Gill Lambert is a poet and teacher from Yorkshire. She has been published in The Interpreter’s House , by Indigo Dreams, Beautiful Dragons, Paper Swans Press and Half Moon Press; and on-line by The Fat Damsel, Clear Poetry, and Poetry Space.


She won the 2016 Ilkley Literature Festival Open mic competition and was commended in the Mother’s Milk Pamphlet Competition 2016.


Gill runs the “Shaken in Sheeptown” poetry night in Skipton and comperes at Word Club in Leeds.














138 x 216mm


36 pages


£6.00 + P&P UK


ISBN 978-1-910834-45-9












The ‘Uninvited Guests’, within this pamphlet are those which present themselves as muses to the poet, unbidden: a sentence overheard, a programme on the television, the name of an ex. They are emotions, or the occasional ghost, real or imagined. They can be as welcome as the kiss of a lover or as unwanted as thoughts which cram into a wakeful head in the early hours.



‘Gill Lambert’s elegant yet comfortable, chatty tone is laden with hidden barbs, charting sudden jolts of feeling and whirlpools of memory within the common-place.’

Bob Beagrie


‘In a voice at once confident and reflective, Lambert shows the intimacy of human encounters with the living and the departed, visiting a meticulously peopled past and present with compassion and humour.’ Hannah Stone


‘Gill Lambert’s poems are rich in the nuances and implications of life’s small details. Uninvited Guests quietly demonstrates the variety of things that make – and sometimes break – our lives.’

Oz Hardwick




Gill Lambert


Uninvited Guests





It began when they were young,

with skin firm as Pippins, flesh

creamy and yielding. She felt it first;

a longing turning to addiction,

the pull of womb on nipples,

prick of desire, sharp as cider.


She gave him her summers; golden days,

delicious afternoons melting into dusk.

He moved under her, dissolving

into her, his seeds scattering on her bed

with its apple wood frame and sheets

as thin as her marriage vows.


Because promises are difficult to keep

when there’s nothing else to do but be a wife.

At night she lay in a stifling embrace  

and closed her body on serpentine fingers

that found their way in. She woke  

to an apathy that lasted till the first bite.


But fermented love grows mould.

His worship of her soured, deceit

of the forbidden turned lust to mush,

with every fall. Her breasts, once ripe

and full,  grew wizened like forgotten fruit,

her mouth bruised and purple.


Now she takes her drug in liquid form,

pressed apples tasting of the summers

spent cultivating devotion. Oozing

into her bed, her bloated body desires

nothing now but to drink, craving the high

it gives her, sick from the aftertaste.  



That Kind of Snow


You had wanted snow,

though not the cruel cold of an Afghan winter,

that crept inside your sleeping bag

and froze the dampness in your socks.

There the snow fell suddenly

on a landscape that you’d come to know,

turning it back into an enemy.


No, not that kind of snow, but

snow that falls here on our hills

and sprinkles tops of walls,

the kind of snow that whispers in the night,

sighing over streets and fields, stays for days,

to disappear in pools of slush.


Your snow lay thick on corrugated iron,

and on flimsy make-shift walls,

where you shivered in the dark,

waiting for a dawn that showed the scars;

conflict; the thief that took whole men

and sent them back in halves, or quarters.


You had wanted soft, expected snow,

the snow that falls in lanes and covers gardens,

where footprints are the proof of destination.


Uninvited Guests


I sat until the light went, reading

other people’s poetry and trying

to make some sense out of my own.


Eventually I raised my head

to pink clouds and a black stain

of nameless birds moving


over the spring sky, perhaps

coming home in answer

to a change in the air.


I’ve had an hour of near

silence, but now muffled squawks

of neighbours’ voices pushing


through walls remind me

of my own family’s needs.

For a while, nothing else matters


but who wants carrots?

and reuniting odd socks with their siblings.

Later I’ll look at the few words


I’ve written and rescue my fragile

eggs of thought, smothered

by fat cuckoos in a nest of meaning.



Denim Blue

‘And though you want him to last forever,

you know he never will…’ Cat Stevens – Oh Very Young


The sand’s the same – biscuit darkening

to caramel, brown sugar, dissolving

into cappuccino foam. The café’s there,

from where you’d buy your endless

cups of tea, but the polystyrene cups

have gone. Now they’re selling

Fair Trade in recycled cardboard –  

pasties from an artisan.


A thwack from someone’s tennis ball

against a cricket bat, like when

you slogged ours for a six. Then,

my heels kicked up the beach,

you stood and laughed, flares

flapping at your ankles; jeans

with patches spelt your love for them.


Dads are building sandcastles,

towels mark their boundaries,

windbreaks battering and crackling.

Surfer dudes with dreadlocks and tattoos

scan a turquoise sea that deepens

to the indigo horizon, then denim blue,

fading up to the sky.


The waves erase my footprints.

I’m leaving nothing behind,

it only makes the goodbye harder.

Gill 9781910834459