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.
Tues 7 April, Beyond Words, 7.15 for 7.30,
The Gipsy Hill Tavern, 79 Gipsy Hill, SE19 1QH
Thurs 9 April, Geological Society
Friday 15 & Saturday 16 May,
Interview on LitNet, May 2013
The Tempest Prognosticator
A Fold in the Map:
One of the First Times After
Easter Sunday, 31 March 2002
One of the first times after: church,
and Easter Sunday. Good Friday
we had skipped: too soon, and too severe
a day. The days of our desertion,
no resurrection yet. If it were thus,
already, brethren, he would be
the one to hold the chalice to my lips:
long now since he had the strength for this.
Christmas last he struggled into vestments,
held the bread-filled paten up; the cup,
its taste of silver and sweet wine,
not quite enough to bind us,
fractious family, his slow diminishment
our own unhealing wound. He couldn’t say
the blessing till he’d gone to pee:
we waited with our silent fears and prayers.
We far-flung sisters had just one more chance,
communion at his bed. Surrendered now,
a calm and grateful ring of chairs,
a loving colleague with the book,
my father’s lines now his. Too weak
for words, propped up, he took it in –
a deeper feeding than the drip
we let him veto, swabbing out his mouth,
and letting, breath by breath, the spirit go.
Here, in the pew, a stoic three-some,
we bear the sermon and the intercession
made for us, bereaved; but leave – no, flee –
during the last verse of the closing
hymn. My mother, capable of facing
up to anything but sympathy,
and we, too, glad of the escape:
the congregation’s sincere looks,
this mutilated Eucharist,
the wrong priest’s hearty clasp.
From A Fold in the Map (2007)