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Chris Hardy

Updated: Wed, 9 Aug 2017 03:43 pm

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I live in London and have lived and traveled in Africa, Asia and Europe. My poems have been published in many magazines, anthologies and websites including - Acumen; Agenda; Brittle Star; Lakeview International Journal; Obsessed With Pipework; Orbis; Pennine Platform; Poetry Review; Prole; RAUM; South; South Bank Poetry; Stand; Tears In The Fence; The Dark Horse; The Fenland Reed; The Frogmore Papers; The Interpreter's House; The Moth; The North; The Rialto; The SHop; Under The Radar; Wasafiri and;;;;;;;;;;; My third collection, ‘Write Me A Few Of Your Lines’, was published by Graft Poetry. 'An intensely enjoyable collection', (John Lucas); 'I found wonders in many of Hardy’s lines', (Anne Stevenson). I am also a musician: a CD of acoustic music, ‘Health To Your Hands’ is available from 'You can easily imagine his name being mentioned in the same sentence as John Renbourn or Eric Anderson … well worth checking out', (Guitar Magazine). 'The picking is glorious and the songwriting excellent', (Acoustic magazine). I play in the trio LiTTLe MACHiNe performing our settings of well known poems. We have appeared with Carol Ann Duffy, Gillian Clarke, Liz Lochhead, John Cooper-Clark, John Hegley, Liz Berry, Hannah Lowe and other poets. We have made a new album with Roger McGough and are performing at literary events across the country with him. 'The most brilliant music and poetry band in the world'. Carol Ann Duffy. The audio file in this profile is LiTTLe MACHiNe performing our setting of my poem about my father, 'Short Of Luck On Short Street' from my collection 'Write Me A Few Of Your Lines'. My fourth collection 'Sunshine At The End Of The World' is published in August 2017 by Indigo Dreams. "The acute poems of this wonderfully named fourth collection are always clear, sometimes rueful. Amongst wars and rissoles, they cherish their ghosts. Past and present are summoned by memorable lines with strength and tenderness". Alison Brackenbury "Bird nesting in mailbox. Rat scrabbling in cavity wall. Spring uncoiling and a welcoming harbour. A guitarist as well as a poet Chris Hardy consistently hits the right note, never hits a false note". Roger McGough "These poems explore Time, from the tender appreciation of new life, through all its vicissitudes, to death: Time alters, enhances, destroys. They deserve to be read slowly, to appreciate the many and varied nuances which lead to the comprehension of the Now". Patricia Oxley Editor: Acumen Literary Journal


Four poems from 'Sunshine At The End Of The World' Pulse Lying on your side, unsmiling, calm, the shawl up to your chin. You have come down in the dark from a globe of water, slick blue fish suddenly small red ape, anemone fingers. While I remember how we all got here and wonder what might happen next you watch the evening light upon the wall, feel a touch where your skull breathes. Through the window and the door the world is there, just over there. Soon each moment will spread before and behind you like the sea, but now all there is for you is your immortal, unopened, second. Auspices (Athene Noctua) We felt we were being watched and turning saw an owl poised on a rock at midday still and intent. There were grasshoppers on the hill behind the beach and damselflies flickering along the water’s edge but for the moment the small bird considered whether we could remain. She drew everything to her, even the sea stopped moving then she was gone as if she’d not been there. The crickets and the sea were allowed to sing again and the place was an ounce lighter now its soul had left. Turned out nice You get up from your mother’s bed and catch the bus outside her house. When it stops you get off, walk through a door and start working. People come in and out, you go away with some of them, into the country, another city, across the sea. One day you find yourself a long way from where you began. You think for a while about how it turned out like this. You can recall what you did and why you did it, more or less, but each event is like a page you wrote your reasons on then lost, a trail of scraps blown off tables in street cafés, not a book beside your mother’s bed. And you know it doesn’t matter that there is no story. The sun always sets in the west even on the other side of the world. The sea and sky change by the minute, the records we have kept fill miles of paper, and we have decided they tell us nothing. Harbour The old place has changed but remains the same. It would take a war or tidal wave to make much difference. Even then the rock covered plain and mountains would remain. What was right once will not be repeated. One thing’s for sure - I will be forgotten. Good luck to all of us, will that do? I thought this, or rather felt it, watching you walk away towards the beach. The sun shone through your dress so your limbs were like shadows, and I saw that if you kept on walking you would disappear. Outside the chapel on the quay you asked me to light a candle for the boys, request they be allowed a joyful life right to the end. That’s what I did, with a mite for us unsaid. The harbour is so small it can only shelter a few boats from the sea, that stretches away beyond the wall around the world.

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