Autobiography. Born to the undergrowth. Perhaps unforgivable. It wasn't their fault. Mother said, "That's a bit of a bastard",and tried to pretend I wasn't there, nothing to do with her. Blind to the insistence of ignorance I failed to recognise my position. Shy to claim. Shy to say poet. Just a stack of time trying to find out. Which brings me up to date, to now. Biography. Not just a list of dates and facts. Listen to a recording on his website. A regular performer in the late '70's and '80's funded by the National Poetry Secretariat to do readings, he took time out from writing for 20years to run a business and concentrate on design. Out of that now, he's back writing every day. He wows audiences with his different ideas, surprising, inspiring and sometimes even outrageous; clever and funny. He's a complete natural.Well-read, intelligent,creative. Performances - Hebden Bridge, Leeds, Edinburgh, Leamington Spa, Colne, Lancaster, Rochdale, Hastings, Ealing, Corby, Norwich, Ipswich, Harwich, Doncaster, Dundee, Manchester, Bangor, Ilkley and so on. If you want to host an event which will be remembered afterwards, hire him. He won't disappoint.
"I'll settle your trouble said the pin to the bubble, and little hearts break so easy. There's a real long so-long in every nuclear bomb, and little hearts break so easy. Need the water drink the flame we can play a different game 'cos little hearts break so easy. from 'Roll of the Artist' publication. Wednesday 13th September 2017. That liquid desert, the sea, was very playful this morning. Big waves, little tsunami after little tsunami, lifting and dropping,bobbing us up and down like corks. Cold, loose and wild, though intimate, fitting like a skin. Cuddling, supportive,friendlier than the wind which bites and doesn't stop to talk. Eternal Triangle "Schhh.....Schhh.....Schhhhhhh........I'm sweeping," says the brush trying to sneak up on the muck. But the muck responds by rising in wisps, hanging placidly gaining protection till the brush is choked and rests a while. And the ground doesn't care for the brush, though it doesn't so much hear as feel the shush. Then the shovel's there with crackling grind cursing the brush for scaring the muck, for it can't scoop what's gone to the air. And the ground doesn't care for the shovel for it feels it's hatred for the brush. And after this row the foolish brush goes, "Schhh.....Schhhh.....," onward as the muck settles. And the ground loves the muck, comforting her from shocks and keeping out the cold. But Schhhhhhhhh.......don't tell the brush for if the ground doesn't love him, who does? It isn't the shovel, nor is it the muck, and the brush would be pained knowing the ground's not struck. Gordon Hoyles.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
A Day in the Life (04/01/2018)
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Nearly a haiku (19/11/2017)
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