Mandy Pannett lives in West Sussex with her family. A teacher for many years, she has worked with all ages and abilities including special needs children (her favourite). She now works freelance as a creative writing tutor and has run residential and day workshops across the country as well as working with many local groups.
Her poetry has been widely published, both internationally and in the U.K., in journals and small press publications and has also been translated into German and Romanian as part of the
Poetry tREnD and Poetry pRO projects. On several occasions she has been a prize winner in national competitions and has judged poetry competitions herself for Sentinel Literary Quarterly, the Slipstream Poets and Excel for Charity.Three poetry collections have been published: ‘
Bee Purple’ and ‘Frost Hollow’ (Oversteps Books) and ‘Allotments in the Orbital’ (Searle Publishing) She has also produced ‘Boy's Story’ - a CD of poetry and original music. All are available from the author. She is currently compiling a new poetry collection.She has twice been selecting editor for
South Magazine, an associate editor for the ezine ‘Muscle and Blood’ and is one of the poetry editors for ‘The Right Eyed Deer’.Her novella ‘
The Onion Stone’ is her first venture into prose. As an armchair historian this has been a pleasure to write.
And perhaps it wasn’t the end of the story, because there was still the copy of the letter which Ellis clutched, unread at the meeting. Perhaps the day will come when someone might discover it again and claim it as another scoop. Or when the safe box is opened and the original of the letter, flimsy and time worn, is finally revealed. The letter that may be the missing bit of the jigsaw, the last thread of the web, the final words of the curse, the dying flame of the fire, the glitter of a dragonfly’s wing seen out of the corner of one’s eye, the final shape of a shadow. Whatever. Call it what you will. Words are the greatest deceivers of all.
(From ‘The Onion Stone’ Pewter Rose Press)
I am an eagle stuffed in a jar,
trout under polythene, bubble mouth hooped
in a perfect O. Am a tiger
rug-flattened, aubergine embryo, child
garrotted in Irish peat, a boy Inca sacrifice
fossiled in vomit, a carcass
kippered in snow ...(from 'Bee Purple' Poetry Collection. Oversteps Books)
Tonight there is music here in this villa:
Italian lyrics, vibratos of wine.
Only the small bird notched
for a tiler’s mark in the tessera’s grain
is a souvenir still in unsettling dust
of his carver’s name.(From ‘Frost Hollow’ Poetry Collection. Oversteps Books)
Last night we came across a man, face down
upon the pavement by the pub. At first
we thought him dead. He staggered up, said
It’s my birthday. Blood slid through his nose.
Happy birthday we said, moving on.(from ‘Allotments in the Orbital’ Poetry Collection. Searle Publishing.)
The trees have lost their silhouettes
in a white and soundless covering all.
Now the polecat screams, the hare
is hunted, twigs crackling
underfoot. In fear the badger
digs his smell deep down.(from Boy’s Story’ Poetry and Music CD)