Writer, publisher and promoter of poetry for many years.8 books of poetry published. Work broadcast and published internationally.
Organised poetry events and open mic sessions for Sefton Council in Merseyside. Readings have involved
most of the biggest names in contemporary poetry.
Most recent publication, 'Etcetera - new and selected poems.'
Read at poetry events and readings throughout the UK. more »
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Brian Wake Poems
At thirteen forty five our train begins to move, and, late to board, what seats remain face not toward but from. I shuffle off and fold my overcoat and sit, do battle with a newspaper to find a decent page and settle down
There is nothing to be frightened of, she said, but come along and lie here on the bed. We spoke of country dancing and of how so very sad it was to have to dance alone,
My father talks of being twenty days in an open boat. Adrift. My father and others. War time and the ocean was a bloodslick
LEADING THE BLIND
Blind himself, so Samson’s dog made absolutely no concession to the dark, but would cross, and bark, the river on a bridge of crocodiles with neither he nor they aware that either he or they were there.
In the early hours then, sometime between not wanting to get up and needing to, expectant silences, the visual discrepancy between gunmetal blues of fading night
We graze for hours through the densely structured arguments about what is and what is not, the genesis of patterns framed and hung for all to see. But we are prisoners.
I NEVER DID THINK
I never did think highly of the sea, said Noah, but used it as a means to come and go heroically, pack suitcases and kiss someone goodbye, to be wished
Hiding from me at bedtime, my daughter sneezes and giggles from inside the wardrobe. I wonder where she is, I act. Pretending not to see her four small fingers clutching
Lazarus Meets the Press
What bothers me, said Lazarus, trapping flies in a glass, brushing dust from his shirt, what concerns me most of all,
Died at sea. The pylorus blocked-stop-suddenly-stop-kingsline-stop was latin we had never learned, was the ship that ran aground, a killer, caught too late, that swam in him. The shark’s unblinking eye and terrifying fin both shocking in the foaming depths.
Goethe’s clock is ticking in an empty room. He sits quite motionless. All art, then peels a curling strip of wallpaper from a dilapidated wall, begins, he says, from what we know
Clutching At Straw
An unexamined life, thought Daniel, settling for the night on an eiderdown of lions, is not a life at all. I was hardly born until a little while ago,
Lucky for you, lucky for you I lived not in the glass house of my fathers, not in the bricks and mortar, in the mud and bullets
A good, Cain sighs, book, counting the steps, four, five, then resting, six, for a moment on the seventh in his cell, is quite, good morning sir, the purest essence of the human soul. I’m best inside, he says, best locked away.
Comments about Brian Wake
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
At thirteen forty five our train begins to move, and, late
to board, what seats remain face not toward but from.
I shuffle off and fold my overcoat and sit, do battle
with a newspaper to find a decent page and settle down
Behind me, music hisses from a faulty earphone. A child
describes the passing fields; a city child surprised by space
and countryside, surprised by, look mum, cows and sheep.
Across the aisle a blue-haired lady with an open book
is fast asleep.
From where I sit, my awkward view is of the places
we have travelled ...