Rhian Elizabeth, "maybe i'll call gillian anderson"

Rhian Elizabeth is a trainee counsellor and a writer. Her debut novel, Six Pounds Eight Ounces, was published in 2014 by Seren Books and is currently being adapted for TV, and there are the poetry collections the last polar bear on earth, published in 2018 by Parthian Books, and girls etc, by Broken Sleep Books, which has been shortlisted for Wales Book of the Year 2025. Her prose and poetry have been listed in various competitions and prizes and appeared in many magazines and anthologies worldwide, recently being longlisted for the Plaza Poetry Prize and winning Verve Press’ poetry competition, as well as being featured on BBC Radio 4’s PM programme. She was named by the Welsh Agenda as one of Wales’ Rising Stars - one of 30 people working to make Wales better over the next 30 years. She is a Hay Festival Writer at Work and was previously Writer in Residence at the Coracle International Literary Festival in Tranås, Sweden. maybe i’ll call gillian anderson is her latest collection of poetry, published by Broken Sleep Books.

About maybe i'll call gillian anderson, by Rhian Elizabeth
Rhian Elizabeth's maybe i'll call gillian anderson is a raw, darkly funny, and deeply affecting collection that navigates the liminal spaces of love, loss, and reinvention. With a voice that is both unguarded and sharply observant, Elizabeth crafts poems that move through heartbreak, motherhood, memory, and self-destruction with biting wit and aching tenderness. Whether tracing the ghosts of past selves, confronting absence, or yearning for connection, these poems refuse sentimentality, instead offering something braver-an intimacy that is as unsparing as it is humane.

You can read more about maybe i'll call gillian anderson on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read a sample poem from the collection. 

From maybe i'll call gillian anderson

the winter the murders stopped 

i went to the christmas party dressed as a reindeer, 

           top floor apartment by the river, 

spilled my manhattan over her and her couch, cold collarbones, 

           cold leather, walked home 

through the glacial streets drenched in stars, coat slick 

           with sleet and regret, 

           i feel like a photograph yellowing.

           i miss hearing the creak of my daughter’s bedframe

in the middle of the night, miss being summoned 

           for glasses of water she could easily 

get herself, and now my house is filled 

           with spiders, since there is

no one here afraid of them,

           asking me to kill for them, anymore.

Rishi Dastidar, "A hobby of mine"

Rishi Dastidar’s poetry has been published by the Financial Times, New Scientist and the BBC, amongst many others. His third collection, Neptune’s Projects (Nine Arches Press), was longlisted for the Laurel Prize, and a poem from it was included in The Forward Book of Poetry 2024. He is also editor of The Craft: A Guide to Making Poetry Happen in the 21st Century (Nine Arches Press), and co-editor of Too Young, Too Loud, Too Different: Poems from Malika’s Poetry Kitchen (Corsair). He reviews poetry for The Guardian and is chair of Wasafiri. His latest publication is A hobby of mine (Broken Sleep Books).

A hobby of mine, by Rishi Dastidar
My publisher says: “In A hobby of mine, Rishi Dastidar’s unrelenting catalogue of cultural observations becomes an absurd and profound portrait of modern life. With a playful spirit and incisive wit, Dastidar examines identity, memory, and the contradictions of everyday existence. He invites us to consider the idiosyncrasies that shape how we navigate a fragmented world, and the hidden dimensions of our routines: repetition becomes revelation – if we pay enough attention.”

I say: it was also a way for me to pay tribute and homage to Joe Brainard, and his wonderful memoir, I remember. Think of my attempt as a way exhausting some current obsessions, in a very George Perec-esque way too.

You can read more about A hobby of mine on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two extracts from the book. 

From A hobby of mine

Extract 1:

A hobby of mine is perverting the course of language.

A hobby of mine is the habit of mining.

A hobby of mine is wondering what the modern equivalent of mining school in nineteenth century Europe is.

A hobby of mine is running away to Rome.

A hobby of mine is imagining living in the south of France with a large of amount of cash that is demanding to be whittled away.

A hobby of mine is telling people why I haven’t launched a Substack yet.

A hobby of mine is deciding which of the endangered heritage crafts I should attempt to pick up.

A hobby of mine is calling the sun my father.

A hobby of mine is sitting in the middle of the road, crying that the passing scooters won’t stop and play with me.

A hobby of mine is wishing I was a cat.

A hobby of mine is knowing I would have been a very good clerk for the East India Company.

A hobby of mine is cultivating an emollient aspect to my personality.

Extract 2:

A hobby of mine is asking: how would David Foster Wallace have written it?

A hobby of mine is attempting to write things the way David Foster Wallace might have done, and failing.

A hobby of mine is buying any second-hand edition of The Golden Gate by Vikram Seth I ever see.

A hobby of mine is Tabasco.

A hobby of mine is predicting when money dies.

A hobby of mine is predicting when Miami sinks.

A hobby of mine is thinking up sports entertainment formats for a post-apocalyptic planet.

A hobby of mine is re-litigating the past until it asks to be taken from the courtroom and hanged until it is dead.

A hobby of mine is saying ‘wait till next year’ even though I know my team will be crap then also.

A hobby of mine is only reading my horoscope when I feel some part of my life is out of control.

A hobby of mine is opening all the cupboards in the kitchen looking for chocolate to eat, even though I know there isn’t any in the house.

Rhian Elizabeth, "girls etc"

Rhian Elizabeth was born in 1988 in the Rhondda Valley, South Wales, and now lives in Cardiff. She is a writer and a trainee counsellor. Her debut novel, Six Pounds Eight Ounces, was published in 2014 by Seren Books and is currently being adapted for TV, and her poetry collection, the last polar bear on earth, was published in 2018 by Parthian Books. Her prose and poetry have been listed in various competitions and prizes and appeared in many magazines and anthologies, as well as being featured on Radio 4’s PM programme. She was named by the welsh agenda as one of Wales’ Rising Stars - one of thirty people working to make Wales better over the next thirty years. She is a Hay Festival Writer at Work and Writer in Residence at the Coracle International Literary Festival in Tranås, Sweden. Her next poetry collection, girls etc, will be published by Broken Sleep Books in 2024.

About girls etc
The language in Rhian Elizabeth's poetry feels instinctual: the poems in girls etc pulse and ripple with energy, their rhythms perfectly pitched. Elizabeth writes of personal experience with an intensity and sharpness that challenges you to look closely. girls etc showcases a defiance, alongside the beauty and vulnerability, which resonates long after the last page is turned. Rhian Elizabeth brings a breath of fresh air to contemporary poetry.

You can read more about girls etc on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read two sample poems from the collection. 

From girls etc, by Rhian Elizabeth

i am the captain

in films and tv shows

they always give boats female names

so i name this one after

the best lover

i ever had

it is rude to say 

now i can ride her!

i never did learn

how to properly handle a vessel

as mighty as a woman

i turn the key in the ignition

the open ocean beckons

her engine rumbles

and i am the captain.

if we could just go back i’d push you higher

at the playground the stink from last night’s fire on the 

mountain infiltrates the summer air, lingering like bad breath

you send the pushchair toppling, come flying out of the seat 

as soon as i release the clip like you’re a parachuter ejecting 

i sit on a bench and watch you zoom around, 

free falling between the various apparatus  

up the steps and down the slide up the steps and down the slide 

swinging from the bars 

like a curly yellow haired little monkey

you ride the seesaw solo

adamant that it’s a unicorn

up the steps and down the slide up the steps and down the slide

until you summon me over to the swings 

where i push you half-heartedly

chubby toes wriggling in your sandals

clumps of pink varnish spread haphazardly across the nails 

as if you’ve been colouring outside the lines

but you insisted on doing it all by yourself 

or maybe i was too busy?

this poem is a memory

19 years old and playing at being a mother  

the way you played with your dolls

you deserved so much better, so much better

and now it spins and it spins and it spins

guilt is a roundabout   

                        that won't ever let you get off.