Katy Evans-Bush

Katy Evans-Bush

Katy Evans-Bush was born in New York City and has lived in the UK since her teens. She is a fellow of the George Orwell Foundation.
Her poetry collections include Me and the Dead (2008) and Egg Printing Explained (2011), both published by Salt Publishing, and Oscar & Henry (2010), by Rack Press. In 2015 her essay collection, Forgive the Language: Essays on Poetry and Poets was published by Penned in the Margins. Broken Cities is her first solo poetry publication since 2011.
In 2010/11 she was the editor of Salt's innovative online literary magazine, Horizon Review. Her work has appeared in anthologies, including New Boots and Pantisocracies, Smokestack Books, (2016; 154), Live Canon (2016), Findings on Light, Pars Foundation (2016), Mount London (essays), Penned in the Margins (2014), Trunk, Vo 2: Blood (essay), Boccalatte & Jones (2012),Catechism: Poems for Pussy Riot, English Pen (2012),Stress Fractures (essays), Penned in the Margins ( 2010),The Forward Book of Poetry (2010) and The Like of It: Six London Poets, Eland (2005).
Magazine credits include Ambit, The Dark Horse, Horizon Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, Interpreter's House, LA Review of Books, Little Atoms, Magma, Maintenant, Manhattan Review, The North, PN Review, The Guardian, Poetry London, Poetry Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, Poetry Wales, Rialto, and Fulcrum.
Her blog Baroque in Hackney was shortlisted for the Orwell Prize for political writing in 2012, and she is now blogging at A Far Cry from Hackney. Her book of essays on homelessness, gentrification and identity, also titled A Far Cry from Hackney, is to be published in spring 2019 by CD Editions.
Katy Evans-Bush currently cooling her heels in Kent, and works as a freelance writer, editor and creative writing tutor.


“In Katy Evans-Bush's Broken Cities, the reader finds herself riding a kind of magnificent time machine, hurtling back through the aeons, to the origins of the universe, of life, of knowledge, of image-making, of writing, of art, then slowing down to observe minutely milk curdling in a bottle. On every page there is the strongest sense of being in the thick of the human crowd and feeling its concerns, passions and sorrows. In spite of their dazzling variety and scope, these poems form a marvellous unity, held by the generosity of spirit that illumines them. Buy this book! Read it on the bus! Give it to your friends!” – Annie Freud


“puts a flippant Byronic swagger back into the serious business of poesy”                    - John Field (Poor Rude Lines)


“… a dance of language: dramatic, comic and exuberant…. This is a sharply-written book from one of our sharpest wits. But it is also one of the most generous and melodic books of contemporary poetry I’ve read in some time.” - David Morley on Egg Printing Explained


“These are poems in which you can almost hear the sound of the keys being hit; poems of such determination and energy, they manage not only to look into what’s broken or breaking in our civilisation but to coerce from the charged particles of language a subtext of awareness and empathy that is immensely encouraging. With all her resources to hand, Katy Evans Bush has put her intelligence and wit to work without compromise. I only hope the typewriter survived the process intact, but if not that’s the least of our worries.” – Rachel Boast


“Breaching the places in between suffering, the sublime, the banal and the hilarious, swing, soul and low-down blues - here we have Poetry.” - Melissa Lee-Houghton

from ‘Croonerisms’


Dean Martin

was no Spartan.

Eyes like a pizza pies, he was so starry

when he sang ‘Volaré’.


Perry Como

sang in slo-mo.

He slo-mo’ed the ladies from Honolulu to Toledo

in his tuxedo.



sure could sing:

it made him so rich he could afford to spend all his Christmases

on isthmuses.


Desi Arnaz


his family’s unimaginable luxury was stolen by the Cuban revolutionaries,

so he goes to America and joins the crooning luminaries.

Lucille Ball,

on the other hand, has it all:

She’s the beautiful loon the crooner marries.


Now, the thing about unimaginable luxury

is that we imagine it all the time, we

manufacture it, we inhabit it, we make it

tame: our hi-fi record players croon for us

from the corners of air conditioned rooms

over spindle-leggéd tables spread for bridge, over which

martini glasses travel hand to mouth and dust-dry olives

enter the mouths of men in Dino Martin glasses,

men who talk of crowns and bridgework while their wives,

their coiffed and romantic wives,

plan what to do with the kids by the pool tomorrow.


Waiter, waiter, escalator

salad lunch and golfing later.


Voice like Marsala, lyrics like honey;

there’s no zero-sum game like money.


And may all your Christmases be white,

and may all your isthmuses be white-capped.


Luxury never lasts. Real life bursts in,

the pool springs a leak and everything must be paid for. Fade to poor.


Titles by this author

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