Tiffany Atkinson
Tiffany Atkinson Poems
The husband is a mud-on-the-boots philosophy
in old jeans, loving nothing so much as slow growth.
His thoughts are distinctively British cooperatives,
jovial stall-holders subbing each other loose change.
...
It started unremarkably,
like many regimes. We sat like children
making quiet things indoors. The rivers
...
First, you write how heat
is like another body on your back:
you're losing years each day by way of minerals.
They teach you to drink Coke with salt in
...
Later he tries to explain
the turquoise joy, at ten,
of that first Rangers strip;
his birthday-fingers skidding
on the wrapping's brittle ice.
...
Tiffany Atkinson Biography
Tiffany Atkinson (born 1972) is an award-winning British poet. In 1993 she moved to Wales where, after completing her studies in Cardiff, she became a lecturer in English and Creative Writing at Aberystwyth University. In 2014, she was appointed Professor of Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia Born in Berlin, Germany, to an army family, Atkinson was brought up in Germany, Cyprus and Britain. After graduating in English at Birmingham University in 1993, she moved to Wales, where she gained a PhD in critical theory from Cardiff University. On behalf of the British Council, Atkinson has conducted workshops and academic seminars in eastern Europe. In both 1993 and 1994, she won the BBC Radio's Young Poet of the Year contest. She became Senior Lecturer in English and Creative Writing at Aberystwyth University, while undertaking research into theories of the body and the history of anatomy, contemporary literature and poetry. She remained in Aberystwyth until 2014, when she moved to the University of East Anglia as Professor of Creative Writing.)
The Best Poem Of Tiffany Atkinson
Portrait Of The Husband As Farmers' Market
The husband is a mud-on-the-boots philosophy
in old jeans, loving nothing so much as slow growth.
His thoughts are distinctively British cooperatives,
jovial stall-holders subbing each other loose change.
His chest is a trestle laid with rare meats, smelling
of the smokehouse, his belly a seed-loaf, knotted
and oddly exotic. The sex of the husband's a plump
trout, a one-off, lolling silverside-up in its shine
for a wife with the eye of a magpie. His heart,
apparently a leafy crop, is a loom of many rhizomes
reaching furlongs - who knows how far? The husband
is mineral-rich, irregular, leaving scraps of himself
all over the street for starlings to pocket. Is a crowd
of bright skins in a bushel, wheels of feral cheese,
impossible brews from the ditches. Is the season's
measure, taking the weather however it turns out.
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5/14/2024 2:08:26 PM # 1.0.0.1119
