Anna is a regular at the St Ives Arts and Literature Festivals and the Farrago Poetry Slam as a feature poet. Other poetry appearances include the Oxford University Poetry Society; the Oxford Radical Forum; Apples and Snakes; the Royal National Maritime Museum; the Stoke Newington Literature Festival; Morning Star May Day celebrations.
You can check out Anna’s live performance dates here.
Now for a poetic interlude …
Anna’s Pop-Up poetry video collection
Chi Chi’s Glorious Swansong
Margaret Thatcher Died At the Ritz
CREDIT CRUNCH SUICIDE
I could have been a banker
Sitting on a ledge
High up on a skyscraper
Coz someone clipped my hedge
I could have been in business
In the city making bids
Take a shotgun to the wife and dogs
And then I’d do the kids
But I’m just a daily worker
About to lose my home
Savings all depleted
Can’t even get a loan
The bankers got their billions
The doggy got a bone
The millions got the wankers
Whose hearts are made of stone
I can cry into me drink
I can curse the gods above
I’d like to give that banker
A bleedin’ great big shove
Watch him splat upon the pavement
A human pizza pie
Coz that’s where I’ll be living
Until the day I die.
I’d like to blow
Edgar Allan Poe
On bended knee
Like Annabel Lee
I’d like to snort snow
With Edgar A. Poe
Swing into the pit
Of his infernal wit
I’d like to sink low
As Eddy A. Poe
I’m eager to share
His gloom and despair
Dear Ed can you please
Give me a disease
As cool as the red one
Transmitted by fleas?
MARGARET THATCHER DIED AT THE RITZ
Margaret Thatcher died at the Ritz.
It fits. Her blitz on the poor,
national assets thrust into the mitts
of corporate bandits.
Wealth trickled-down like a horse shits
undigested grain for birds that flit
round what it is its rear end emits.
Compassion deficit, dried out tits,
the country in bits, run by greedy gits.
Her fans omit the price of crimes
her class commit.
Her legacy is the pits.
(And she closed them as well.)
Thatcher’s blue touchpaper stayed alight
til the nation was run by her acolytes;
she took a look round at pauperised Brits,
said, “My work here is done,” and called it quits.
8th April 2013
THE DISS PERSISTS
For are we not a cruel race?
I’m told that often,
By people who are cruel
Who make a virtue of their viciousness
In the way only the truly callous can
Who then turn around and say
Ha! We can do that to you,
True, we can,
And there’s nothing you can do.
So here I am,
Furiously stroking my pussy
Like a comic-book villain
And twirling my moustache
Which I call Lyrical
Because I wax it.
I am your reflection in the deepest night
When your bowels pack-up and collapse in fright
I am the yellow brick road to hell,
I am that part of you that is not well
Yellow dog, yellow peril,
Yellow fear, yellow feral,
A letterbox beaver
The stripes on a wasp
The colour of piss
But still the diss persists
And still the diss persists
Should I slit my wrists
Or just get pissed?
I grind my teeth and shake my fist
I’m diced and dissed
I remain unkissed
And still the diss persists
Still the diss persists
So stick me with a yellow star
I see it coming down the tracks
Must be heroin left over from the opium wars
I should have stuck to crack
(c) all copyright Anna Chen
WHAT THEY SAY …
‘Brilliant and dangerous … one wild-ride roller-coaster that soars to altitudes of unfettered wit and then plunges with a startling and implacably knowing anger … a perception that’s as topical as tomorrow.’
‘Fucking great. I couldn’t put it down.’
‘Anna Chen is fighting the good fight with fierce, funny, moving and sulphurous poems. You wouldn’t want to cross her, but you want to read her.’
‘A strange rendezvous of language, wit, and the imagination. … She fully integrates the movingly personal, the vibrantly social and the diablolically political. Her rhyming is frequently quasi-Byronic, full of surprise and acerbic invention … Burning words, full of life and truth.’
CHRIS SEARLE, MORNING STAR
‘Heartfelt, funny, satirical, accessible and strong.’
LOUISE WHITTLE, LABOUR BRIEFING
‘It’s saucy, devilish and delightful!’
MY ASIAN PLANET
‘Superb. … Anna Chen’s poetry wears wet leathers, red lipstick, stilettos – and is heavily armed. Her slim volume, Reaching for My Gnu, is filled with what I’d call ‘strap-on poems’. They look like an evening’s easy pleasure but are far more painful and unforgettable than you’d bargained for.’
GREG PALAST in VICE MAGAZINE