My most recent collection The Tempest Prognosticator is published by Salt in the UK and Random Umuzi in South Africa. My earlier collection A Fold in the Map is published by Salt in the UK and Jacana in South Africa. You can read more about these books and other publications (like joint work on the sinking of RMS Titanic, The Debris Field, published by Sidekick Books) here, along with poems, details of forthcoming readings and the odd snippet of news (for more, you can visit isobeldixon.tumblr.com).

I am currently working on a collaboration with Scottish artist Douglas Robertson, inspired by DH Lawrence's poems in Birds, Beasts and Flowers. More detail and images can be found here and in forthcoming journal publications.

 

Recent Work

 

2 Poems in Prairie Schooner

'Stars, Flowers, Grass & Us' in The Dark Horse

'Nobodies' in The Mimic Octopus

 'Suitcase Heart' in Popshot 11

 

New work forthcoming in:

Poems in Which

Under the Radar

Poetry Salzburg Review

Verse Junkies

The New Statesman

 

Events 


1 December, 7 p.m.: In the Heat of Shadows,

Shakespeare & Co, Paris

2 December, 6:30 p.m.: Pelmeni Poets, London

See more on events here.

 

Some Reviews

 

Interview on LitNet, May 2013

Debris in The Island Review

British Council Writers

The Tempest Prognosticator

'Dixon's Strange New World'

'Rich Reward for Readers'

A Fold in the Map:

The Mail & Guardian

The Financial Times

 

 The Moving Finger


The moving finger writes, and having writ,

moves on, my Yorkshire granddad would recite,

one cheek traced with the gas tears from the Somme

he always smiled through, as I listened, rapt.

 

He’d sketch arthritic cursive in the air

to illustrate the verse and I was sure

that fate’s so-certain digit looked like that.

I’d murmur caravanserai, Omar,

 

delicious phrasings to rehearse with him,

tasting the sounds – Khayyam, and Rubaiyat

not sure my grandma liked the talk of wine

and song, strong words for girls, such opiate poems!

 

I think now of the brimming cup that clears

today our past regrets and future fears,

and muse on theirs. Did she prefer it

when he quoted Owen?  I run my fingers

 

down his treasured miniature, of softest kid,

wondering how close the well-thumbed pages came

to blood. The book keeps mum, as they all did.

Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.

 

 

 

 

In memory of Frank Metcalf Dixon

(who fought in two World Wars,

& of my great-uncles, his brothers, one of whom was wounded in WWI, 

& of their comrades who didn't return home as they did)