Tom Wiggins, Letter Carver & Writer

Few would disagree that 2011 has been an exceptional year for Laura Marling.   Only three weeks in and a Brit Award nomination for Best Female lands on her doormat, followed in its wake by a similar acknowledgement posted from the offices of NME (two prizes she would later go on to win).   Now at album number three, not only has high praise run in parallel with each of the singer’s record releases, but her previous albums have doubled as prize magnets. Her debut, 2007’s Alas I Cannot Swim and last year’s I Speak Because I Can both garnered nominations from the Mercury Prize panel, arguably the UK ’s highest music accolade.   And if PJ Harvey’s Mercury success is anything to go by, more nominations will invariably follow.         Not one to rest on her laurels, last month heralded the release of A Creature I Don’t Know, the singer-songwriter’s third studio album.   Like its predecessors, it was lavished with wide critical acclaim, cementing h...

If poetry were an office leaving present, It’d be an egg, If you let it.

Veiny, waxy, useless things (That is, without the slow tide Of season).   And what’s more: Fastened to their guardians Like some animal Or clumsy toddler As if it would – could - do something Wrong Given the chance. Dirty, untidy, slippery things In a constant fidget And at the mercy of everything; Reliant ‘til the bitter drop Then trodden on, Walked over And grown: Grown to be discarded (I pity with a pointed finger As many as I can). Shameless, mindless, soulless things, I laugh with spite at every one As October resuscitates A wheezing September sun As if it were a last gasp apology For not arriving When the season called for it. I need answers! (There’s never a judicial enquiry When you damn-well need one) Hateful, blameful, disdainful things, Flip flops kicking Lifeless piles of brittle mistakes (This supposed Autumn Is our supposed Summer) That nature has not the slightest Contingency for. If I could give a rake to Mother Nature, I damn-well would. And when she was finish...

Monday You eat those Cheerios like they’re about to be rationed; We used to chew our food if that’s so old-fashioned. Tuesday There was more gobble in that than on a turkey farm That the Honey Monster himself would stand in alarm. Wednesday Don’t slouch on the seat or slurp on your tea, And don’t hold that spoon like it was wriggling free. Thursday You know you can eat your toast in more than a bite: That strawberry jam isn’t about to ignite. Friday You drink your squash like you want to drown, And you eat your Coco Pops before the milk goes brown.