Language and the Imagination Poetry Course with Aoife Mannix

On line poetry course with Writing East Midlands. Click here to book your place

Explore how to use imagery and imagination to develop your own poetic voice. 
 
Award-winning and widely published poet Aoife Mannix will be your guide through this course, designed for poets who are keen to push themselves further. Through experimentation, challenging prompts, and feedback, you will produce plenty of new work and learn how to assess your own poetry more objectively. You will explore how to name the world through poetry, how to use location and sensory imagery to create poetic worlds, how to use poetic techniques to travel through these worlds, and how to bring together the domestic and the surreal to bring your poetry home.
 
This course is suitable for those relatively new to poetry and for those who wish to develop their craft further.

About the Tutor

 
Aoife Mannix is an award winning and widely published poet who has read her work throughout the UK as well as internationally with the British Council.  She has published four collections of poetry, a novel and four libretti.  She has been poet in residence for the Royal Shakespeare Company and for BBC Radio 4’s Saturday Live amongst others.  She has a PhD in creative writing from Goldsmiths, University of London.
 
6 week course – 18th October until 25th November 2021

Mondays, 7 until 8:30pm

Archaeology

The day we found the muddy puddle.

Your wellies dancing

under a silent sky,

the imprint of a hawk

swirling overhead,

the honeysuckle in the hedge.

Your feet so much smaller

than mine, and no way to keep

those blurred boots beside each other.

Bone fossils, the ridges of where

we once had been,

you already tearing on ahead.

Anna Livia

She was a woman in water

collecting sweet wrappers.

Her hair the long sobs

of a drunk wandering home

in the small hours. Lost kisses

carved into her eyes. The floozy

in the jacuzzi, the whore

in the sewer. You had to

know her to make that rhyme.

None of those grey men in wigs

were so abused and slurred.

They stood around in solemn silence,

their crimes forgotten,

but she was closer to the streets,

the rebel songs my grandmother whistled

even when the words were banned.

They replaced her with a giant needle

pointing up to the future.

Sharp, unforgiving, uncomplicated.

Not a place where question marks

congregated but a story moved on.

What remains, what is removed.

Listening To Stars

The sheep cry in the distant fields

is full of leaves rustling

their secret summer song

as the birds celebrate June

with its sudden wearing of fox gloves.

Silk ballroom bees waltz in and out

to the hum of a lawnmower somewhere.

The breeze shimmering over the stream

is the calligraphy of this concerto

by a composer whose name

we have forgotten

in our rush to be silent shopping.

These spaces are breathing

balloons of clouds, a wisp

of a path leading up and up

towards a glass heaven.

A single note struck against the rim

of the universe where we are all

falling petals wishing for light.