dry humour which her work reflects in every line. She has been writing for fifteen years since retiring from thirty years teaching, mainly in Darlington. She is a wife, mother and grandmother. Her work has been published in various newspapers and magazines including The Yorkshire Journal, Northern Grit and Rewriting the Map. Her first collection The Right Amount of Vinegar was launched by Vane Women Press in October 2005 at the Gala Theatre, Durham Follow the links to read Margaret's pieces on this site: Job Satisfaction Black Shoes Autumn in the Borders Blues Thrown Out of Orbit Colonel Noah Shepherdess

Judy Walker

Judy Walker lives in Hexham and is a freelance public relations consultant. She writes short stories and when she grows up would like to be a novelist. Judy finds inspiration often comes (inconveniently) when driving - from Radio Four programmes if she is alone or from the eavesdroppings of her three teenage children when they are passengers. She writes about oddball and outsider characters and, worryingly for her elder sibling, finds the difficult relationship between sisters is a recurrent theme in her work. She has won a few short story competitions and was runner up in a competition, organised by Radio Four arts programme Front Row, to write the opening of a novel featuring an accountant as the main character. She joined Vane Women in 2006. Follow the links to read Judy's pieces on this site: Small Town Love Party Time White Elephants and Other Mumbo Jumbo Up Is Like Down Portrait of Andre

Annie Wright

Annie's hot first pamphlet collection Including Sex was published by The Bay Press in 1995. An original and scrupulous writer, her work is rich in sexual lyricism. The poems are sensual, and often frankly sexual, full of taut phrases and energetic explosions of imagery. Her long awaited first full collection Redemption Songs from Arrowhead Press, published April 2003, was described by Fred D'Aguiar as "unabashedly erotic". She is literacy consultant to Darlington LEA's primary schools and loves working with teachers and children on effective ways to develop and improve their creative writing. An experienced workshop leader, Annie has led writing sessions with writers aged four to seventy plus! Her current obsessions are with the interplay between art, sculpture, landscape and male/female relationships. Follow the links to read Annie's pieces on this site: The Night is Holding its Breath Lovebites Dog days Clerihews Star Man Chaos Theory Resting Place

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You've read the biographies of our articulate laureates, now continue to read a selection of their work.

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	FORTUNE TELLER, KYOTO The still, jasmine-scented evening air hangs heavy. With nervous anticipation, she slowly approaches the low, white building which lies ahead, fists clenched in quiet determination. A white-barred grille partitions house from street. Hands, slick now with cold perspiration of anxiety, pull tentatively at the chimes which herald her arrival with jangling insistence. Screens slide, a glance of wisdom takes an instant snapshot. Deep, brown wells of eyes betray a flash of 'knowing', Eastern mysticism meets Western scepticism in shared curiosity. With an incline of the head and a sweep of the arm, the Fortune Teller of Kyoto bids her enter the silent room. By moonlight and flickering lantern-light, they sit at the low table in focused collaboration. Haunting, oriental music, steals in through an open skylight, as the Japanese seer, hand upturned, reaches out in invitation. Her client, no longer afraid, offers her deeply-etched palm, exposing her life's blueprint. Lindsay Balderson

	A VISITATION How to respond? when an angel comes tobogganing whee down over the arch of a rainbow (leaving a snazzy multicoloured trail) and ends up tumbling heels over halo to land thigh-high in a stand of lilies? What to do? You brush pollen from his white nightie, find your comb for his wings; but this isn't what he came for. His narrow feet grow restless as rollerblades: now he's dangerous, a grounded comet. The air fizzes round him. The lake is lapis, the trees are all enamelled in emeralds, the courtyard gravelled with diamonds. But his ruby lips are tight buttoned. There are angels who bring messages, who ask riddles - but this one has skied down out of heaven to perch precarious as a rocket in a milk bottle, ready to explode the everyday. He's waiting. You have to take a chance. And what you do is write him a flower, pick him a bunch of poems. Joanna Boulter

	ADVICE ON BEING OFFERED HAWTHORN BLOSSOM Hawthorn sprigs shimmer pink, shimmer white. Scent strong as butter, intoxicating as burnt feathers. Do not pick the Fairies' flower! It leaves black luck, slams hedges shut, sours milk and steals babies, it leaves changelings mewling in other-world falsettos, blasted crops, twisted faces. Hawthorn trees glow with caged light, feeding off moonbeams. Branches are Fairy fiddle-bows, bluebells cluster like courtiers, farmers plough round them, turn a blind eye, as Little People burrow at their roots for suck. Blackthorn knobbles are their runic notches. Petrified bones stained black with bog juice, demon faces peep out of knot holes, black as pitch, black as pickled hearts, their hidden power crackled into blossom. Guilty bumble bees cross themselves in flightpath, as they carry back unfortunate pollen to hives, and their babies grow fairy faces and lap honey with furry tongues. Not knowing, I pick a tight bunch for my mother, her face lets me know, barely concealed superstition fumbling with the cross at her neck. It sulks outside on the windowsill, tiny eyes watch from their bushes, daring us to take it in. Diane Cockburn

	OUT OF WHOM SEVEN DEVILS WERE CAST I am she, yes the one Out of whom seven devils were cast, Only seven? Now know myself a free woman No more a slave, a pawn, a plaything. Liberated from lust I honour my being dress my hair, clothe myself decorously Cease provoking, alluring and sly looks. I have found my centre, My anchor, My still point, A new trust. For a compassionate heart loved me With an unconditional love. Did not ask my body in return, Or my kisses, entanglements, or services. Saw through my treacherous insecurities And brought to life the "who I am". You can say what you want. Mutter darkly in your hearts - we know who she is - No, No, I say:  who she was who she was. Keep your purses closed There's no gold can buy me now. Anne Hine

	I AM one who thinks too much and drinks too much one whose blue eyes blink too much and whose pale skin pinks too much one for whom politics stink too much, who thinks there's a nod and a wink too much one who is on the brink too much, whose heart is prone to sink too much one whose ego shrinks too much, whom life will always jinx too much one whom the gods think out of synch too much and one who is destined to flinch too much. Pru Kitching

	ANEIRIN AND THE SEA He is singing his world into existence, the baby is crooning, not simple agoos but a long discourse, his eyes, the first eyes of addressing the audience in waiting. He has learnt people croon these sounds to each other, these long singing phrases, and nod and smile and gesture. Not only people he speaks to in their first language before words, he is changing his world into sound. This first ever naming, trapped in a baby's mouth in fossil crooning, halfway between singing and talking, this Ur-language faithfully kept in the books of his body, encoded, recorded. Aneirin sings of the world and sings to the world. Next day we present him to the sea. The sea is casting noises on the shore, crunching water with a heavy beat, returns and lingers. The sea a melody, the first music, the crooning wind talking as wood talks, the pram on the sand hushing, hushing, and clicking and clicking, the dog rustling his paws, air thinly vibrates with gull swoops and gull call, we are chatting and laughing, catching words in a ball and tossing back, the world is ariel, aural, all spaces resounding. I show Aneirin the sea constantly moving itself, and think the ancients were right, stars must be singing in the high register of light. At home Aneirin reports to us, translating his three month old world, his eyes concentrated on this, his first poetry, for poetry it is, half talking, half singing, a reincarnation of first sounds in the first people, the world emerging into words not yet words, phrases not yet phrases, yet phrased and strung, this precious necklet not yet a necklace, and wonder catches us wonder catches people, So young and he sounds as if he's talking. Aneirin is crooning of the sea, of paintings on the wall, of floating conversations, of the inborn when it was born. S.J. Litherland

	NO RANDOM LOVING No random tracing, this, Fingers framing tacitly The words we needn't say. Fingers, merest breath of hovering air, Claiming, learning again This line from hip to shoulder. Words and bones articulating, Back and belly undulating. No random murmuring, this, These words breathed softly, lip to lip The words we want to say. Mouth, merest breath of hovering air, Stroking, loving again This line from neck to knee. Limbs frame thoughts intently Bodies moving gently. No random coupling, this, Movement forming, making The words that ever say, My dearest, this caress of hovering air Tracing, reading again This line from hair to toe, Is passion's expression Of a love, an obsession. Dorothy Long

	ABANDONED after the title of Naomi Dum Blake's sculpture.This is in the garden (at Beth Shalom Holocaust Memorial Centre) which she has dedicated to the Dum family's ten grandchildren, who perished in Auschwitz. It's important that there is a record in the heart of the English countryside. 'Out of the depths have I called thee, Oh Lord.' 'Why do you forget us? Where do you hide?' In the heart of the English countryside, Beth Shalom - I assumed was run by Jews; Why do you forget us? Where do you hide? In undertaker's suits and unbrushed shoes? At Beth Shalom, which I assumed was run by Jews, two Christian brothers, trying to make amends, in undertaker's suits and unbrushed shoes. For those who never returned - families and friends, two Christian brothers trying to make amends. Formal rose gardens, in memory of those who never returned - families and friends, honour 'their courage and their dignity'. Grandchildren's garden. In memory, Naomi Blake, sculptress, moulds sadness and rage, honours 'their courage and their dignity'. For each, a red rose, a plaque with name and age. Naomi Blake, sculptress, moulds sadness and rage for millions who died, those dying now, for each a red rose, a plaque with name and age. From Rwanda, Auschwitz-Birkenau, for millions who died, those dying now it's important that there is a record. From Rwanda, Auschwitz-Birkenau, 'Out of the depths have I called thee, Oh Lord.' Marilyn Longstaff

	INGLENOOK II In silent significance she stands waiting clothed in black windowed to invite you in. Mounted on ancient bricks thumbed by men, she beckons for a light. This Flemish tart kindles well. Illuminated in waxy sweetness she draws in and exhales with smouldering eyes. Candles flicker. Backed onto warm stone surrounded by pine timbers she lays out her stall. An array of trinkets. A smooth pebble lifted from the beach. A flat iron without laundry. An Arabian coffee pot to simmer. Embrace her now as the glow fills her cheeks. The silence is significant. She lies waiting to pleasure. Pat Maycroft

	Extract from ADELE'S AMAZING ELECTRIC SHEPHERD She wore a white blouse, a white gathered skirt she made herself in sewing classes, white pumps and a silver cross, engraved with fleur-de-lys. The cathedral roof swam with angels, the air cracked and spat out blue stars. Each precisely parcelled and shrink-wrapped movement of muscle took her closer to the sunburst of splintered ice through the eastern window. Every marble-flagged footstep, bone-cold through the thin soles of her shoes, cancelled out a sin. She knew that as surely as she knew about French irregular verbs, how electricity was conducted and that the nave, built in the fourteenth century, was the longest in Europe. Stone bishops skulked in the shadows, she recited their names like a protective credo: Walkelin, Wayneflete, William of Wykeham, Beaufort, Langton and Fox. When she neared the end of the line she heard the flesh and blood bishop saying his words over and over again. This was nothing like all those practice sessions with shavings of water biscuit - how to let it lie on your tongue, how to swallow without biting or choking, how to generate enough saliva so it doesn't cling like ripped nylon to the back of the throat. The swallowing was always so difficult. She was thirteen years old; she hadn't eaten for six days, saving herself up for Jesus, serving herself up to God and it didn't matter that this was the wrong religion, in matters of salvation, it would do. 'Poor Adele! It's such a shame your family couldn't come,' said Mrs. Bates, 'I always think Confirmation is so special.' Adele looked out of the mullioned window of the Chapterhouse Cafe, at the teenagers sprawled over the Buttercross amid the paper bags and bird-shit, smoking cigarettes. 'My parents had a prior engagement,' she said, mashing a slice of pink and yellow Battenburg into tiny pieces with her knife, although, actually, she hadn't told them. Chris Powell

	JOB SATISFACTION The woman behind the counter pushed a pile of papers through the slot and shouted, "Next," before I had time to pick them up. It took a while to fill it all in and then I queued again. The next woman read it through and said, "But you already have a job. You have a job as a church cleaner." "I know I have a job," I said, quite put out, "but I need a change." And I do, I need a change from being a church cleaner. It's the cold and the silence and the whispering from her. As soon as that great wooden door closes, click clack on the latch and a thud of wood then it enfolds me like an invisible cloak. That faint smell that is no smell at all lies thickly in the silence and takes my breath. I know the only footfalls are mine but that that makes no difference. I can feel them following down the aisle in the silence. I always begin work at the altar. It's the furthest away from her. I polish the huge candlesticks first. They are so heavy that I have to take them down on to the floor for safety. They are not made of gold but I keep them shiny with elbow grease. They have a barley sugar design from top to bottom and it takes an age to polish all those ins and outs. I know she watches every move I make. I can almost hear her breathing, and she brings a coldness. I discovered her name. Euphemia de Clavering. She died before her husband and I do not want to know why she sleeps so uneasily. She needs to tell someone of her distress. I must be the one. As I move my cleaning up the church she becomes more agitated and her whispers are clearer. Each week they become clearer. So I must find new work before she overcomes me. The sunlight falls through the blue of Mary's robe in the stained glass window. It makes a shivering pool on the tiled floor. I see Euphemia's shadow in the blue pool. She whispers to me that her husband Ralph Neville is unfaithful. He found a lover even when she was with child. She cannot rest, her successor lies too near. When I come to her effigy and carefully dust her face I imagine I can see lines of sorrow carved into the stone. And then the next effigy is her rival, the next wife. Over this wife is a canopy decorated with stone flowers and it is guarded by to crowned angels. There lies the difference, one resting place so plain and the next almost a work of art. He even had a smaller effigy made of a little dog to keep her company. She rests her feet near its head. What does Euphemia want from me? I cannot change the stone or the past. The dog's eyes are large, his expression winsome. I think he is very life-like. I wonder if she had a name for him. "Solo, that was his name," I hear Euphemia's voice loud in my mind. I know now what she needs to make her rest peaceful. I move the small stone dog with a great effort. It has been there for almost six hundred years. Carefully I lift him in my arms and lay him at the feet of Euphemia. She sighs. There is peace in the church. Sunlight shines through Christ's halo bathing the whole nave in golden light. It is suddenly warmer. I will not go to the Job Centre again. I already have a job. Margaret Rule

	SMALL TOWN LOVE It was only the bell, still broken, that stopped them going to practice that evening. There was a notice on the slype door: 'no bell-ringing tonight - number eight not mended yet'. They read it, discussed the inconvenience, eyed each other up. She was precise, buttoned up, verging on nerdy. He had clammy hands and a greasy face on a long body. "Have you seen the pyramid?" he asked and pushed the door for her to go in. In the Abbey's north transept quiet air hung like sheets and they stared at the blue glass pyramid. "What's it for?" she asked "That's just it - what's it for?" She was startled by the energy of his response. The verger appeared. "What are you doing? You shouldn't be in here." "We came for bell-ringing," grease boy wiped his nose with his hand. The verger's eyes iced over. "Didn't you see the notice? It's cancelled. I'm locking up now so you'll have to go." They walked towards the door. "Bloody kids," they heard him say. "Very Christian," said nerdy girl. "Very British," said grease boy. Outside he put his arm round her waist. She didn't object and they found a place to go for a cup of soapy coffee and cellophaned biscuits. She dropped the wrappers in her empty cup. He swept the crumbs from the formica with his hand. Their love was text messages coming through at midnight, discussions about glass pyramids after bell-ringing practice, small beer in a small town. Judy Walker

	THE NIGHT IS HOLDING ITS BREATH I gaze into the pond, wander over the grass to the apple tree, before I realise I've not breathed. I let it out, a telltale trail on chill air, afraid it might be discovered, bagged, assigned a code and used in evidence. Trying to be normal, not to arouse suspicion, I am eaten up with fear. I lean against the firm back of the apple tree. It upholds me, lightly, easily, unjudgingly. It does not harm or bully me, blackmail or provoke. It does not resent me, hate me or condemn. It demands nothing from me, although it could, as I stand here looking for stars, taking its support. Through its upthrust arms I saw the comet, heard the urgent message to flee. I have climbed, hugged and harvested this tree. I have watched it bleed sweet plasma while I wept. Now your new leaves tremble as I say goodbye, tomorrow, when I've run, it's you I'm going to miss. Annie Wright

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Web site design by Roger Cornwell. Biographies last updated on 10 December 2006 and the selections from their work on 10 December 2006.

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