Biography of Chrys Salt
Chrys Salt has performed her poetry country wide, in Europe and the USA. She is published in a wide variety of journals, magazines and anthologies and work has been broadcast on Radio 3 and 4. Collections include Inside Out (Pub: Autolycus) Daffodils at Christmas (Pub: Galloway Poets Series) , Greedy for Mulberries (Pub: Markings) and Old Times (Pub: Roncadora) .) She writes books, theatre and radio plays, features and documentaries. She has been the recipient of numbers of Bursaries, Grants and Awards including a National Media Award (for her book Here We Go: women’s memories of the 1984/85 Miners’ Strike) a New Writing Bursary, a Work Development Grant, a year- long residency at RHBNC, London University, a Fringe First for her production of The Last Obit by Peter Tinniswood and most recently a residency in France funded by the Poitou-Charente Region. Chrys divides her time between London and Galloway, SW Scotland, where she runs The Bakehouse, a flourishing arts venue. www.thebakehouse.info
Chrys Salt Poems
Hymn To Mastectomy
Here’s to the woman with one tit who strips down to her puckered scars and fronts the mirror – doesn’t give a shit for the pert double breasted wonderbras
A’fighe Le Feur – Weaver Of Grass I.M. A...
The Loss His mother lived
Driving Into Rain
The wet road follows us - a gleaming tail looping round steep and lake. Bleak sodden sheep
Old Lags: Dumfries Prison
Old Lag’s don’t dance, and yet they do keep time – Time’s what they do, reeling with all things done each quick-step slowing to the measured chime of clocks that drag each minute through the bone.
Sex Of One.
Dave Cork and me behind the chicken shed. ‘You show me yours, I’ll show you mine’ he said. Some of his Wrigleys for a flash, that was the deal. (I wanted cash) !
Lost (Iraq: March 2003)
There are no maps for poets in this country. The compass finger, mindless on its post will not direct us on this dangerous journey. An unfamiliar landscape tells us we are lost.
With Adrian At The Peace Festival (I.M. ...
Driving Into Rain
The wet road follows us -
a gleaming tail
looping round steep and lake.
Bleak sodden sheep
like neighbours at a wake.
A bug splats blood
to briefly stain the glass.