Heather Carol

Artist and Poet



                                AS THE CROW FLIES

                                A storm clouds my mind

                                with memories of taunts.

                                Crows fly

                                in the mural above me; as traumas bind.

                                By Hitchcock's childhood haunts

                                pain darkens my emotional sky.

                                I move across bronze birds

                                set into paving.

                                                                                                                          My feelings are Experience's mirror;

                                                                                                                          ripped  by the beaks of your words.

                                                                                                                          Lingering images inhibit craving;



In the colours on a panel; a textured painting,

blue eyes peer from behind Pussy Willow.

Reflecting ancient lore; Willow is she.

Female, and strength resisting hating.

Composed lying on a hospital pillow.

A disabled Lesbian's story. The tale of me.

Nestling within Willow stalks;

a bed. Then a hospital sign, as blue as my eyes.

In my mind are  memories of prejudice and pain.

The mute ignored while the nurse talks.

Who notices the disabled dyke if she cries?

Hospital is a world of degradation and disdain.

                                                                                          Mortality, symbolised by the Death's Head Moth,

                                                                                          hints at the brevity of our allotted span.

                                                                                          I faced a life of being bed-bound,

                                                                                          swathed in uncomfortable, starched cloth.

                                                                                          Now I am life's biggest fan.

                                                                                          My health and life have turned around.

                                                                                          A spider weaves the future she desires,

                                                                                          painted among the symbols of Spring.

                                                                                          The festival of Imbolc heralds a new dawn,

                                                                                           as Foxes hint at Passion's fires.

                                                                                           The Snake watches; the Phoenix takes to the wing.

                                                                                           All symbolising a disabled dyke reborn.

                                                                                          (c) Heather Carol 2017.


Here are some poems written from 2012-2016. My poetry explores many subjects,often using my own experiences as inspiration.


I'm a femme lesbian of the disabled kind.

Wheelchair bound in body,

but not in my mind.

I'm a lover; naughty, and a little bawdy.

My personality stayed,

when my mobility changed.

So why am I being pushed into social shade?

Often excluded, and culturally estranged.

Barriers of perception,

 and a frequent lack of access

  make social inclusion

  seem like a trying game of chess.

   Not all club-goers are pedestrian.

  Not only the able bodied want to pull.

   So, come on, LGBT venues, this hot, disabled lesbian

    wants to live life to the full.

                                                                                           (c)  Heather Carol 2016.


Surfing social perceptions,

prejudice defines.

Cruising misconceptions

that exclude and decline.

Belying binary boxes,

sex defies normative cliques.

Bears, wolves; feminine foxes.

Many physiques. Many sexual mystiques.

Sometimes; just being LGBT,

                                                                                          leads to rejection and revile.

                                                                                          Difference isn't easy,

                                                                                          when attitudes are hostile.

                                                                                          Hate is a harsh sea to swim in.

                                                                                          In the need for love we are all the same.

                                                                                          As a woman who loves women,

                                                                                          I have no need for shame.

                                                                                          (c) Heather Carol 2016.

   Here is a poem with a comic tone which explores social perceptions of disability and sexuality. It was created for, and performed at Tammy Whynot's shows at the Welcome Trust, London, and Queen Mary University, London in 2015.

                                   WHAT DO YOU SEE?

                                    Hey there.

                                    You've been staring for a while.

                                    Do  you see the wheelchair,

                                     my twisted foot; or impish smile?v

                                      I'm cheerful, and can be perky;

                                      always dressing in rainbow fashions.

                                      I'm also curvy,

                                      despite disability benefit rations.

                                       I love having fun on my divan,

                                       despite disabling, disordered nerves.

                                       I'm a hot, lipstick lesbian,

                                       warmly attracted to feminine curves.

                                                                                                                                 Boy George might prefer a cup of tea,

                                                                                                                                 but passion is still important to me.

                                                                                                                                 (c) Heather Carol 2015


                                 I'M STILL HERE

       As we lie together Dystonia strikes.

       My limbs twist.

       Curving in a moment; like the roll of a loaded dice.

       My limbs are held.


        trapped in a neurological vice.

         Dystonia grips; nerve signals shackling a hot dyke.


          you move away in a trice..


          the warm passion in your eyes

           is now the cold blue of ice.

                Discarded, I muse.

          Waiting for Movement's return.

                                                                                                    Was it disgust or fear,

                                                                                                     that caused the spurn?

                                                                                                     Inside temporary, twisting spasms,

                                                                                                     I'm still here.

                                                                                                     (c) Heather Carol 2016


                                     DIARY OF A DYSTONIA SPASM

                               Disordered nerve pulses dash,

                               like trains through a tunnelled maze.

                               Neurological wheels hurtle on damaged rails,

                               triggering tremors as signals clash.

                               Colliding like electrical sparks, shocks of pain impale.

                                Limbs jerk; ache and seize,

                                contorting like angles in a transport map.

                                Muscles constrict, clenching, as cramps increase.

                                 Suddenly, clear signals start to commute. Limbs unfreeze.

                                 Briefly, relief and suffering overlap.

                                 Then mobility returns, restored, as tendons release.

                                  (C) Heather Carol 2015.




                          like a moth near a flame;

                          my sense of self,

                          cowers within a frightened mind.


                            I fear your psychological game.

                            I am losing myself;

                            my confidence undermined.

                             Why should I trust you now?

                             Your moods sinuously twist and turn.

                              I see emotions in your eyes,

                                                                                                                        as menacing as a Cobra's dance.


                                                                                                                         venomous words burn,

                                                                                                                        belittle, and chastise.

                                                                                                                        I feel like prey in a trance.

                                                                                                                        I'm isolated from all I know,

                                                                                                                        and trapped by fearing flight.

                                                                                                                        Yet, I still want to believe you,

                                                                                                                         when you seem caring and contrite.

                                                                                                                         I have just felt my stomach churn.

                                                                                                                         The rasp of the key

                                                                                                                         signals your return.

                                                                                                                         Will I hurt again tonight?

                                                                                                                         (c) Heather Carol 2015

                                  RODIN'S "THE KISS"

                    What do you see when you look at us?

                    Do  you see our fire caught in the cold stone,

                     or the hewn marks of the sculptor's art?

                     I wonder if our story is known,

                     or if our tale has been lost in time.

                     Two lovers locked in a stone embrace;

                     art mirroring life; catching a moment.

                      Are we just a subject to discuss

                                                                                                               or does our hunger quicken your heart?

                                                                                                               As I look into my lover's face,

                                                                                                               what do you see?

                                                                                                                (c) Heather Carol 2012

                                                       Photos by Debbie Humphry and Yannick Yannof.

                                                        Artwork (c) Heather Carol.