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C Richard Miles

Biography of C Richard Miles

Brought up in the rustic backwoods of the Yorkshire Dales, I have been exiled, through self-infliction, in the metropolis of London for over half my life, living near the notorious Murder Mile.

I started writing poetry at the somewhat advanced age of 46 (Jan 2008 - to be precise) but have caught the bug, the above locations providing some inspiration for some of my poems, which number over 1200 at the last count, not all of which are posted here (or indeed are suitable!)

There seem to be at least five or six different poets working inside me, so don't expect to see the same style or theme every time - My poems range from the traditionalist sonnets and strict metrical forms, through the rural, bucolic scenes of the Northern Countryside, past the reflective, nostalgic memories of childhood, to sardonic comment on today's modern lifestyle, slightly humorous nonsense verse and, finally, attempts at more contemporary poetry. Much of my early poetry is of the old-fashioned, rhyming variety, however - I'm a curmudgeonly stick-in the mud although there have been attempts to jazz up my style a little more recently.

Since summer 2008 I have been bold enough (foolish enough? arrogant enough?) to foist myself on the fringes of the London Performance poetry scene. This has had an effect on my poetry and new styles are creeping in - I seem to have acquired a liking for scattergun rants or mock-Gilbertian patter-song rollercoasters of poems.

Less than recent visitors to my poems may notice I have added my first initial to my name - there appear to be at least two established poets with whom I share my name; I would not wish on them the embarrassment of misattribution of one of my petty scribbles! Updates

Russet Rustlings

I rustle through crisp clusters of lost, crunching leaves
Which gather, bunched and rusting russet, in the thickets
And sniff the wafting, musty, fusty, rustic scents
Of fungal undergrowth amongst sparse, once-lush bushes.

Last, rash, brash leaflets stick to sycamore and ash
But soon shall slip their tenuous grips and hustle, fluttering
To forest’s floor to settle, nestled in moist mash
To match the close-lopped, coppiced brushwood’s patchwork carpet.

[Hata Bildir]