Poem by Alison Brackenbury

Eyewear is very glad to feature Alison Brackenbury (pictured) today. Brackenbury was born in 1953 in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire and went to the village school at Willoughton and then to Brigg High School. She studied for an English degree at St Hugh's College, Oxford.

Brackenbury has worked as a librarian in a technical college (1976-83), then as a part-time accounts and clerical assistant (1985-1989) and, since 1990 has worked in the family metal finishing business - a poet in a boiler suit.

She is married, with one daughter, and lives in Gloucestershire. Internet-savvy, she's one of the Poetry School's online tutors; and has a blog. Her latest collection, drawing on work from two acclaimed BBC radio features, is Singing in the Dark, published this month by Carcanet, from which the poem below is drawn. I've been reading this new book, and it is impressive, very English, lyrical, often based in Nature, or sentiment, and reminiscent of some of the best British poetry written between 1900-1930, while keping a contemporary diction.


Through, in, over, out.
Who else troubles about

Such little words? Sail past,
You solid nouns, the blast

Of verbs drives you to sea.
Adjectives glide, still lovely.

But icebergs glare and face.
Why hack at frozen space

Unless I come to you,
Over, out and through?

poem by Alison Brackenbury
from Singing in the Dark, Carcanet, 2008