Steve Regan is a poet, playwright and journalist who lives in Liverpool. His poems have appeared in: Envoi; the Best of Manchester Poets anthology; Reach Poetry, the US journals Killing the Angel, DoveTales and The Provo Canyon Review; and the Canadian journal, Scarlet Leaf Review. His ‘Unpleasant Valley Sunday’ won Runner-up Prize in the Sefton Arts Writing Competition (2011). His poem ‘Red-bricked’ is part of a permanent art exhibition at Wigan Wallgate rail station in Lancashire. Steve is founder of the LIVER BARDS poets, who meet on the THIRD MONDAY of each month in the Rum and Rumour bar, at the historic Ma Boyle's pub (Tower Gardens, central Liverpool, L3 1LG, next to St Nicholas’ church). His play ‘Tim’ – about the bombing of Warrington in 1993 – was performed as part of the Wirral Festival of Firsts in July 2014. Fiction: Steve’s ‘Partners’ daily fiction serial appeared in the UK national newspaper Today (1990-91). His flash fiction has been published by Flash Fiction Magazine among others. http://flashfictionmagazine.com/?s=Stephen+REgan Journalism: Steve created and wrote as the cult national TV critic ‘Sam Brady: the man they can’t gag’ for ORACLE and later the ITV Teletext services. http://sambradyoracle.blogspot.co.uk/ He has written columns for various regional newspapers, including the Hull Daily Mail, the Whitstable Times, the Norwich Evening News and the Moorlands Trader (Staffordshire). He currently writes abo0ut culture and business in the north for the Northern Soul website http://www.northernsoul.me.uk/beta-life/ COMEDY Steve's an experienced MC (of comedy and poetry nights) and a stand-up comedian in his own right. His comedy routines include the troubled love life of a Dalek and the sexual shenanigans of Extraterrestrials. NOVELS Steve has two novels in progress ... 1 'Bad News for Butterflies' about workplace alientation, love and magic. 2 'The Wearons' - a comedy sci-fi about aliens living in Liverpool.
FOLLOW THE BEIGE BRICK ROAD Not many have followed the beige brick road from Wigan to Wallasey. It starts with treads of trepidation on the road less travelled – the only way out of town. People with a firm sense of direction or purpose swerve instinctively away from such an egress. ‘Circuitous’ is too dry a word for the path of life I’ve taken to arrive here, through all sorts of moisture. Here is now, is Wallasey, on the seventh day of April in the year of our rejected Lord, Two Thousand and Ten. It’s my 51st birthday and yes – tonight I shall party like it's 1959, in Wallasey, 25 miles from Wigan, where the adventure began. Joining me, a few poets – but not too many as I want the mood to be light, with no-one showcasing, apart from me, maybe. Fifty-one years, fifty-one thousand broken dreams – at least! – and as many broken promises, and violence and laughter and snot and satirical sneers and love. I wish I’d been kinder to my friends, nobler to my enemies, more generous with my lovers. I wish I’d kept a grip on the banner of truth instead of nailing my colours to unsteady masts, trimming my sails to passing breezes, letting ships steer me. Wishaway, wishaway, wishaway to Wallasey. I followed the beige brick road to the end of the peninsula where the waters are choppy but it’s not (yet) the end of my road.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Burning bridges and launching books (06/06/2013)
Then the muse of good mood arrived ... (14/05/2013)
Truth often comes in drag - as a paradox (29/01/2013)
Such misery - in Goole, Hull and Wigan (10/01/2013)
To the end of the territory! (08/10/2012)
Poetically, pulchritudinously, my equal! (07/09/2012)
Sheer poetry from rough-as-rats Lancs (05/09/2012)
Roll out the red carpets! (10/05/2012)
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