Poetry Blog by Wolfgar (2016)

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New Year in Freetown

entry picture

One New Year I spent in Freetown

it was a time of blood and fuck

I was with some friends

two now dead one gone mad

best friends I ever had


Hands chopped and boiled in pans

sea like milky heaven

traumatised girls

madmen gnashing black blood teeth

we were dying quickly underneath


I fucked away six months of life

I fucked away a loving wife

the best days ...

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What a waste of sky tonight,

the light of dead stars

smudged out by meaningless shite.


What a waste of words tonight,

great thoughts of those passed

shelved and replaced,

by the shiny and bright


Tomorrow when the sparkles have fallen,

and drunken cheers are numbed in nurofen,

will it be new or just the same?

Happy New Year!






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A prelude to wealth

entry picture

These fields were never greener

than when puddled bloody red,

when the rise of revolution

woke an empire from her bed.


When she revelled in her treachery

and dashed her children's hope,

snapping reasoned voices quiet,

to swing beneath a rope.


Her account was never heaving

in the days when men agreed,

when the peace that they believed in

was suppression to...

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GreedHappy NY.War

The March to Waterloo

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At The Bush Hotel in Farnham Town

between the topiary and Eiderdown,

many a girl hitched her silken gown

trading modesty for half a crown.


In The Queens Head pub

not far from there,

many a lad without a care,

drunkenly compelled did the story share,

with reckless abandon and vulgar flair.


Though one whose tongue

does wag no more,

is laid beneath my flagst...

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entry picture

On this silent night stillness settles.


In the hollowed shelf of a trench wall

a young face glows ember red.

The moment transfixed, 

low voices muster across open ground.


Foreign, a familiar tune rises,

lighter than the cordite air.

Ashen cheeks wet with tears,

young boys think of home.


In open boats, bodies huddle tight,

featureless faces under aimless...

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A list of this years things

entry picture

A sodden amygdala,

stagnant as dead liver.

Clogged by memories magma,

too stubborn to deliver.


Stuck inside, unfiltered.

A husbands punch,

a child's last breath.

The liquid lunch

to quench the death.


The heroin friends

who met common ends,

their purple faces

filled the lens.


The thunderous rain of dust

that came blinding in the night,


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AmygdalaMemoriesMoving onProcessing traumaPTSD

Christmas present

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Protective arms to an orphaned child,

gentle words to a splintered mind,

a family fractured, reconciled.

Un-tinselled gifts of a human kind.


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All-night vigil

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“All-night vigil”

The Moscow synodal choir 1915

Man as Angels, 

fallen from Heaven.


The world from darkness lifted,


A sacred space filled,

God projected.


A calm before uprising,

food for hungry souls.

While a nations children starve.


Such beauty

such enriching manna,

crushed by revolution,

wrenched from hope.


The Vigil,


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Lily pads

entry picture

Floating unsupported

tethered by satellite,

in jungle, sea and desert

they pivot toward the fight.



strung on threaded lies,

like pearls raised up too soon, 

they dim before our eyes.


Crescent like they form,

their ripples permeate.

Unnoticed, now the norm,

the new tentacles of state.


These stepping pads

of creeping war,

the ga...

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Creeping warEmpireHistoryThe pivot to Asia

An ungrateful wretch



the manifestation of nothing.


It slips inside a man un-swallowed, 

an invisible burrowing monster.


It takes hold of sound minds,

and without a voice it speaks.

Without form it claws the gut

and tears all will apart.


Without a mouth it screams.

Softly whispered crescendos,

echo through empty cavernous space,

expanding to fill all voids,


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entry picture

The chairs are neatly circled

in the hollow of the hall 

hopeful helpful posters

hang un-read upon the wall


Three buses and a good walk

deliver Harry Richards here

he comes for tea and just to talk

he’s been coming now for years


He’ll wait a few more minutes

on the steps outside the door

though his heart is slowly sinking

each week he waits some more



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A gift from the people.....

A piece of hessian sacking ripped and torn

lay damp and rotting, 

some partial text remained visible

“A gift from the people…..

the sentence was unfinished,

charred by fire.


Whoever had sent it

would have no concept of this place now,

would have long forgotten the gift, 

the urgency with which it was loaded as cargo,

the hope they wished it to deliver

and the ...

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Chichester harbour, late autumn walk

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The groynes stand black 

mud-stuck and firm,

estuary tides wash timber thin.

Cormorant, Curlew and Black headed Gull

take their rest from flight and wing.


Sun slips toward its rising self

magnetic in her splendour,

then kissing gently disappear’s

so mighty, yet so tender.


Canvas folded,

decks cleared and washed

wire clinks on metalled mast,

ghost ships...

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Red brick

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The red brick

like Gothic bleeding,

rises and reaches. 

Desperately it clambers

from disappointed streets.


Unlike the children who left

and took the learning,

who floated free above the hanging grey

to where the rain was gone,


these roots remained and dug in deep.


The leavers took their love

and spread it wide,

across oceans and skies.

The bitt...

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