Fay Roberts

Fay is a 34-year-old classically trained singer from Cardiff who started performing at the age of 4.  She has been getting stuff published since the age of 18.  She was bitten by the performance poetry bug in Spring 2006 after a favour to a friend turned into a place in the final of a poetry slam. 

She co-manages a series of live poetry events (Poetry Kapow!) with the rather fabulous Danni Antagonist in Milton Keynes, performs in various parts of the Midlands and South East, and is part of a Milton Keynes poetry collective calling themselves Bardcore.  She currently gets excited by databases for a living, still sings in choirs and everywhere else and, since summer 2009, is based in Cambridge.

 Fay’s work has been described as: “lyrical”, “engaging”, “scarily good” and, memorably: “too many words... I got lost...”  Her voice has been described as “musical”, “mellifluous”, and “mesmerising”.

 Fay has performed poetry in Milton Keynes, Leicester, Coventry, London, Leamington Spa, Northampton, Bedford, and Stowe, in Open Mic, showcases, collaboration, competition and costume.  Sometimes she bangs a drum and on the same bill as a whole bunch of scarily good people it feels like arrant name-dropping to mention. 

Find out more at http://www.faithhope.co.uk

Poetry Kapow! is at http://www.poetrykapow.co.uk

Song to the Sea

A glance disarms my invention
My tongue tangles itself, tripping me
to drown headlong in two eyes
Like the sea at sunrise –
the exact colours of a long,
drawn-out summer dawn in Orkney,
Reflected.

Brain neglected, I happily bob and sway,
Shamelessly – well, nearly – floating
in the sea of your regard.

That small shame,
That... crimson shame threads through the blue
Like spice – cutting those cool sensations
with hot, sharp intentions –
The edge to every catching breath,
Striking deeper into my chest
with every push and cresting wave
and every tug and sighing release.

Oh, my love, for you I’d turn sailor,
Learn to read the weather of your ways, and
Ride the tides of your affections.
No longer shipwrecked,
I’d reconstruct your gifts –
Those glances given, smiles bestowed, and
words exchanged.
Then, on that craft of sighs and hungry nights
I’d traverse you ’til I lost
All sight of land.
And there, rocking on the belly of the murmuring mystery,
I’d weave my net of words and music
and cast to catch the moonlight,
Glinting from your wavetops,
and bring it home with me.

Come, mermaid, and I’ll sing to you,
To tell you of a love between the elements.
You’d see me true
and shore to you – holding, encircling,
Delineating but never limiting,
Smiling as again and again
you throw yourself into my arms,
then run your fingers down my cheek
With a sigh like all the world’s hurt...
Easing.

Kaleidoscope

It’s that time of year
People start talking about feeling blue
Having the Blues.
Where did that come from?
Who decided that the colour of mopey
Was blue?

I don’t get it, see, for me
Blue is clear skies
Wide smiles
Carefree laughter.
Blue is a sweet infinity.
Blue is ever after.
I don’t fear blue.
Blue is tattoos
And suede shoes.
Blue is my lover’s eyes;
I love blue!

Black, now.
Black dog on your back
Black mood
Black-eyed Susan,
Down in the dark
I don’t fear black.
Black you can decorate -
like stars in a night sky.
Black is silence.  Stillness.
Black doesn’t ask why.
Black is a blank slate
For projections on my closed eyelids
Sleep in darkness and awake in light.
Black doesn’t last.

Orange, however...
Orange is my enemy.
The opposite of blue:
Wild, sleepless,
Nervous snickers
Orange doesn’t rhyme!
Nothing links to orange!
Unnatural, fast-moving, out-of-control,
Bitter taste in my throat,
Stinging eyes,
Brightly-coloured lies,
Hackles rising...
Shut up, orange!
(noisy bastard)

And then there’s grey.
Grey does scare me.
Grey’s a maze of blank walls
A pall of cloud, sour
A stale-breathed blanket wrapped around your head.
Thick with the taste of mildew,
And the smell of dead hair
And sick grandparents.
Grey is a fog, suffocating fire
Leaching sensation until everything looks the same,
Smells the same,
Tastes the same,
And people vanish.
I don’t want grey
Grey stops my breath,
Numbs my fingers,
Clouds my eyes,
Muffles music.

No.
No grey.

Give me a cool, blue day
And a warm, red night
(which is a different poem altogether)
Anytime.

Give me all the colours of the world.
(except for orange, of course)

MP3 version

Copyright (c) Fay Roberts

Glastonbury Blues

Am I pathetic or decrepit?
That filth and cold make me feel
Not intrepid, but annoyed
That I’m stuck in the mud
When there are things to be enjoyed.

My favourite band played oh! so well!
But now I find I’m thinking
Bloody hell – I’ve seen them rock
Enough times now without
Me craving for some warm, dry socks.

I’m fed up with the shiny Sloanes
Uncomfily dressed-down with all
Their moans about the bogs and bands,
Who sign African petitions
Yet refuse to bin their cans

What irks me is the ignorance
Refusal to conjoin except
To dance in isolated groups
On undulating downs;
If we could rally, oh, what troops!

To storm across the land
And bring big companies to join
In hand in hand and with us skip
To music of the heart
Not just more effective now, but hip!

Ah, you see, but now I’m stuck:
Two quid for bread? How can I give
A fuck about Fighting the Man
As far as I can tell
He’s here now love – get on my land!

So now we’re back to Wasted Time
The Glastonbury that could have been...
Or mine?  Which one was better?
And retrospect is kind –
Just think: it could have been much wetter...

Glass

We used to feel like one,
A name spoken of two parts;
Him my dragon,
I his heroine.

But then another sound clouded us,
Broke the rhythm.
I used to waltz, but now the beats
aren’t even,
Him dancing from my grasp;
gasping that new name,
Doubled on the floor
by himself,
Our house become a theatre.

Truth’s a different kind of medicine.
I ask him if he’s had enough.
“No,” he groans, folded over and over
into that strange embrace,
mouthing his graceless catechisms.
“No,” again, he mutters, “never enough.”

And it is never enough,
As he becomes the hunger,
Too deep inside, where I can’t touch him
Through a pain of plain glass, thicker every day.

No, not enough,
I’ll never be enough.
I’m alone in a dry place, withering,
If I enter that embrace I’ll never find him,
and be lost myself.

Time tightens a spiral grip,
and I’m slipping, weary of the lonely ache,
until I think:
Only diseased limbs feel no pain.
It’s time for surgery.