Poetry Blogs (2018)

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entry picture

I remember the sun;

the sun was important,

although all the art was inside

and in perfect pride of place,

skirting the walls

and planted in rows.

My feet young, but the air old,

and moss overgrown on

the war memorial outside.


True, you need light for shade,

a chiaroscuro, and

a half-full glass raised.

The place is almost silent

with must, damp, old coins...

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wol 2018

havent written a blog for years now! 3 years i think...

any one up for more bond poetry?

where have all me muckers gone??

anyone still on?

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Heatons Arts Trail

The organisers of the Heatons Arts Trail have sent me the following about our proposed workshops:


We need something specific from poets. Their ideas would need to go into the application or be discussed and decided beforehand.

No idea how it would be organised re the working together with artists but we need to have something concrete from someone wanting to do a workshop. So that we ca...

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2018Heatons Arts trail

Be a Good Girl

Dilute your pant suits,

grow out that cropped hair,

season your long words,

make your language edible -

That's it, baby, be delicious!

By smearing cherry lip gloss on that big mouth of yours,

Hunny, where's the honey on your pale skin?

Why don't you smile more?

You know, that's what we hired your for...

To bring customers in!

I'm talking to you, hey!

Darling! Doll ...

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Beside the water,

torch-lit in wide places,

the muddy track fades

and ash and oak are ragged

paper props,

before, beside, behind.


The thaw bleeds out

over marsh and moor,

swept away back east

with lines of fields


and played out.


My own earth is in the box


the heart smokes

and is painted on the floor,

where dogs rush to me a...

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The Way The Wind Is Blowing

Getting famous

with wilderness;

judgement's feather-light

body-blows, cascade

through vertigo.


Too old to start

afresh, AGAIN;

swimming in the scorched

starlight, of youth, eyes

unblemished, bright.


This is all fair,

where would it be

otherwise? How could

the cymbals clang warped

for us, weak heroes?


Or soften, as fruit

rich, nourishin...

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