Beda's work appears in a number of anothologies including the following.

  • Ten by Ten Anthology 2009
  • Grist Anthology 2009
  • Id on Tyne Press anthology 2007
  • Literary and Philosophical National Poetry anthology 2006
  • Bloodaxe anthology 2005
  • Biscuit publishing anthology 2005
  • Mslexia 2003 and 2001
  • Biscuit Poetry 2002 and 2001
  • And here are some samples of her work drawn from different publications over the last few years.

    Strange Beasts

    In the dayroom crooked mouths open and close,
    discussing sore knees with small sequinned eyes.
    Photograph stills in sepia grey, their translucent skins
    and blue lips drift off into shallow sleeps,
    woken by the gong to paddle in for lunch.

    It’s quorn sausage and mash today.
    Archie what manner of meat is quorn?
    Unicorn, I think Margaret.
    She smiles stroking his liver-spotted hand,
    and ties a ribboned soft sigh in a bow of love.

    The Poetry Cure Bloodaxe Books 2005

    Ten Months

    God gave me a measuring tape and laid my life flat,
    cutting out a patchwork pattern.
    Minutes and hours nipped off,
    bunching days into smaller moments.

    I keep the cuttings and threads as keepsake.
    Travelling I do in books, across lands in chapters
    running barefoot over my bed,
    miles journeyed popped under my pillow.

    God tucks and pleats. I concertina into
    confined spaces, a gauged length,
    my room is twenty four steps across,
    and twenty three shuffles wide.

    I watch my life from the window,
    they turn and wave,
    I slip their smiles in my handkerchief,
    -it’s never goodbye.

    I measure my loss, but the tape isn’t long enough.
    Sometimes I watch a bud blossom and flower,
    it blooms until the petals drop and die.
    I know exactly how long each stage takes.

    Book of Ten Zebra publishing

    Da's Dublin

    She’s scrubbed up well the dowdy old cow,
    slapped on lippy swishing rah-rah skirts up the Liffy.
    Miss high and haughty with her historical ways,
    Ah sure she’s dancing with glee,
    the bloody EEC detoxed her blocks,
    spanking bright pavements and windows trailing
    manicured geraniums, not dollops of manure.

    Noble tourist buses boast every ten minutes,
    even the old asylum is a place of pride.
    The lunatic driver sings sweet Molly Malone
    as part of his St Patrick rehabilitation, while
    fat Americans feel lumps in their throats,
    yanked out for their ancestral home.

    Shops in matching shades, blink soft eyelid blinds,
    batting welcome to our humble abode. Pretty bows
    next to cafes with designer ham, cabbage and mash.
    Temple Street no long a brawling tart in the gutter,
    flashing her knickers and puking up the day,
    but a slip of a girl sipping water, not jarred poteen.

    And she’s so clever with her book of Kells,
    and everyone’s churning out Celtic culture,
    the brains of the brawn is awesome.
    My Da would be proud to dance with Dublin
    her streets jigging him a merry reel.
    But he’d never forgive her - no feckin’ smoking?
    Making yesterday’s city a sweeter streel.

    The Grist anthology of New Writing 2009

    Matilda the Skeleton

    Matilda doesn’t bat an eyelid as strip teasing fingers
    stroke her long legs, white and smooth.

    In the sweaty walled chamber, flaking skin dust,
    they breathe in and out, open mouthed, green ghosted.

    A thumb prises her mouth open, rubbing her teeth,
    her vertebra a xylophone, plinked and plonked.

    Strangers handling her pelvis counting her toes,
    feeling her fingers, learning her insides out.

    At the edge of her rib cage a serrated breast-bone
    vexes, though her wide shocked sockets say it all.

    Stabbed aged forty two, through a sad sagging cardi.
    He said in court, she hadn’t me tea ready.

    Adrift from Belize to Havana Biscuit Publishing 2002


    In a scattered garden tickling feathers,
    a bird forages dried leaves for wayward worms.
    Algebra sighs, please at least look at me
    we need to get on. I open the page and a fly lands
    so I flick, needing to get rid of distractions Algie.
    it hops on my Jeans, new and white, very tight.
    Buzzing, it’s thick and stupid, too plump to fly,
    like me, too hot to revise. It ignores my waving,
    staying put, so I flick again and catch it hard,
    murdered, without a splat, or even a hum. A smear
    Of red on my jeans, shit, and they’re dry clean only.

    I didn’t know flies had blood and I didn’t mean to kill.
    I’d been quite into re-incarnation, re-birth and all that,
    now I’ll have to re-consider the meaning of life.
    I mean if I come back as a fly, why bother study?
    Or trying to be thin, or knowing a logarithm.
    I need a break after all this philosophy, and some
    ice cream, with chocolate sauce and a TV show,
    when I get these jeans off and breathe again.
    Don’t you XY and Z at me, with your dark brackets
    sulky pi, there’s loads of time for revising.
    The book says infinity stretches forever.

    Biscuit Publishing anthology 2001


    Test after test she feels her warm fertile body grow cold.
    The fuse blown.
    Each month endlessly beginning, and ending again
    in a grinning smear of failure on her pants.

    The woman sets out on her pilgrimage,
    nursing a belly of fear, it’s her last chance.
    On the train a baby sucks a fat bosom,
    her chest aches to be full of milk.

    She swallows her folic acid, a dot of hope,
    and shuffles with the cripples to beg.
    Kneeling at the patron of expectant mothers,
    she lights a candle at the feet of St Gerard.

    She waits
    And waits.

    For the kids Biscuit Publishing 2005