Lucy Piper - Writer

Very pleased that one of my poems ‘Oak Slip’ was chosen to be included in Word Kitchen’s ‘Power of Place’ anthology, which is now available to buy! 🥰🙌 at https://www.wordkitchen.org.uk

The project is a literary celebration of East Devon and its landscapes, funded partly by East Devon Arts and the Creative East Devon Fund.

I haven’t been published in a book since I was at secondary school 🤣🙌 so it feels good! Here’s to many more! And now I finally have a break from touring / gigging, I’m going to be getting back on the writing/ putting my book together. 😎

Lx

Dad. 📷 by me, in true Martin Parr style. In honour of them both. ❤️💙

I enjoyed taking pictures of my Dad when he was looking through his binoculars.

The Universe is a strange thing.

I bought H is for Hawk approximately 8 years ago, thinking, ‘one day I may need this/appreciate reading it’. My Dad not long after (unknowingly) gave me his copy that he’d bought and read also, not knowing I already had the book brand new on my bookshelf.

Towards the end of last year, (having lost my Dad over 6 years ago now), I finally got around to reading it, and what a book it is
Not an easy read, but a beautiful and touching book. Now they have made a film out of it, (which I discovered right as I finished the book), and it’s out in a few weeks time.

Thought I’d attach pictures of the copies, and several birds of prey my Dad carved out of wood years ago. I have a hankering to come face to face with a hawk myself in 2026. Think it may just be healing. ❤️💙

Instructions for putting on dinner one night.

Jacket potatoes and no tuna oil down the sink!

Little cartoons were never too far from words 🙂

It's , so I've rewritten something I wrote back in January 2023, when I went off on my own for a month to Crete, the last place my family was all together.
**********

Searching for Dad in other places far from home,

making sure he’s not been left behind,

that it’s not a mistake.

And here I am, Lost in Paradise.

I keep having so many dreams.

Keep walking this rugged coastline, windswept, day after day,

it’s January, and I’m on my own in Crete.

Slowly picking up the pieces, still standing on shaky ground.

My mind craves to heal; it truly wants to process,

but the body is often ruling the roost.

The bruises may have faded, but the nerves are left damaged.

There are no shortcuts,

but I can try and play games,

when truly I know,

the only way is through.

The only way is through.

*********

16.9.22

Paleochora,
South West Crete,
supposedly
where I was conceived,
the last place we were
all together,
the beauty and the void
are entwining for me.

It's been a minute, but i'm back.

Here's a cheery one for this dark November evening! (Sorry - i feel guilty) I just edited it for a monthly poetry seminar I'm attending until May, where I have a wonderful, supportive mentor and peer group.

Grief changes everything. Family dynamics. Routines. Physical Health. Mental Health.

This was written 4 years ago. Luckily things have somewhat improved. Other things have stayed similar. That is life. Love and pain remain constant.



Let's Talk About Loss

Friday 13th Blues.

You drove down to Brixham,
just the night before.
If I had known it was going to be your last gig,
I would’ve been there to support.

But you were playing solo this time,
and it was a Thursday.

Normally I’d have been there right by your side,
a ‘Junkyard Angel’ through and through,
shuffling and boogying
on a Friday or Saturday night.

Reports of a group of men in Hawaiian shirts,
your favourite type to wear,
sounds like you had a fan club that night,
wish I’d been there.

Time moves on in the blink of an eye,
but for me,
it’s still Friday the 13th.

The day itself,
how beautiful it should’ve been,
running errands in the sun,
fresh from a holiday in Crete.

But as the moon slowly rose,
something wasn’t right,
you’d been gone too long,
an innocent trip on a bike.

Time moves on in the blink of an eye,
but for me,
it’s still Friday the 13th.

‘Oak Slip’ 6.8.24

The smell of Jasmine hits,
as I walk down to Oak Slip,
the place where your boats
used to be.

Memories of wading out at high tide,
as it is now,
the brown murky water,
laden with white foamy bubbles.

The brown reminds me of the Mississippi.

The Exe and the Mississippi
were after all, your two favourite Rivers.

A Topsham boy born and bred,
it’s your birthday week,
this year marking 77 years,
since you were born in ‘Markwell House’,

which I can see,
whilst sitting at Oak Slip.

I realise I am not alone.

There’s a couple in the Museum garden,
and a family in another.

The Swallows and House Martins have been flying overhead too.

It’s time to move on.

It turns out even as a child I was in touch with feeling guilty about things I had done 😂 Accidental phone bill damage from ringing a friend on their mobile led to this sweet little interchange. I must've left some money with this note to my parents to repent for my innocent mistake (!)

Since losing Dad, I have found many little notes like this amongst his drawers/paperwork, and in the same vein, I have also kept many of those left to me.

These little notes / cartoons are going to be a running theme through my book, so that love, joy and uplifting memories can balance out some of the heavier emotions. x