I come from Liverpool, England. I have written poetry for many years and some of these poems appear here and in my first book 'Neptune & other poems'. Though often reluctant to publish my work, some pieces have appeared in print before. Aside from writing, my interests include music, art, architecture, film, theatre and travel.
My favourite poets include T.S. Eliot, Ian Hamilton, ... more »
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Neil Young Poems
Ancient & Modern*
How well the old sits with the new, Giving what is minimal An interest and theme; A neutral canvas
Landmarks** (No.2 - The Naval Monument, ...
Lorimer's monument Punctuates ‘The Lines', an Upturned exclamation
Reading Powell On Crosby Beach*
Shades are deeper here, less Subtle than Aldeburgh; This murky northern coast.
Curving now And moving fast, The wave rolls higher than the dead of war.
While rain on old Saint Mary’s church poured down, Those opened doors invited us inside. Creatively designed, the flowers grown Filled all the dusty corners. Just beside
Memento* (Part I)
Thunder! Purring like a thirty-two; Storm-clouds, Sagging, humourless and bleak;
Clouds Over Sole Street*
Our brooding, blue-grey visage slowly moves. Below us, telegraphs, whose bronze wires thread Their pensive silence, stitched from pole to pole, Await the tickle conversation makes;
The earth, played out, seems forged with fear, It bristles, stiffens, slowly fades With introspection. Through the blear, In our unease we move, bowed heads;
The language that he reads is esoteric; Not hieroglyphs, yet symbols of high art; Pages of black code that proffer colour, Transcending each mathematical part.
i. Rosace Some forgotten grace Lights the window's leaded face
Slowly stretching my unexplored arm On the land, I feel nature reclaim It. I weave across all I have known, Whose past settles in bright afternoon.
Gnarled trunks rise up in lines like Gothic shafts of stone, While underneath the weight of sky their branches groan. Faint psalmody, those soughing leaves are clearer seen Than understood; they quiver in a vault of green,
Sat in the undercroft of St. Leonard’s She takes money, like Charon, in her thin Bony hand. Her table proffers postcards; Sepia reproductions affirm in
The cathedral, in silhouette, lays still. Framed by a halo of low sun, its form Ship-like, run aground, burns upon the land.
Ancient & Modern*
How well the old sits with the new,
Giving what is minimal
An interest and theme;
A neutral canvas
Where there is everything to learn.
How weak the new fits with the old,
Cheapening the substantial,
Marking out a struggle
Between bold principles
And inevitable entropy.