Brought up in a secluded village, this poet had alot of time with her own thoughts. She grew suicidal in her teenage years, hence the taste of nihilism in her poetry. The lucid images often come from her childhood nightmares, which were bloody and generally murderous. She graduated from the University of Witwaterstrand in South Africs with a PhD in Tribal Religious Studies. This came after her work as a wartime nurse in WW2, where the bloodshed only added to her disturbed psyche. She is a devout buddhist, despite her odd tendencies to nihilism. She worked in a convent in the early fifties, simply to ridicule the ritualistic christian practice, but was kicked out after 6 years of service. Since then she has worked in a corner shop in Yemen, selling sewing machines and horseshoes. Her poetry comes as a single old woman, who has had a stunningly varied life. She is working on an autobiography at the moment, but health is failing fast for this old wench and she hopes that she will make it.
Blest be the loaves
Which gave thee sight to hear
My song of culinary magnificence.
...
Soporific, transient images float;
the shooting pain keeps me vivid
as Delauney, except my palette is
pain not paint. The limp head hangs
...
What are you to do when you see a dead duck,
Its wings snapped like a coffee stirrer in Starbucks,
Its intestine exploded like vomit on Sunday morning,
And its beak, broken from its face?
...
A breath is not a word
A whisper is not a sentence
Pain is not a paragraph
But Pride and Prejudice do make a book
...
Reay Reay is a ray
of sunshine in our gloomy day
lighting us up, like a cigarette
before the smoking ban
...