In print

Pilgrim Station  
Reviews:
The Lake April 2017
& coming soon from:
The High Window: June / Sept 2017



Pamphlet
July 2015 and lucky to find now!

MC at Stroud out Loud in the Subscription Rooms at the end of June, where Kai tapped a two and half inch nail into his nose, JJ brought us up to speed on Gregorian Chants and Fiona had a charming Cherokee tale of First Man, First Woman, first row and conclusion, Jim, Tim, Jeff and Kevan among others contributed to a good evening's entertainment, with Chantelle singing beautifully to finish.  On 18 July, as Bard of Hawkwood, I get a tent, or maybe a real cafe with sound system, to mount an hour's bardic show at this year's Seed Festival, link on home page, and watch the fur fly! 

Meanwhile, this little wonder goes to print tomorrow, Monday 06 July, a local effort, cover by Stroud Letterpress, containing a dozen pages of poetry from the May Day bards, and one Anon. All prophets go to Hawkwood, but no profits monetarily, getting it off the ground has been a study.  Should be out next week, £1, cheap.



On RS Thomas, Collected Poems

Half way through the collection
and it is ample, ample,
almost excessive really R.S.
is more than generous
in handing out life’s coin
and still to learn he’d more to say
and better when younger
I see he has met God in the
grounds of the mind,
in the mind’s eye. Speaking
                              professionally,
Thomas knew Him and no doubt
the cup of love passed back
and forth between those two
and they have had their share
of moods, which is, of course,
the common thing but, if God
is also then isn’t everyone
a Welshman? And if there is
a machine, so to speak,
God is in that too.
Published in The Cannon's Mouth #54, December 2014.


Night bird


mid-deluge and his short cigar’s
smoke rolls on evening’s shabby bars,
bright and baleful this autumn owl’s
a ruffled cove, a spotted fowl,
his eye is fierce, conclusions painful
gabbling down his watchful skin-full,
thinks beer tastes soapy, smoke is stale,
drinks in brine of city puddles,
windows dark and faces pale,
he hacks along, it rains and rains
and one by one we turn from him:
this tall bird of ill-omen sits
perched in our very midst.

And as his livid tongue slid phlegm
into a speckled handkerchief
he coughed again, in mischief waved
to a world of moving legs and boobs
and eager secrets - whet to woo,
motley bird, taboo for you.
He’s drawn back in remembering
he pecked that ball of fat, success,
with wattled chin and scrawny thong,
his companions of a feather,
it was a better time of life,
those seedy days are gone forever,
gone. 

           Steady is the rain’s applause
for a solitary night bird,
stuck waiting for the easy mouse
and cooing on the summer grain
for his gentle invitation
to escape this wilderness.


Night bird included in Literary Beats, Rhythm & Muse anthology
published September 2012.



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