Rivers have a special attraction in childhood, a different world from the hard land. Most Suffolk rivers take a leisurely approach feeling no rush to reach a restless sea, they mardle, drifting on the gentle declines of soft beds, slipping slowly past low banks. These are rivers of low ambition, …
This poem won a ‘Commended’ award in the recent 2016 George Crabbe Poetry Competition. The competition judge, Moniza Alvi, wrote of ‘Last Orders’ “Tragic and hard hitting, I found this poignant poem compelling.” ” This is a poem with a real sense of urgency”. Every night at seven, he shed …
This poem started in a session of poets writing together, with Michael Laskey and Dean Parkin. Dean produced a ‘Spot the Ball’ page from an old newspaper, and we all enjoyed marking our X. We all missed! PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM …
No explanation is needed for this Haiku, its all in the image. Wonder in a glass where do you enter delight the clean spoon hovers
Christmas 1948…. I have been thinking about writing this poem for years, one of the sharpest memories from my childhood. Finally, I sat down this week, and it leapt onto the page. PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM Bright red tiles, arched around …
All poets sift their childhood for subject matter, and some experiences surface more readily than others. PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM It was winter, several weeks from his fifth birthday when his father left him at grandmother’s farm. No memory …
A lesson in early childhood about the fragility of life. PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM We learnt about friendship talking as we walked to the infants’ school, like the others I had envied in their noisy groups. Steeping over bad luck …
Do you remember that time of freshness, when some words – heard for the first time – had a resonance of mystique? This poem attracted a comment from Anne Boileau, who is currently Chair of The Suffolk Poetry Society and an excellent poet. Lapis Lazuli features in one of her …
He always breathed with a nasal drone
wet lips stroking a Woodbine
as he eviscerated game
a failed feint to distract his nose
from the glistening raunch of guts,
the thick stench if a stomach burst
and the half-digested last meal
oozed darkly onto newsprint.
Watching somebody start out on the complexity of life’s journey is awe inspiring.
Back to events again, with a eulogy to empiricism.
I still have my second world war ration book.
We all mine from the seams of our childhood, mine followed the grain.
