Poetry Blog by 'Michael Martinez'

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Philipos on Ride with me amigo (Tue, 27 Apr 2021 09:24 am)

Nicola Beckett on Deliver me from this (Tue, 23 Feb 2021 09:14 pm)

Tom Harding on Pyrenees 1939 (Sat, 9 Nov 2019 09:18 am)

Ride with me amigo

Ride with me my last known friend

and leave the directory behind,

no need to remember the numbers.

Just saddle up and buy us two sombreros.

The sun will burn hard, scorching persistent

memories: leaving us to it’s unrelenting mercies.

Into a desert together meandering aimlessly we will

ride, whistling tunes from the Saturday morning

pictures we saw at the cinema when we wer...

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When I think I know you can see me


So I am imagined -

as Angel González said -

being reflected 

inside your brain cells.

A circuit of fibres

that sees me standing 

‘within’ your thinking:

briefly flickering.

Momentarily there 

inside you like some son 

waiting to be born 

and floating oblivious.

Warmed by your heart

perhaps lighting up 

the deep sea fishing nets

which are the mind.


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Deliver me from this

Return me 
to my darkness,
my own darkness 
not yours.
Deliver me 
from your fears,
to my own fears
not yours.
Bring me 
stumbling back
to my nightmares
that held me close
like familiar friends.
(Michael Martinez 2021)

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Tales of an Anarchist Pigeon


sitting on some rusty purposeless wire 

looking down the platforms

of Paddington’s Circle Line

the rain falling gently

and settling on the head of a sad man

who walks in circles on the platform  

as if a bird looking for stale bread

almost like we do minute after bleeding minute

unless it’s shagging or building our nests

in some dying tree or leaf and moss filled gu...

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These Fallen People 1

I live with these fallen people 
in this shaded land,
their conquests lost 
within their broken dreams,
as I queue for bread and beer:
this world of fear and dust 
entering my lungs 
leaving me lost in time 
looking at their stained hands.

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Pyrenees 1939


Mortal men stumbling 

into unknown spaces 

removing their bloodied coats,

with the dried mudded backs

from resting under the rain.

Spoken to in a foreign language 

as they empty their pockets 

and the torn sacks made of rope.

Letters from their homes, 

empty wet leather wallets, 

pictures of visited places

and small books of rules.

The emptied pockets turne...

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