I am a native of North Lincolnshire, but have lived in Perth, Western Australia for the past 46 years. I retired two years ago, having been an academic since 2002 (field: International Relations, research field: nuclear policy). I hold three degrees, including a doctorate. I have published four academic books, and have dabbled in poetry for the past twenty years. I have not published any of my creative work prior to my discovery of WOL. I have never given a public reading of my work to an audience (although, of course, speaking to groups of people holds no terrors for me!). My general approach to my own poetry, as I think about an idea for a new poem, is to let the original concept work itself through - evolve, if you like - through whatever pathways it wants to. In this way, I am aware, as I begin, only of its vaguest of outlines. My great joy is to see it grow and develop almost, it often seems, of its own volition. Having said that, I usually have a rhyme scheme and basic structure in my head to start with. I also believe that poetry must be understood, first and foremost, in the reader's terms. Poetry should not be held up merely as an artifact of its creator, to be understood primarily by self-appointed 'experts'. Its magic is that, once published, it is in the care of others, whom I invite to read, understand and enjoy it on their own terms. I will be visiting the UK regularly from now on, based in Lincolnshire, and intend to participate in WOL as much as possible. Chris Hubbard
Celtic Memory We are the true Celts, and sombre lyric mystery is the searcher's unstoried reward for survival's battle, and the brutal play of the sword: the Romans feared us in ancient times, in Gaul Caesar's legions, bleeding freely, fled headlong; then Boudicca sang her warrior's rebel song. We fought the Roman Horde four hundred years and more, in sacrifice and blood and iron dealt, and taught versèd centurians of the savage Celt. We wrote no symbols telling seers of our fate, but our bones lie scattered still beneath your feet, be you Irish, Scottish or Galician Greek. We did not recoil from history's hoary trials, nor to filthy Hades caverns were we sent, and our pride, beliefs, our arts are with you yet; at Clusium we showed Rome our fearless passion when Brennus led us, winged and horned, into dire battle with fell Romans, so swift to die as lowing cattle. A golden age awaited, steeped in nature's sacred rule, told by singers, musicians, poets of the flashing knife, our gods the woodland spirits, their lore and life: all-knowing of seasons, of death and transformation, an unseen world of reincarnation. A redeemer saves, stands tall before us, joyful, his grey-blue eyes ablaze. We danced this earth for aeons, let our harps and lyres sing of legends, epic tales, vast caravans of time; bejewelled and painted, women wove their hearts in rhyme as druids taught their children of the ancient rules and ways. But no mystery remains to cloak and hide the Celtic race: a gilded mirror reflects the blue eyes in your own bright face. Christopher Hubbard 2016
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Saint Petersburg (12/06/2021)
Deep Last Autumn (08/06/2021)
The Eyes Of My Remembering (21/05/2021)
So Much For the Everyday (29/04/2021)
The Thunder Comes (16/04/2021)
- 2017 (1)
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