he is a published poet

My poem "Manchester Airport" is in Issue 1 of Reuben Woolley's new webzine The Curly Mind

https://thecurlymindblog.wordpress.com/2015/12/

Me and a whole lot of other writers too. Negotiating this huge brain-dump isn't easy. My poem is near the top of  page 11.

https://thecurlymindblog.wordpress.com/2015/12/page/11/


In the few casual minutes I've spent with it  I've liked poems by




Steve Waling:


I am – yet what I am none cares or knows……………Clare

Once, in finesse of fiddle found I ecstasy……………T E Hulme

I met a traveller in an antique land……………………Shelley




Had I the heaven’s embroidered cloths………………Yeats

If ever two were one, then surely we…………………Anne Bradstreet




Sarah James:


Knight of black and white, righter of cherry trees, slow leaver of coffee cups, waiter on none but the big screen before big got to imax it, before Besson, Béart or that infamous man with the big nose. Zoom to seen in colour, then on to words lifted from a printed page. Sovereign of oranges and zest, of dresses on the floor and song birds in barred cages. Forecaster of war and all the rain in Brest. Reeler of the real, crowned in cigarette haloes – smoke that curls like the River Seine, like the discarded peel in Alicante, as vin rouge on the tongue, la belle langue in the throat, my future loves whirring through his hand – some decades before I know them – and the off-cuts purring at his feet, spooling unscripted.




Nathan Thompson:


wafts the crypt exhales
expiring like miners under
water this plant is
my new century spiky
heads yvette means different
somethings pikey blunders favour
boneful the taxi’s omnibus opining
foul with choking parts prophets
mail me enlargement little
jon aggressively party on
arrows fortunes go faster rack wheels
turn my maiden fielding green
& spineful sassy blood outpouring
essential updates derek saved shut down





Rupert M. Loydell:


It’s been a week

There goes the couple
I want to go with them

The magazines of fire
lay nearer the centre

Something is
always burning





David Spicer:


A hanged woman bareback in Brooklyn,

CIA music in a stolen Thunderbird.

The North Star is not me on that stage

of the eighties. I long for 1913,

a gypsy in a diaphanous V-neck sweater,

a great anachronism, a fixer for royalty

lost in an age of speculation and sepia postcards.

Now, my head reels with barrels




Pierre Joris:


Waiting on Third Avenue

that’s Bay Ridge

not the prick-

shaped island on

a Saturday pre-fever

afternoon,