Elizabeth Rose

Its been a while since I frequented one of my favourite online underground haunts…read Restless on Savage.

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A more gentle approach this time with Bait on The Beat. This site is going from strength to strength, and since I last graced its doors with Love Whore it has showcased some talented work. Some particular favourites of mine include Street Life by Paul Kavanagh, Romance by Tony O’Neill and Woman Seated In […]

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“Shadow Puppets” (page 16) and “On my father: Sheik Mohammad Jallow” (page 17) can be found in the latest Ranfurly review. This great online zine is now in its third edition and going strong - showcasing the very best of new writing and highlighted by Jacob Sam La-Rose a few months back for its promise. […]

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It’s been some time since I’ve hit this ace little ‘zine with some work and so I fired over one of my latest poems Drought. I’m playing around with shape poetry at the moment and I’m rather enjoying the results. This is the first step towards my visual poetry experiemnts which are just around the […]

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To enhance my resolution to read more poetry, I have created the Elizabeth Rose: poetry critique blog. To kick start this, Mario Petrucci´s In Touch has been the focus of my attentions; a modern day rhetoric on the ancient concept of eros using foot fungus as a focus. Intrigued? Then read it.

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I’m rather pleased about this one as I like www.thebeat.co.uk. It’s a little gem of a writing site with a big set of balls. Anyway; I sent them my poem “Love Whore”, and they’ve put it up (cue odd seated celebration dance after a day of mind numbing site testing and content checking). It has […]

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I have just come back from an inspired writing week with Sue Hubbard and Mario Petrucci, collectively known as Writer’s Inc. Based in the mountain village of Torrox (Malaga province, Spain), the week was a perfect mixture of damn hard work and relaxed Spanish charm. If anyone thought it was going to be a gentle […]

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The stories pour from pendulum eyes, weighted by the wait of years,where shadows loom larger than the buildings that overhang, mist
and mimic like a comedian no longer loved, betraying his guilt in his limbs.
Those eyes, worn well but not outside, not yet, as he leans closer in
to move that brow and grasp that spirit that […]

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