Gen Banks is an Australian writer of Sri Lankan and Italian heritage, and the mother of two grown children.
As a person living with autism, Gen is passionate about advocating for others on the spectrum; for human and animal rights, environmental sustainability, and mental health awareness.
In addition to writing, she enjoys music, art, nature, and spending time with her menagerie of animal companions at her home in tropical Queensland.
Gen writes under the names Gen Banks, GenX, GenKu and Gothink Poetry. Her work has been published in Impspired Magazine; The Literary Juggernaut; Dark Poetry Society e-zine; Raven Cage e-zine; Open Skies Quarterly and Dreamscape special edition; Poetic, Lie, Sense magazine; and on the website Compositor. Since 2019 she has been moderating poetry groups on Facebook.
~ Her Body ~
Her body is not the smooth carved marble of a Grecian goddess It belongs to no Venus or statuesque model Her skin is not glossy and will never be advertised in a magazine nor magnified on a silver screen Her flesh is undulating topography Its patchwork hillocks threaded with the scars of past harvests Her curves are not the kind a man pins on the back of a door and strips with lascivious eyes Nor do they visit his mind at countless, secretive times This body lives in the same small house He hears it through the kitchen wall, running water in the sink Each night, its supine form lies beside him in sleep Too close Too cold Too warm Sometimes her hand might brush against his but doesn't touch his heart at all
~ Laughing Stock ~
This house trades in shares of cold silence In weighted warfare and stones thrown... In hens' teeth phonecalls, rare as gold... In pin-drops heard on kitchen tile... I haven't laughed in quite a while This house is an unfinished business of boarded-up windows and scores of stuck hinges... of half-empty boxes strewn over the floor... Should its occupant deign to unbolt a door... would I shelve my pride and laugh once more? This house is a ghost story, grieving It's a widow in purdah, though her love is still breathing... It's a bitter exchange in a contest of wills... Yet, if ever I learn to laugh amid tears... could the dearly departed be taught how to live?
~ Woman, Subsumed ~
There are women awake in the world burning candles both ends who speak softly in palette and brush... those feelings that remain beyond the pen's keenest sense to articulate in more than a hush In colours vibrant and pastel In swift strokes of paint-loaded sable... they illustrate tales of their heartbreaks and hell, overlaid with the gold leaf of cautionary fables There are women up late in the world burning candles of personal truths Midnight drips into pools of dark lava... as dawnlit glass gleams with irrepressible blues There are women more fearless than fey who regale us in beauty, in lieu of the limited word All those Fridas, Marinas and anonymous Margaretas... whose work and whose worth go unseen and unheard