The Capsule – Peter Sirr When it came to it, nothing we wanted would fit. We stood on the road and packed what we could, the tickets and music and sealable wit, whatever we had, whatever thought good. What…
Sunday Poem – Ian Harker
THE LIONS OF LEEDS TOWN HALL – Ian Harker Drawn from life at London Zoo you could catch one from the corner of your eye curling an oversize paw like a cat in a square of sunlight on the kitchen…
Sunday Poem – Eileen Sheehan
some contradictions that beset the ex-wife’s brain – Eileen Sheehan When I got your news I sent a message saying, I hope you all have a great day out. This was no lie, but in fairness, it was only part…
Residential Poetry Course in St Ives
Steve Ely and I have been working really hard this week to pull the timetable together for the residential poetry course that we’re running in St Ives next year, from the 15th to the 20th February. Below you will find…
Sunday Poem – Hubert Moore
Boy’s Name – Hubert Moore The wooden post in the pond where the kingfisher perches is a bare post, and indeed when they asked you your name you couldn’t say anything. You knew it of course. You’d answer if somebody…
Sunday Poem – Peter R White
It is not Sunday, it is not Sunday. It’s barely still Monday. And yet. Better late than never I suppose! This week has been slightly bizarre. There was the come-down from the high of the Forward Prize ceremony. The night…
Sunday Poem – Malcolm Carson
I’ve been thinking a lot about this blog in the last couple of weeks. I’ve been getting a bit weary – not with picking the poems, which I love doing, but with writing about my week, which seems to become…
Poetry Carousel 11th-13th December 2015 – Workshop Blurbs
There are a handful of places left on the Poetry Carousel – a residential poetry course with a difference that is running at Abbot Hall Hotel, Kents Bank, Grange Over Sands from December 11th-13th, 2015. Tutors are myself, Amanda Dalton,…
Sunday Poem – Wayne Price
I cannot say that I’m not relieved to have got to the end of this week – two four hour rehearsals, two readings and one gig, all while I’ve had the most awful cold. In fact to call it a…
Sunday Poem – Penny Boxall
I’m writing this from a motorway services station at midnight on Wednesday night. It is a very strange place to be. There are two men who are sitting in front of the slot machines – they’ve been there for the…