Bard's life

Hallowe'en , once an ancient Celtic festival with Pagan roots, is nowadays an opportunity for youngsters to indulge in T rick or Treat , the custom of going from door to door after dark, dressed in suitably spooky costumes, to sing or recit e in exchange for sweets or c urrency. It's all very light hearted and only the most curmudgeonly person would not find it amusing. B ut what if the caller w ere not a child in a scary mask seeking toffees but someone who had other, less benign, intentions?  THE REAPER Armani suit and calf-skin shoes,  Rolex coiled around his wrist, a sharp black beard defines his chin, three blood-red rings adorn his fist, his neck’s embellished with tattoos which spiderweb his swarthy skin. He’s saturnine, tall, lithe and slim: not how I had imagined him. His smile is supercilious, cold. He strokes his smartphone, barks my name, then looks me over with a frown. You’re ready, Fool. You’re mine to claim ... I cower , defenceless, weak and old. He lea...

To w atch some remarkable drone footage of a World War 1 poem written with poppies click on the link below. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/uk-41759999/world-war-one-poem-spelt-out-in-poppies  

With Hallow'een fast approaching, it seems appropriate to publish this slightly spooky rhyming poem, Jackdaw Witch . JACKDAW WITCH Where do you fly to, jackdaw witch, when night affords you change of shape? Do you, half bird, half brute, escape beastly constraints, do you unhitch yourself from our reality, soar up, in pterodactyl skin, to mingle with your ghastly kin, their putrid sexuality a ripe lure, a sure inducement.  Where do you fly to? Whose command bids you attend? Who can demand your presence, jackdaw malcontent? And does your night-flight summon fear? Do ground-bound creatures flinch and hide beneath your soft-winged deathly glide, your claws, your countenance severe? Why do you, time and time again, abscond to wilderness and brier? Where do you gather to conspire when moon illuminates the plain? Where do you fly, who do you meet? And are their talons stained with gore? What words are whispered when you your misshapen, foul companions greet?

The island of Guernsey is presently fogbound, with visibility limited and the normally-uplifting view of our adjacent islands totally obscured.  It's difficult to remain upbeat on days such as these. Happily, the gloom has been lifted by news from producer, Becca Bryers, that the B BC Local Radio & National Poetry Day project, which I took part in last year, has gained Silver at the ARIAS (Audio and Radio Industry Awards) in the Creative Partnerships category. Stone Witness , my submission to the project, became the title poem in my 2017 collection of the same name. Copies of Stone Witness are available online from my publishers, BLUE ORMER at https://www.blueormer.co.uk/?page_id=611

This poem, if indeed it is a poem, came about as a result of an exercise to establish whether I could merge two poems into one and still produce a coherent whole. Whether it works or not remains to be seen. You, the reader, must be the judge of that. It first appeared in my Strange Journey collection, published in 2012. PARIS we meet on a sunlit bridge                      in an ancient city in spring and our shadows merge                              we meet like eager lovers inhaling sweetness                                                your cool skin scent apple blossom                                               ...

I've lost count of the number of poems I ' ve written about bird s. It's a subject I keep returning to again and again. Garden birds, of course, are a source of constant joy and living close to the sea ensures that we encounter an abundance o f coastal species ranging from snowy egrets to o yster-catchers in their distinctive black and white livery. There is a kestrel that frequents the granite cliff-face adjoin ing our property , an owl that hunts i n the narrow lane and a noisy gang of magpies, who se coarse sniggers can be heard coming from a nearby conifer . Crows, too, can sometimes be seen around Bordeaux but, for some inexplicable reason, these birds fill me with dread. There's something ominous in th eir baleful presence that seems t o stir a memor y in me of a frightening childhood experience concerning these sinister birds. CROW An old grey crow perches on a granite wall. Its prehistoric stare unnerves me. In those unfathomable eyes I see not...

This month the annual Poetry On The Lake F estival t ook place in the beautiful setting of Lake Orta in northern Italy.  The festival was founded in 2001 by poet, Gabriel Griffin , and has as its Patron the Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy , who described it as ‘ ... perhaps the smallest but possibly the most perfect poetry festival in the world”.   I don't have Ms. D uffy' s wide knowledge of poetry festival s but I'd certainly agree that the Poetry On The Lake F estival i s as close to perfection as I can imagine. A few years ago, I had the good fortune to attend the events there with my wife, Jane, who had been invited to Orta to read her acclaimed poem, Il Mio Pavone Bianco . On the final day of the Festival I took part in an outdoor poetry reading on the wooded hillside at Sacro Monte along with a number of acclaimed British and Italian poets, including the Poet Laureate herself. This poem, Suitcases, is one that I read on that occasion.  SUITCASES Crouchin...

As a child, the seaside was a place of wonder and delight where my family holidayed for a fortnight each summer. Throughout my life I have retained the sense of excitement and fascination that those early excursions provoked. The north-east coast of Ireland has some of the finest beaches in Europe and the journey from Belfast, by way of the spectacular Antrim Coast Road, is a joy to any traveller. On the small island of Guernsey, by contrast, the sea is never far away and its proximity to our home at Bordeaux ensures that, when sea fever overcomes me, I am only two minutes away from the beach. Standing by the sea wall at high tide on a bright morning, sunlight reflecting on the water, brightly-coloured fishing-boats bobbing in the foreground and the neighbouring islands of Herm and Jethou on the horizon, is a truly uplifting experience. TO THE SEA These early autumn mornings, bright as summer, catch me, wakefully, prowling the house while still you sleep, your face turned from the win...

It's a bizarre experience, on a damp a utumnal night, to encounter a large gathering of amphibians on one's doorstep.  There are those who might find such an experience unnerving but I considered their unexpected presence propitious and cause for celebration. FROGS Tonight, on flagstones, drawn by rain, frogs have congregated. Drizzle falls gently, like acupuncture needles, on slick, camouflaged skin. They squat there, a dozen Buddhist monks, bulbous eyes blinking. My torchlight does not disturb them. Rhythmically, synchronistically, their leather throats pulsate.