Irina Frolova was born in Moscow in 1981, in the former Soviet Union. She moved to Australia in 2003, and now lives on the Awabakal land in NSW with her three children and two fur babies.
Irina has a
degree in philology from Moscow City Pedagogical university, and she is
currently studying psychology at Deakin University.
Her work has appeared in Not Very Quiet, Australian Poetry Collaboration, Baby Teeth Journal, Rochford Street Review, The Blue Nib, and The Australian Multilingual Writing Project, as well as various anthologies.
Irina is a regular at Newcastle Poetry at the Pub where she was a featured poet in January,2019.
Her first collection of poetry Far
and Wild was published by Flying Island Books in January, 2021.
Far and Wild speaks to the experience of immigration and a search for belonging. It draws on fairy-tales and explores archetypes through cultural and feminist lenses.
how long
I could tell you
how the snow glistened in the midday sun
like razor blades
how we shivered
every time the bus stopped and opened
its doors
glazed with frost
how I thawed my feet
on the radiator reclaiming my toes in a
moment’s
excruciating victory
how on sports days
at school we had to bring skis as well
as bags
of textbooks
how every family
with children owned a sled and some days
we all
looked like Rudolph
how snowflakes
floated above us their perfect shapes melting
on our eye-lashes
how he kissed
me in the wind not caring for tomorrows
of cracked lips
how far
winters stretched from October well into April
most years
how odd
these parching southern summers have
been
how long
Baba
Yaga Next Door
Pigeon-feeding,
vodka-drinking,
winking,
grinning
no-fucks-given
silver-haired
vixen. She
is
a cautionary tale.
Some
said loony,
others
- lonely,
no
one really came too close.
Fear
the old maid,
watch
the crone:
one,
who dares
to
grow old
on
her own
tiny
pension
in
her clutter-filled room.
Are
they skulls around
her
home?
Will
she eat your little kids?
Curse
you? Free you?
Will
she make you
see
the forest
through
the whispers
of
the darkness
in the old bony trees?
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