Saturday, May 29, 2010

Bio
Natascha Tallowin is a hippy, writer and poet from Suffolk, England.

Whilst most of her time is spent writing poetry and sitting in patches of sunlight on the floor listening to David Bowie, she is also working on a magic-realism novel entitled 'Guylian's Magic'.


To Ziggy Stardust
by Natascha Tallowin

The imagination gurgles,
a head spoiling rush, an amusing row,
a mind slip, a trip, until you fall
I'm a debutant drug, I'm a film star now.

Testing life. one. two.

Pink lipped men with curling smiles,
they laugh louder than before
Smoking smooth menthol like pine needles
One, two, three, four...more.

and more.

A blink is all It takes,
to slip from caviar to capes
I'm a fashionista now, wearing Moss green sleeves
on an Armani expedition against designer retching thieves

Haute Couture to time obscure,
to a star crossed hippy downing lime liquor
The all seeing high begins to dim,
and pricks of reality start to creep in.

A story unwritten played out on the page
another failed supposed epic spilt
poisoned and violated by my imaginative rampage
It was not death, for I stood up.
And all the dead lie down.

Countless lines inside lay dormant,
the biggest one beneath the rest.
after ten minutes of toil,
I gave up and got drunk.

countless lines outside
the biggest one in me.

until then, I’ll
one…two…three.

The Holiday Maker – by Natascha Tallowin

You stumbled into town like a scared cow
Brown eyes wild
The sky above you was blue
No longer made of glass
The crack in time from which you had come, had gone
And all the silhouettes about you stood still
Looking at you
You pause, and with collected limbs
You make your way across the market square
Wishing you had something else to wear
Other than that terrible green hood
You fall as you reach the grey stone steps of the church
Its door ajar
You rise quietly
It is hard enough to keep formation
Without these new thoughts
You reach for the door, but in the time it has taken for you to stand
It has closed
And you are left facing your shadow
Odd and fragile, stretched against the church wall
A small silhouette jabs you with a stick pulled from a nearby elm tree.
You think how neat he looks
But as he sees your face he screams
The fear inside his head consuming him
He fascinates you
You reach out to him
With one fluid arm
Worried he might break his mind with his screams.
But before you touch him another noise is heard
You look down in confusion, wondering at how your legs seem to crumple
Something wet and red is leaking across the steps of the church
You reach for it, curious
But the sound comes again and you begin to feel cold
A feeling that you had eagerly read about before
But now you find it unpleasant
And when you ask for it to stop no sound escapes
And the ground edges even nearer until your head rests on the stone

Your hood falls back and the little silhouette tramples your hair as he runs back to his Mother.

The End of it All – by Natascha Tallowin

Tempestuous clouds billowed
Raucously tumbling overhead.
An announcement had been made
Humanity was filled with dread

Outside people stopped and wept
Each person alone together
Traffic halted silently
Oblivious to the weather

I looked out of the window,
looked out and saw,
a thousand weeping angels
Desperate for more.
The sky cracked, smacked, retracted and tore.
The noise shattered my brain
I had nowhere to go
So many things surrounded me
from such a long time ago.
Thunder crashed across the sky, lightening splintered through the sky
Enraged clouds clashed in the sky, we could no longer close our eyes

A man outside screamed in pain
Threw his arms up to his head
Rain slithered down his nose, and he cried out to be dead

A mud spattered rainbow flag, fluttered in the hands of a young man
And with fists uncurled a husband reached, and took him in his arms
The sky seemed to convulse, to pulse and to rain
And the rain was cold, bitter and plain
The clouds faltered forward, and I thought of my Mum
I couldn't face to go onward, whatever may come
And the lightening streaked, caught my eye
All hope was gone

It is possible, to die.

Memories of a Mermaid – by Natascha Tallowin

A glittering sliver of something was glimpsed on the horizon today.
Bobbing slowly nearer, like a cork on a rough sea.

Every now and then, the beauty of it caught the eye of a turning sunbather.
A child even pointed once, declaring it a mermaid.

But as the day drew on, interest waned, and the beach began to clear.
The glimpse of glitter swelling with the tide, grazed the shore for the first time,
Finally coming to a halt.

Moments passed.

The snout of a spaniel snuffled about its form.
A dog walker stopped hesitantly, poking at it with her toe.

A body flopped back.
A picture of sullied perfection.
Skin, a wonderful shade of pale,
Eyes wide, with an expression of mild surprise.
A mane of colourless hair lay spattered across the beach,
Only a curl of paper held within his hand.

With trembling fingers the dog walker removed the note.
“I told you not to drown.”
It said.

For Sale: Dorothy’s Shoes
By Natascha Tallowin

It arrived on the eve of the carnival. The slow autumn wind that blows nobody any good sent it fluttering against a shop door where it stayed for a while, as if catching its breath, flat and pressed against flaking red paint, before slipping slowly to the floor, relaxing onto a sloped stone step.

For Sale
One pair of shoes, heel trodden, curled up and wrinkled like owners face.
Condition of shoes put down to weight of expectation and over use.
Any price accepted, and can deliver. However near, however far away.


Violet had passed by the antique shop window on her way to school every day. On this day however she had looked up and noticed the small crumpled advertisement sellotaped onto the inside of the glass.

The wording caught her imagination and she entered.
The shop smelled of daylight trapped for years. For a while she wondered if there was anybody else in the shop at all. Until a bell tinkled and a small frail man with pale papery skin and white hair shuffled in, glasses perched on the end of a long thin nose.

He looked at her, stopping where he was, looking her small frame up and down, the dark hair, the purple bow, the school uniform and scuffed patent leather shoes.
“You must be Violet.”
He nodded, before she had spoken a word.
“I have something for you...”
He continued, shuffling over to his desk, and opening one of the draws. He pulled out a pair of shoes and blew on them hard, a flurry of glittering dust fell from them.
“Here.”

He held them out to her with trembling hands.
She looked from the shoes, to him and back again.
“I don’t have any money.”
She spoke quietly, made nervous by this man who knew her name.
“The seller wanted you to have them. You will be giving her so much more than money, by accepting.”
He paused, before placing them on the desk, their heels knocking together as he did so.
“I’ll let you think it over...”
He nodded once again and made his way slowly back into the room where he had come from.

Violet looked at the shoes. Standing crookedly on the flat oak,
She left on the tail of the carnival. The air was thick and heavy and the sun was beginning to set, falling slowly into the sea, like a dose of warm honey, creeping through the veins.
She walked with purpose. Short meandering steps, thoughts wandering in the vague way of children. She caught my eye as she passed by, dark eyes acknowledging me from behind a glimmering row of candied sweets and handsome treats.
Her look was sharp, like mint on the tongue. She nodded her head in the briefest of greetings, across the cacophony of sugar coated confectionary.
And then, with the dizzying blur of the carnival she was gone, swept into the waves of ruddy faces.

Now those Ruby shoes would walk out once again, ruby shoes wrapped around twelve years of feet.
All the men that mattered, she had met in those shoes. But, one had no heart, one had no brain, and one no courage.
Now they no longer fit, but how much rested on them, how long ago it was, that those ruby shoes walked out.
The cold wind blew harder, and the dream of friends yet to meet and challenges yet to face, flicked the tail of the old woman’s skirt, teasing the hem of her imagination.
The dream of adventures yet to come, far off places yet to visit...
For someone else next time.