Sara Hirsch

Sara Hirsch is a London-grown poet and spoken word educator. She is a former UK slam champion, ranked third in the World Slam Championships in 2014 and won the European Slam in Madrid in 2016. She is a TEDx speaker, has performed at Glastonbury and live on the BBC and has toured extensively, both in the UK and internationally. Sara has published two full-length collections with Burning Eye Books and recently finished a Master’s degree in Creative Writing and Education at Goldsmiths University, graduating with distinction. She is currently attempting to dismantle the patriarchy, one poem at a time.

Photo: Perry Jonsson


Poetry Café: Sara Hirsch »

Lunch and life-affirming poetry, with Sara Hirsch

Sat 10 March | 13:00 - 13:50 | £6.75/£5.50 | The Byre Theatre, Abbey Street, Studio Theatre

Breakfast at the Poetry Café: The Self »

Interrogating the "I" in poetry with Sara Hirsch, Jan Baeke, Esther Mijers and Luke Pell

Sat 10 March | 10:00 - 11:10 | £4.75/£3.75 | The Byre Theatre, Abbey Street, Studio Theatre




His biggest fear is that we won’t want to live in each other’s country.
His biggest fear is geography. Mine rustles around in bins, disrupting

the peace. Thin wooden window slats separate our flat from back streets
of Stratford. Urban foxes scream us out of sleep. On weekends we join in,

masterfully. I think this city stole my sense of humour. I notice it sometimes
on the opposite platform. Glint of amber, then gone, squealing, into the night.

This part of town is embarrassing me. Street scraps and such. Sweet starlings
fall in with bad crowds, let each other bleed out onto zebra crossings,

well, he won’t want to stay now, will he? Thank you very much. Couldn’t
have died quietly, out of sight, for the cause? They aren’t pack animals, foxes,

little known fact; they favour their own company.


Summer ejaculated prematurely all over June. I spent the longest day with the lights off.
London bought all the fans so all that was left for us was the handwritten sign from the electrical department of John Lewis that read ‘all fans sold out’. That sign cost £24.99. Bargain. We were high on hot. We glistened. The Central line leant us other people’s heavy wet salt

sweat dribbling down my torso; I reach through the dark, behind the blinds, to heave the bedroom window open in anticipation of breeze. If anything, the air gets warmer. Outside holds us in a suffocating stalemate. The foxes have woken the birds too early. The birds mimic local car alarms. An almost dawn chorus of replica Hondas - we are nostalgic for the originals

we are naked. We are nesting. It is post sunrise but pre-alarm clock. The landlord lets himself in. Ignores the ‘all fans sold out’ sign stuck on the front door, to ward off unwanted consumers. We are reminded that we are just tenants. There for the taking. We are foxes, feebly shrieking our rights into the hallway whilst rummaging to cover our flesh.

Sara Hirsch