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Ann's collection of poems is available from: Peterloo Poets, The Old Chapel, Sand Lane, Calstock, Cornwall PL18 9QX or direct from the author, signed: Ann Alexander, Venton Vean, Trewithen Road, Penzance TR18 4LS. Email: writebythesea@hotmail.com

Facing Demons (80 pages laminated paperback) is available for £7.95 per copy post free (£5.30 post free to Associate Members) Ann Alexander, who lives in Cornwall with her husband and daughter, worked as an advertising copywriter in London for many years, and lately taught advertising skills at Falmouth College of Arts. She uses the copywriter's spare, accessible languae to take you on a disturbing journey through the "dark alleys" of the world and the heart.

She writes with energy, honesty and wit, finding her demons in the newspapers, on television, and in the ephemera of everyday experience.

Facing Demons is Ann's first collection of poetry. Poems within it have won The Frogmore Prize, 2000, and the Third Prize in the Peterloo Open Poetry Competition, 2001. Ann also runs writing holidays in beautiful Cornwall. Full details can be found on her website www.writebythesea.co.uk.

Didn't Hurt

I remember the moment when
I gave up hitting my child

She was two years old.
She was roaring wild.
It was midnight, toad cold,

And oh, I was desperate. Aching tired,
though tired is hardly the word
for the flaking
disintegrating state I was in.

If you don't shut up, I said,
I'll give you a smack.
She didn't. I did. Crack.

She wouldn't cry. There were no tears.
Instead she looked at me as if
I were her bitter foe. She said:
Didn't hurt.

So I hit her again, only harder
Still no tears. Her eyes stretched wide.
Didn't hurt, she cried.

Her little voice, so small, so tough
stopped my raised hand. Enough.
I saw the future; endless blows,
endless defiance down the years.
The hitting and hating, hands and words.

It hurt. I wept.
I asked forgiveness, and she slept.

Copyright © 2002 Ann Alexander

Respectability costs

When you're a pillar of society, you can't be seen
smoking dope, dragging on a spliff the size
of a fat cigar, snorting coke.

When you're respectable, you can't
neck a skinful, reel through town,
then spew it all up in Barclay's doorway.

Nice women don't pick up men half their age,
tattoo themselves, have their navels pierced.
They don't shag all day in a rank bed. Nor

Do they drop six kids, live courtesy of the DSS,
spend their benefit on scratch cards and
pig out on pie and chips

O my dearest, learn from my mistakes.
Don't be respectable.

Copyright © 2002 Ann Alexander