Audio-recordings of two new poems

9 10 2016

An introduction to two poems and recordings of both.  There is also some context to each poem and their origins.

These poems, together with one other, were published in the Lonely Crowd last week.

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Moortown

22 05 2016





JackdawQuarterly writers’ group: Summer meeting

30 04 2016

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Feel welcome to read a poem or an extract of prose, or to simply listen along to others on the theme ‘panic’.

 





Blodwen

31 10 2015

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Whether you tripped and fell into the fissure
or were trodden down that crack by angry feet,
time failed to press you against its pages
and you slipped out the soil in tiresome stages
like a leafless daisy dropped from a dusty book.
 
Moss was scratched from your skeleton like music,
sounds beaten, chorded.  Silent spaces in your spine
were composed and contrived into score, a  melody.
The tune though was the crass, hunchbacked malady
of this arthritic, iron old lady embalmed
 
by glaring lights, glued and stuck down to a stage.
Like the bog man dragged from leathery torture to melt
as a guttering candle while cameras flash,
your petals will flake, crumbling to white bone-ash,
while you thin and hush and they number your bones.





Confessions to a Literary Agent

25 10 2015

She sits, silently shrinking into the hard leather seat,
palms joined, knees folded like a scolded child,
her body crossed by conflict.

There is a voice beyond the closed door,
persistent, protracted as candlelight;
then another, interrupting the guttered monologue.
A kindly intonation, leaning in
like someone at a lost car’s window,
a familiar accent pointing the way home.
Then the quiet apologies string together,
clinking like rosary beads, louder, nearer,
until the door opens and a faceless writer
falls out, back as bent as a broken book,
leaving the door ajar.

Though she enters the agent’s office
with a sheaf of papers swinging resolutely,
her tongue quickly kneels her down.
And both then know this pattern by rote
so the murmurs behind the screen
become a predictable Latin
while I note the following confession:

‘Our last meeting was fifty-two weeks ago,
I have despaired of my writing and know
I’ve broken the promise to write every day,
Neglected to read, forgotten to post
Entries to competitions (unless when drunk).
I’ve watched my blog become lazy and ‘like’
Posts without reading them. I’ve stolen
Similes, collected characters, I’ve sunk
To emulating ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’
And write about vampires my daughter’s age,
Now I borrow her books.  I even bought
My husband a kindle for his birthday.
I am sorry for these indiscretions –
The limitless sins of my non-profession.’

The agent swaps the sacrament for sacrifices,
‘Absolution will be your first publishing deal,’
she promises.  The writer can’t look at the words
as they chime, nor can she meet the eyes
of the next confessor outside on the pew.





The shout

20 10 2015

Birthplace (Glyn Maxwell)

She traced her forefinger beneath each line,
as slowly and deliberately as one learning to read,
stroking the skin of the page
so the words stood up like tiny hairs.

‘The task,’ I said, ‘is to make it louder
by hiding some of the poem in the dark.’
But she stared down at the marker pen
as though it was a bullet or a spent shell,
its damage pre-empted, permanent

and, instead, closed her eyes.  In her dark,
she shadowed out the sounds of classroom chairs
being clunk-stacked on the tables, the goodbye bell,
the ‘don’t run down the corridors.’
The poem and the pen and girl were gone
when I returned to the room after bus duty.

‘This poem is about silence, not shouting,’
she tells me the next morning, while the class,
cold and uncaring, slip from their slick coats
into echoing conversations.

Her markings have devoured the poem
so the silhouette that remains is skeletal;
bones she has spat are now shards,
the remaining ribs sharp and dangerous.
All the flat noise has been carved from the paper

and when I rub my finger over the scars made
by her scalpel, to gauge the gulleys there,
the wet marker pricks my fingerprint with ink,
and the sentiment sinks into me anew.





World Poetry Day and The Chester Literature Festival 2015

17 10 2015

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Step 1: Find your favourite poems (the ones that you have gathered and nurtured and given and have given unto you)

Step 2: Photocopy them onto coloured paper, hand out the scissors, put some chopping/thrashing/paring music on

Step 3: Watch the carnage spread from the desks to the floor – imagine the cleaner’s face when she sees the devastation

Step 4: See young pupils handle old words with a freshness and fearlessness

Step 5: Acquiesce, permit them to leave with their poems and that snaking promise they’ll ‘finish them at home’

Step 6: Look at their proud faces, their proud poems, feel a little lighter about life

FullSizeRender (5)  (A ‘found poem’ based on Tony Harrison’s ‘Long Distance’)

FullSizeRender (6) FullSizeRender (7) (A ‘found poem’ using Simon Armitage and Glyn Maxwell poems)

FullSizeRender[1] (A ‘found poem’ using Jonathan Edwards’ ‘Seal’ and ‘Hippo’)

FullSizeRender (4) (A ‘blackout poem’ using Glyn Maxwell’s ‘The Birthplace)

FullSizeRender (3)FullSizeRender (2)

(Blackout Poetry’ using Luke Wright’s ‘Ballad of Fat Josh’)

Step 7: Take the new poems to their original creators, ask for kind words and signatures, return them to their new homes