About Lisa Matthews

Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, Lisa Matthews has lived in the north east of England all her life. Diamond Twig Press published her first short collection, Postcard from a Waterless Lake, to great critical acclaim in 2001. She read from that pamphlet at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival and, according to W N Herbert, can “draw you effortlessly into very human, very complex atmospheres and moods” with a “rare skill”.

As well as poetry she has been trying to write a sustained work of fiction for at least ten years and after two false starts is currently working on a new novel about a woman who paints insects. (For which she is being mentored by Sara Maitland.)

Lisa lives with her partner at the coast and has played guitar since the age of six. If she weren’t a writer she’d have loved to have been a musician and is sad that she stopped cutting and splicing reel to reel tapes of her own teenage songs in the late 70s. They’ve got computers to do that nowadays. Apparently.

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The Walthamstow Zippies

Some days there was just one on its own.
I couldn’t tell what sex it was or even if these
things complied to gender roles.

Other times, as I walked for the Tube, I’d stop
and have a sneaky look in the window. Under
a chair with Queen Anne legs two sat quietly

reading a tiny red-topped paper. Would
the Zippies read the Mirror, Star or Sun?
It’s a moot point and maybe the lack of a

broadsheet can be explained by the smallness
of their arms. Surely sometimes things
can be that simple? Someone got their mobile

stolen from their hand – in mid conversation –
right outside the station. When the drivers
were on strike we walked to Finsbury Park.

Do you remember that and would we do it now,
I wonder, five years down the road? On some
days there was a whole family huddled together,

they looked wrong amongst the other fabrics,
too textured, or too beige, or just too ill-fitting
and waiting for a hand to zip up all their mouths.

At night though the Zippies had parties, had sex, told lies
to each other. They made tea and darned socks, they
watched the moon and counted their blessings.

Then one day the upholstery shop owner passed
them on or sold them off, I don’t know; all I knew
was the window was less interesting without them.