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Alien Crop

Book cover for Alien Crop “Janet Paisley's poetry is never predictable, but always moulded by her distinctive character. She confronts painful experience and difficult, intimate emotions with understanding and mischievious humour. She celebrates sensuality, but fully conveys the intricacies of relationships. Her starting point is a woman's personal experience, but she speaks out about the real world, both its natural beauty and the suffering and joys of ordinary people.”

Publisher Chapman. First Edition 1996 Second Edition 2004. ISBN 1 903700 09 4.



The Ukrainian edition translated by Yulia Dzhugastryanska and Dmytro Drozdovskyi published in 2009 by Drosd.


Нічого не роби, крім кохання, і кохання створить тебе.


In Alien Crop, Janet Paisley’s poems have an intensity that makes them shine with truth… she enters Sylvia Plath territory and emerges looking more honest and passionate than Plath. She can be winningly self-deprecating and deadly serious at the same time… Books in ScotlandRobin Bell

Alien Crop - full of spells and incantations, the repetitions of balladry and folksong… The ScotsmanTom Pow


<box 50% round poetry | Book Extract - Alien Crop> Alien Crop

So the boats come in,
charcoal shadows etched on liquid gold -
she is not always so fine a mistress,
her depths combed smooth with light.
I have waited through nights
of her grey lady, webbed with mist
while she whispered her possession
on the bloodless stone. I have watched
her raking claws rise, a green harlot
shrieking spit, jealously making
her grave bed ready below the heaving sheets.
This dusk is still and holds the cat-purr
of engine and the call of voices,
clear on shore as if an echo sounded near.
You will come, a stranger dying in your eyes,
that man I have never known, tasting of tears,
salt fingerings in your hair,
her blood kisses whitening on your mouth.
I know only your feet at the fireside,
your hungers and your tossing sleep,
the wearing of you and the leavings.
It has been a long standing between us,
these dry shore waits but now, on this late tide
I feel the child swell within me.
I will wait your landfall, the wet
song of rope, the scrape of wood, the alien
crop of you, and know a new strangeness
for I, too, am fishing
in the drift of a setting sun. </box>

alien_crop.txt · Last modified: 2013/06/16 14:22 (external edit)