Charm for croup
Whelks is an ugly word when they are a collective noun of chinking that nestle her neck; tiny roosting birds in a camouflage of greys on a red string of hope. Her breathing is stridor, fractured. Her clavicles fragile … Continued
Author: Char March
Char March is a multi-award-winning poet, playwright and short fiction writer. Her credits include: five poetry collections, six BBC Radio 4 plays, seven stage plays and numerous short stories in anthologies and literary magazines. She has featured on BBC TV and radio. She’s been Writer-in-Residence for: Leeds Hospitals Trust; Ty Newydd (the National Writing Centre in Wales); the award-winning Pennine Watershed Landscape Initiative; Hull University Business School; and she has worked on creativity in business education in Latvia, Slovenia and Brussels for the European Foundation of Management Development. She is currently Writer-in-Residence for the NHS in North West England. She loves working across artforms - with artists, dancers, musicians and sculptors.
Website: http://www.charmarch.co.ukнадеяться Espoir আশা Hoffeホープ Hope
they enter the world naked, struggling into the avalanche of the different colours of light the various textures of air the drowning notes of breathing and sea the lack of heartbeat they wave arms like antennae, feet like pennants … Continued
My whole birth plan was ruined (the Hebden Bridge version)
my partner should have been here – on this side my three best friends on the other side it should have been the midwife-who-did-what-I-said not the one who said “all that matters is that you and your baby are healthy” … Continued
My whole birth plan was ruined (the sub-Saharan Africa version)
my husband died of AIDS when I was one month pregnant my best friend died of lymphatic filariasis when I was 3 months pregnant my mother died of typhoid when I was 6 months pregnant my sister died of malaria when … Continued
We were parents
You played hide and seek through our dreams for years before you arrived. Then, once we’d tigged you – that squirm of blur inside that pulsing screen – we lay at night trying not to giggle; straining to … Continued