Monday, 26 December 2016

What I Read In 2016

Adam Bede - George Eliot
Universal - Aidan Andrew Dun
The Tokyo-Montana Express - Richard Brautigan
Collected Poems - Philip Larkin
Fan Vaults And Medieval Sculpture Sherborne Abbey - J.H.P. Gibb, F.S.A.
The Traps - Louise Mathias
Distance to Empty - Red Shuttleworth
Childhood - Nathalie Sarraute
The Poems of William Blake - William Blake
A Fish Out Of Water - Bheki Ngwenya
Lyrical Ballads 1798 - William Wordsworth
The Outsider - Colin Wilson
Farmer - Jim Harrison
Fragments from Heart 'n Saddle Saloon - Red Shuttleworth
The Poet In You - Jay Ramsay
Monuments - Jay Ramsay
July 2016 - Red Shuttleworth
Songs Of Innocence And Experience - William Blake
A Dubious Legacy - Mary Wesley
The Prisoner Of Heaven - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Improvisations - Jay Ramsay
Talking In Bed - Bidisha
The Firebridge - Philip Wells
Summer Highway - Barbara Brinson Curiel
The Cookie Jar - Stephen King
Chapbook #138 - Red Shuttleworth
William Blake - Jack Lindsay
Strange Days - Jay Ramsay
The Chymical Wedding - Lindsay Clarke
Cries of London - Nick Field
Barb Wire Conclusions - Red Shuttleworth
The Poems and Prose Poems of Charles Baudelaire - Charles Baudelaire



Tuesday, 20 December 2016

The Exile II

And the exile, 
in his self-made cell

plucks once more 
on the shadows 
of the strings

and the stones of the walls
are porous like pumice
that scourges the dead cells

the light shines 
through a veil of rain

scours the soul 
           - immaculate again

Wednesday, 14 December 2016

Globe

Brittle globe, 

houses a vacuum
of conflicting desires -

forward or back?
forward or back?

Ghosts and oils
metals and fires

the globe clouds
silently explodes

Friday, 9 December 2016

On Visiting The Shelley Theatre

- Boscombe, 2016

Strangers in the street, in spite of everything
are nothing other than helpful -
the time-pressed decorator
the fit-bit on his wrist jogger

fragile cliff - no, that’s not an oxymoron - prone to erosion
the glass and timber of the bus shelter
with plank bench and (temporarily?) abandoned
sleeping bag, bright green zig zags 
of graffiti and two dead beer bottles
the other eight lost somewhere after
the accidental fall

a bank of sand makes a fine seat
a place to think
a place to breathe
the still sea
one loan boat

and the wings of an angel

until

a single step sets you on the stage, the oaken boards
from the old gas-powered days, a single bed
and fake blood spreads on a real knife blade

Shelley stares back at you
from within a black frame
stares at you and the white flowers 
set in alabaster with the aroma
of moulds exhaled by the damp mortar

Shelley stares back at you
and the wings of an angel

Su Joy 2016


Friday, 2 December 2016

The Exile

Exile, in a self-made cell plucks
the shadows of strings
seems taken aback

here is the light he lacks

stretches of spongey tar
a pleasure for the tyres to grip
an absence of cars
in the old glory days 
of imagination that, like a gear

slips

there is a town
- how it is - how it was

a sort of double double vision -
already, landmarks
such as the chapel long used
as a dusty bookshop
are long gone

the town doubles again
within the memory-scape 

with surprising ease
a milelong avenue
of trees
a song from the strings

and four gold coins in your pocket

Pages

Morlock Oil

Morlock Oil
A new collection of stories available now . Click on image for details.

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery

The Quest Of Great Celtic Mystery
New Chapbook Available (email rockinahill@gmail.com for details)

Furrow

Furrow
Bunchgrass Press