Josephine Corcoran

@andotheritems.bsky.social

1473 Followers 385 Following

Writer. Reader. I dabble with VisPo and collage. Liberation theology inclined Catholic. Wife & Mum. Website https://josephinecorcoran.org/ Substack https://open.substack.com/pub/andothernotes?r=36enk&utm_medium=ios

I’m holding the paperback book in my hand - it says Kate Atkinson ‘Transcription’. The book has a pink flamingo on its cover
A collection of handmade zines on my table. Pens, scissors, glue and eraser also visible. Titles of zines include ‘Finding joy in small things’; ‘Be like St Francis and spread joy with small acts of kindness’; ‘A little book about St Francis of Assisi ‘.
Paper collage of a flag of Palestine growing from a slice of watermelon
On paper I’ve stuck a little bee (cut from an old calendar) being magnetically attracted to a yellow paper flower
Handmade paper plant, drawn, painted and cut, then stuck into a sketchbook- a spindly plant with a few green leaves in a blue pot.
A section of Georges Seurat’s painting ‘Bathers at Asnières’, a man slumped emotionlessly on the riverbank, a seal, dolphin and whales (my magazine cutouts) peeping and leaping from the water
A paper collage of a bottle pouring out a choppy sea on top of which sits a little red boat with a green mast, a scribble of cloud above
Six leaves around text that says Februllage Day 8 Concrete
I’m holding up a copy of Millions by Frank Cottrell Boyce. The illustration is a small boy carrying an enormous cloth sack of money marked with a £ sign
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art
I’ve strategically placed a piece of broccoli over part of Michelangelo’s David. (Februllage is an annual collage challenge to respond in collage to daily prompts.)
I’ve arranged leaves and stems from my garden collaged onto white paper to give a vague impression of a leaping ballerina
I’ve laid handwritten text on top of a dry piece of toast which reads ‘blank page of toast ready for a scribbling of butter’. Just visible, a lovely green and white patterned Wedgwood plate, a charity shop find.
Handwritten text overlaid on an image of a snowdrop flower in a wintry country scene - image was repurposed from an old calendar - reads ‘BOOM I saw you and BOOM fell winter’s heart’.
On a plain piece of toast I’ve placed in handwritten text the words ‘blank page of TOAST ready for a scribbling of butter’.
List of collage prompts in English for Februllage 2026
A close up image of a snowdrop flower in a snowy wintry country scene. Overlaid text reads ‘BOOM I saw you and BOOM fell winter’s heart’.
Graph by Mona Chalabi showing Venezuela, Iran, Iraq, Libya & the question “What do these countries have in common? (Hint It’s not just that the US military has shown up uninvited)” Source Energy Institute Statistical Review of World Energy 2025.
In black lettering against à yellow background I’ve cut out the words ‘You Are Loved’ and fixed them to a window of my house. Inside my Christmas tree is visible.
Saved by Stoppard Sir, In 1993 my wife and I went to see the first production of Arcadia by Tom Stoppard (obituary, Dec 1), and in the interval I experienced a Damascene conversion. As a clinical scientist I was trying to understand the enigma of the behaviour of breast cancer, the assumption being that it grew in a linear trajectory spitting off metastases on its way. In the first act of Arcadia, Thomasina asks her tutor, Septimus: "If there is an equation for a curve like a bell, there must be an equation for one like a bluebell, and if a bluebell, why not a rose?" With that Stoppard explains chaos theory, which better explains the behaviour of breast cancer. At the point of diagnosis, the cancer must have already scattered cancer cells into the circulation that nest latent in distant organs. The consequence of that hypothesis was the birth of "adjuvant systemic chemotherapy", and rapidly we saw a striking fall of the curve that illustrated patients' survival. Stoppard never learnt how many lives he saved by writing Arcadia. Michael Baum Professor emeritus of surgery; visiting professor of medical humanities, UCL r.
My copy of The Visual Poetry Times placed on top of the envelope it arrived in
Close up of purple pink sweet pea flowers in small jar of water. Two peas have begun to sprout into beans.
Pope Leo travelling through a section St Peter’s Square in his Popemobile car. Crowds of people waving and cheering.
MPT MAGAZINE (2016) ‘For The Voiceless People’ by Gemoraw Of all freedoms, speech is the first, and it is the tongue which allows us to voice our desires and our desiring. If the tongue is tied down and cannot tell what we feel, not only our flesh is tied, but our soul. And if our fellow man is tongue-tied, we must speak for him too! If we find ourselves in a free country, what is the use of freedom, if we do not speak for the speechless? Is it a crime to say I am their fellow man? your tongues are burning, your hunger is raging! blame the drought! say our Authorities. But for all those whose voice is silenced, and who cannot cry help! for themselves: cry help!! TRANSLATION: CHRIS BECKET & ALEMU TEBEJE
I’m holding my zine which features a child’s white dress on the cover.
My hand holding the 2010 anthology which features winners in that year’s Bridport Prize
HOW DO YOU FIND THE WAY TO MY HOMELAND? by Haia Mohammed I carry a backpack through life / moving from place to place to escape / somehow I remain attached to my land / when I return to the tent at night I pass a lady cooking on a clay oven / the irresistible food fills the air / I say to her what a wonderful smell / she replies please come my daughter / she doesn't know me / I don't know her / I know that this food isn't even enough for her family / this is inevitable in war / she invites me in / calls me her daughter / I realise this is my homeland's true path / when there's only one loaf of bread left for two days no one touches it / despite everyone starving / until my mother divides it among us / then I know I'm on the right path / whatever dish she prepares she sends to her neighbours / they do the same / so no one sleeps hungry / when you go to offer condolences for their martyred children / you find yourself / being comforted instead by their immense patience / faith / strength / walking through streets / you see people sweeping / organising remnants of their homes / others living in a remaining room / their destroyed house / a man sitting on his balcony chair / in the rubble / having breakfast / when you go to buy something / the seller tells you pay what you can, if you can't pay, don't / then you realise who the true owners of the land are /
I’m holding a copy of The Age of Olive Trees by Haia Mohammed published by OutSpoken Press
I’m holding a hand painted sign next to a pink rose. The sign reads “wars are easy to start and hard to stop” (quote from historian Timothy Snyder)
A betting slip from the bookmaker’s William Hill. The horses names are ‘Appreciate it’ ‘Duffle Coat’ and ‘Three Card Brag’
Hija (Daughter) by JosephinenCorcoran When I spilled juice on my favourite dress, my father found water and sunlight, then salt, white vinegar, soap, then, again and again, the water and sun. Still, I cried, and still he held my sorrow to the sky, rubbing my tears with all of his energy until the ugly stain became faint as a ghost, only visible to father and daughter. Now I've outgrown that dress but still I wear its kiss of sweetness against my skin and still the ghost calls out to me, singing those long hours of my father's love.
A dried pressed sweetpea plant on paper. In pencil where the flowers might have been I’ve written “I remember the flowers no longer here”
I’m in my sitting room wrapped up in a blue blanket
Fady Joudah reading at a lectern. He is wearing a keffiyeh.
A little blank page book propped open with a rear view picture of Pope Francis wearing his white papal clothes, photographed next to some forget-me-not wildflowers growing on my patio.
A Pint of Light When I overheard my father say it was his favourite drink, I closed my eyes and imagined his body filled with a helpless light. Years later, I watched him pour out the disappointing truth, but still couldn't let that image go: he's trailing home from the pub singing against the dark, and each step he steps, each breath he breathes, each note he sings turns somehow into light and light and light.
Then, said I, Lord, How Long? by Josephine Corcoran Beautiful, the man in my hallway lacing up his second-hand shoes. He is 18 years old, he is my son, he is late, I have no money for him, all my loose change dropped in the church basket. Holy Hell! They are using it to fly criminals around the world! Waving goodbye is the man, shaved head and beard, a time-lapse the hallway, scuffed mornings. Boys and girls calling to walk him to school, billowing like fruits and flowers, disappearing - reappearing like film stars to crowd the hallway mirror, perfume the house. Tripping over, stepping around rucksacks, hats, gadgets, mud, musical instruments, books, sleeping bags, corner shop alcohol - Did you hand in your essay? Mum, the planet is dying - Goodbye, goodbye, for 18 years, waving goodbye. Hungry the baby, sucking his fists, cold hospital February, scored plastic cot, my nipples already scabbing and him three hours old, as they stitched me, he latched on to my breast, cuts on his face, bruises, mini prize fighter, starched blanket, milk, the heat of him. Next to the candles I sat, next to the Virgin Mary, reading Isiah backwards in my head, holding language in my mouth to taste it longer. desolate utterly be land the & man without houses the & inhabitant without wasted be cities the until answered he ở long how Lord I said. Then. Give me a kiss then, Mum. I'm away. Eighteen summers shaken from trees, falling flowers, leaves raining down, streaming, through park, town, along the street, into my hallway, my childless house.
A picture of a lemon drizzle cake, just out of the oven, no ‘drizzle’ (lemon juice and icing sugar) added yet!
Poster for ‘Mute Embrace’ solo show by Lucia Sellars
Lines from Mahmoud Darwish’s poem ‘State of Siege’ (2002) on paper which has, arranged in lines, top to bottom, black leaf printing, white seed pods (from an honesty plant) green leaves and a sprig of rosemary, and on the left side, small red flowers & red wild rose hips.
MPT MAGAZINE (2016) GEMORAW For The Voiceless People Of all freedoms, speech is the first, and it is the tongue which allows us to voice our desires and our desiring. If the tongue is tied down and cannot tell what we feel, not only our flesh is tied, but our soul. And if our fellow man is tongue-tied, we must speak for him too! If we find ourselves in a free country, what is the use of freedom, if we do not speak for the speechless? Is it a crime to say I am their fellow man? your tongues are burning, your hunger is raging! blame the drought! say our Authorities. But for all those whose voice is silenced, and who cannot cry help! for themselves: cry help!! TRANSLATION CHRIS BECKET ALEMU TEREJE
Celandines by Josephine Corcoran first lights of spring, buttercup bright guiding satellites for early queens pulsing yellow - will wasps & bees return? will swallows stream closer in lengthening light? nights still raw, we starry sisters fold green once more, keep our faith for snowless skies, we have nectar for hoverflies - will butterflies dip by?
Both pieces are described in third image. This image is The newspaper report overlaid with a portrait of Barbara Walker’s son Solomon
Side packet of oatcakes, printed with the slogan “we’ve been baking in Scotland with pride and imagination since 1896” and someone has added, in pen, “we’re exhausted”
Image Description: a return train ticket and an image of an Antony Gormley sculpture of a standing man cut from The British Museum magazine (Winter 2020 issue). Visible text says 'Return' 'Return' and description of the sculpture is 'Antony Gormley. 'Bridge' 1985. Lead, fibreglass, plaster and air. 191 x 50 x 35cm. Copyright Antony Gormley.’
Once Upon a Lockdown, 2020 Rosebud Once upon a tightly folded rosebud a letter from the Prime Minister arrives. It is Friday. Or maybe Monday. There are bluebells in the garden. I wash out jars: jam, pickle, marmalade. Bring buttercups inside. The supermarket emails about queues. My shelves are flower-filled. In my Instagram window, I listen to the news. Perhaps it's Tuesday. Unfolding Once upon a rose unfolding in a living room, we unfold a static bike and cycle, cycle, cycle. On Thursdays we bang a saucepan with a spoon. We cycle, cycle, cycle, walk in local streets. In windows, children hold up rainbows.
Train ticket, all text erased or covered with scraps of pressed flowers and leaves except for ‘Anytime Valid Senior.’ Picture of a white, grey haired man with the description ‘Henry Briggs, Thomas Young (after Sir Thomas Lawrence), 1820s. Royal Society.’
Once upon a lockdown Once upon a tightly folded rosebud a letter from the Prime Minister arrives. It is Friday. Or maybe Monday. There are bluebells in the garden. I wash out jars: jam, pickle, marmalade. Bring buttercups inside. The supermarket emails about queues. My shelves are flower-filled. In my Instagram window, I listen to the news. Perhaps it's Tuesday.
My hand holding a small round badge, blue and yellow, the colours of the Ukraine flag 🇺🇦
Lost by Josephine Corcoran Where the heck am I? You are somewhere Between winter and spring Population: many Famous for: lowlight Winter is behind you Spring is just ahead
A yellow daffodil pictured against a blue background
Collage made from paper, hand drawn text and cutouts depicting a restaurant scene, a table for two, a little waiter, a black notice board saying ‘SOLD OUT: candles, roses, chocolates, music, moonlight, champagne’, overlaid text says ‘all you need is love’.