Books

 

New:

 

Coming out shortly with Five Leaves Publications in January 2008, my edition of  The Sword Without, reporting from Palestine during the British Mandate (1943-44) as seen through the eyes of a freelance woman journalist working there at the time, Barbara Board. 

 

My poetry is can be purchased from me, direct. It is also on sale in

- Books Etc U2 Mall N. London

- Waterstone's Hampstead

- Pons at The English Bookshop, 4-6 rue du Colombier ( by the Pilgrims roundabout) 

- Saintes, at La Perfide Albion (street running from the Arc de Triomphe to the Abbaye aux Dames...excellent English groceries) .

 

Published December 2004: Tears of Honey and Gold, with Five Leaves Publications, Nottingham

 

Tears of Honey and Gold is the fruit of the author's long-standing love affair with Spain. For sample poems, see below.

 

To order or for further information:

info@fiveleaves.co.uk

Tel: 0115 9603597

www.fiveleaves.co.uk

 

£5 +10% postage

 

Overseas orders by credit card to Central Books 0208 986 4854

 

Or through j.karp-gendre@wanadoo.fr

7 euros + postage (for Europe 1 € 90 First Class; 1€ 40 Second Class)

10 $ + postage for US. US cheques acceptable. 

 

 

Return

 

Guadalupe was a pale postcard.

Crumpled.

 

The asphalt montage

fragile.

 

Cafés, cash dispensers

and the grocer:

           

"They've purified the olives

in our oil."

 

I looked in at the hotel. No-one

by the pool.

 

No wonder you didn't

recognize it.

 

originally published in Never Bury Poetry

 

 

In the Bar

In the bar, Aznar, all in blue, mumbles away at us

from his giant screen in the corner. Nobody listens.

 

The tourist office sells a brochure on

Intolerance in the Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. 

 

Outside, the hills breathe fenugreek and history.

Far below, the river rumbles. Mopeds imitate

 

angry insects. On the ramparts, an Italian calls "Salute!"

to his sneezing wife. For a second, I hear "Salaam."

 

A vulture circles over terracotta walls and pale

round Arab tiles. Rounded tail. Thin wing feathers.

 

Poised, totally indifferent to

the overhead roar of fighter planes. 

 

He's seen it all before: Romans, Visigoths,

Arab, Berber, Aragonese. Republican. Nationalist.

 

And now Aznar, mouthing his proud policy in Iraq. 

 

 

 

 

Sudden Maraschinos published by Redbeck Press. 

A 5 perfect-bound, 60 pages.

Price £ 6.95, 10 euro

+ postage

 

 

order through your usual bookseller

 

or from

 

David Tipton

Redbeck Press

24 Aireville Road

Frizinghall

Bradford BD9 4HH

UK

 

or contact me: j.karp-gendre@wanadoo.fr  (local postage rate for France too)

 

See below for extracts….

 

 

 

Sudden Maraschinos brings together poetry inspired by several European countries, in particular Sweden and Germany, as well as Kolodno Verses, a sequence written in an isolated village on the Polish-Belarus border where I went in search of my roots. Here is one of those poems, alongside the garden of the cottage where I stayed. Photo "August" © Tomek Wisniewski tomy@ld.euro-net.pl

Tomek also took the cover photo on the book.

 

 

Here the outer world comes

only

in other people's cars,

smugglers bearing cheap vodka and cigarettes

down narrow lanes from Belarus,

smart young men with red number plates

selling

the day's brief solace.

 

 

 

 

 

Swiat pojawia sie tutaj

W samochodach z czrwonymi rejestracjami

Waskimi drogami od Bialorusi

Przemytnicy taniej wodki I papierosow

Przywoza  kilka krotkich chwil ukojenia

Na sprzedaz

 

Polish translation © by Jarek Mosiejewski JarekM@optushome.com.au

 

 

 

Sudden Maraschinos was shortlisted in the Paris Review Poetry Collection Prize in 2001 and has been twice shortlisted in the Redbeck poetry collection prize as well. Kolodno Verses was commended in the Scintilla Long Poem section 2002

 

Extracts:

 

Lady in Red

 

I am thinking about the lady in red, 

the one right opposite, and wondering

why she interests me – tartan-armoured skirt,

barbed shoes, bullet-proof scarlet,

fisted blond hair, jet-vicious designer bag.

 

I am wondering too why my day must fill

with other people's conversations, 

her chat on her un- yet umbilical phone,

eyes blank to us sitting here on the edge

of departure, on the brink of a question.

 

Even so she impresses me. In my padded coat and

comfortable shoes, I know I am inferior. On board,

she picks a tabloid oozing murder and ripe flesh.

Relishes each page of pumped-up breasts and

plastic-covered corpses. But then I watch her turn

 

her nose from blue rare beef, holding out each

slice to sniff the blood dripping gently

on green beans and plastic tray, before

discarding it. Strange, when I offer her my

Svenska Dagbladet, well-done, she refuses.

 

Paris Charles de Gaulle - Göteborg

originally published in The Reater

 

 

Vilnius 8 a.m.

 

and the twenty or so restored churches are gleaming

with Unesco gold

when the old Russian woman in her broken mules, old striped socks

gripping her swollen legs, is rushing stool under arm

to her draughty perch in the Orthodox Church archway

and up by the MacDonald's smart new drive-in

someone has thrown water over the night's blood.

 

A gang of joyful children pull

a sleeping man's shoes off his feet

and drop them with arm-raised cheer in their plastic booty bag.

 

originally published in Penniless Press

 

 

 

back