Poets' Letter Magazine Archives Poetry Pearl

Sharon Harriott

Sharon Reading at the VI London Poetry Festival 2017

Poet in Residence at 4th London Poetry Festival 2008 and Featured and Published in Poets' Letter many  times

Sharon Harriott

“When I was five years old my dad brought home an old school desk, one of those ones with a lid that you can lift and store secrets inside. I would keep my collection of scented rubbers; shaped like flowers and giraffes, my pencil cases and rainbow paper and then spend hours scribbling stories with a mild frustration that came from not knowing how to spell the words I wanted to use. I remember my parents angry faces peering around my door when I should have been dreaming..and having my pens confiscated until the next day.   

At school I exasperated my maths and physics teachers, whilst I was the teachers pet in English and Humanities. School reports always bore bold red writing to my parents; “Needs to concentrate more in class. Sharon is easily distracted…”

I write because I’m moved to do it. I’m driven to find the right words to express a concept, or an emotion. I see poetry in meetings, standing on a packed tube and a jarred conversation. I love painting pictures with words, hoping that by the end, a reader may the see the world as I was seeing it at the time."

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Sharon Harriot is London born and bred. She studied journalism at University, and started her career on a teen magazine. Now a Film and Events PR Manager, she writes press releases on the latest films and organises entertainers for Fun in the Foyer at major film launches.

Sharon Harriott Reading at The 5th London Poetry Festival 2008

 Sharon rediscovered her love of writing poetry and short stories after University when she took up a couple of creative writing courses. She's posted much of her recent work on EditRed.com, where she's inspired by a whole writing community, and where she's won a couple of poetry competitions! January 2007 saw the launch of her Audiobook Reviews blog Audiogeist. Long car journeys to work meant that instead of listening to the sometimes brain numbing breakfast radio, she could listen to the novels she missed reading on a tube journey. She's also reviewed audiobooks for Poets' Letter Magazine, as well as writing short Blogs on MySpace at  myspace.com/cravingaudio

She now sees poety in everything she does, and spends her free time writing. She's continuously inspired by her favourite website, Editred.com on which she's uploaded much of her work, and has also had work published on a websites including Alors, Et Toi? Hecale and Poetsletter; you can also read her latest audiobook reviews on www.audiogeist.com

Sharon Harriott's Poetic Works

The Old Man

Cars and busses, feet on wet pavement,
Swoosh, tap, pace, and rap.
And you, oblivious to time, you lament
At dark windows, docking your cap.
Dapper old man in your battered suit,
Aiming your lighter toward your fag,
A story set in your own head, you salute
All that is familiar to you; a sad,
Weathered building in Muswell Hill.
Lights green, clutch off, and off,
I launch myself into now, and still
Seeing you, rush from all that was silent.

I Was Scared of You

Your lips stop momentum.
Set nondescript, then twisted;
My gut quickly mimics the movement
Yanking my innards and then freezing them fast.

Your eyes have no depth
And thus, my image skims your surface
How your words blow into my face!
Surge, and flow through my damp eyes.

Now, memory juts jagged,
Impressed on slow blinking lids.
A coma vision for when, again,
I am repulsive and obtuse.

Copyrights @ Sharon Harriott 2007-08

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The Address

Number 00 Fortune Raw, Tooting,
London, SW00 OHL,
United Kingdom,
Earth,
The Universe

Tree green, dotted with tiny white flowers,
The large roomed imitated a forest glade.
So different to outside, the grey, and the red.
The cars, the shops and the school run.

The bed dominated its vast centre,
Its Barbie pink beckoned comfy nights.
No more bars, only the rumple of PVC.
And no more bruises on elbows and shins.

If I looked right, from the sash window,
I could see the park, and imagine the slides.
Beyond, a hospital chimney spewed soot,
And the leisure centre with D.I.S.C.O at 8pm.

The magic cupboard had a brass-handled door,
I could crouch and hide with Humpty.
Until I realised the dark had crept in,
Then jump the small divide to mum’s.

Copyrights @ Sharon Harriott 2007-08

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