Mary King

Mary King

Mary King  is relatively new to writing poems seriously.   She was brought up in Tower Hill and was a Science teacher there and in Hackney. With no time for what had been her favourite subject at school she took her students to the theatre and on school trips to Italy. She is married with children and grandchildren. Mary joined a writing class when paid work finished and this spurred her on to begin to learn the craft and to write more regularly.  She now lives in Staffordshire and is working with Keele Poets at Silverdale.

'Here is a collection controlled deftly by the poet as savvy ornithologist.  Precisely focused observations bring these birds alive, notably when a flock of godwits suddenly fills a page.  A bonus is the best poem about a hen you can hope ever to encounter.' 
 – Billy Collins



       You who are listening understand.

I hear your accents

as you talk to one another.

You are from Viking stock;

you traded on the Silk Route; you

were with those who walked

out of Africa to paint on the walls

of European caves; to migrate

into the Americas from northern ice.


How does she find the way?

The position of the sun,

in cloud, still sensed by polarized light;

the magnetic field of the earth.

That is what science says.


She is imprinted, not with stars,

but with the possibility of stars,

as are you.


She just knows,


and all that’s left of her

is muscle knowledge;

breath knowledge;

the imperative;

and a rightness of being

that makes her call out

to kin

with a kind of joy.


Mary King on her work

I started writing when i joined an adult education class, with the Brighton poet Andie Lewenstein.

We didn't have many books at home, but listened to Children's Hour, Dick Barton and radio plays. i had two older brothers, so there were plenty of comics about. My family told stories and sang on Saturdays when we all got together.
It's difficult to choose a favourite poet. I'm reading Gill McEvoy at the moment and I like the musicality of the work of Rosemary Brough.
i write at a desk looking out of the front window, where the children play in the street and at the kitchen table when the sun is round the other side of the house.
I try to follow the philosophy of the poet Paul Matthews, 'How close up to the world can I get with my words? How close can the world get to me with its words?'
at the moment, with their permission I am writing about the people I met while visiting a family member in hospital.

Titles by this author


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