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 1500 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 & I'm trying a new modern format without capitals at the start of each line - I'm not sure if traditional forms like sonnets need an old format, though! !
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!
C Richard Miles Poems
Zoo Fruit Feeding Time
At the zoo's fruit feeding time: An ape ate a grape, . A porcupine ate a lime, A skate ate a date,
Watching The Cherry Blossom Dance By Sad...
Pink cherry blossom sifts like snow Along Rosebery Avenue, Where I am sitting on the bus Since some poor soul's mislaid their pass
Sunshot On The Bus Ride To Hebden Bridge
A bus-ride brought me Hebden Bridge again This time in summer, though the spiteful clouds Sheet-shrouding hilltops, half-heavy with rain This awful August, threatened they dare drown
We sometimes say we need a change, As a change is good as a rest But often fail to ponder If change is for the best.
Caterpillar, Caterpillar - A Children's ...
Caterpillar, caterpillar, crawl, crawl, crawl; Don’t fall off the garden wall. Caterpillar, caterpillar, eat, eat, eat; Grow so fat on your furry feet.
A Sense Of Spring
Now let me taste the tones of spring, The tang of birdsong, as they sing In liquid lyrics; let me sink To sup that succulence, and drink.
A Faithful Friend
Since it was fashioned on the turner’s spinning lathe The old, ash walking-stick has wandered many miles On bracken banks, in frost-glazed fields, by heather moors And waited while I clambered on unsteady stiles.
Thoughts Of A Goldfish
I am a goldfish; I am swimming around this bowl. It is getting dizzy. A goldfish I am; It is getting dizzy. Swimming around this bowl I am. Am I a goldfish? I am swimming around this bowl. It is getting dizzy.
A Cry For Burma (Written After The Cyclo...
Cry, for the countless citizens Of broken, battered Burma Who call on you to pity them, With resolutions firmer,
Waiting, at the shelter, staring down the road, for the late village bus.
As the trailing traffic trundles Slug-like slow through humdrum London, Serpentine, so slowly snaking, As the working world is waking,
Clatter of shuttle and rattle of looms Shattered the peace of the weaving rooms In Yorkshire and Lancashire’s high rolling hills, Where masses of mill lasses chattered in mills
A Few Short Musings On Poets
How is it that we poets seem to be Mere transient custodians of poetry? For succinct words and phrases seem to fly, Like unannounced meteors from the sky,
A Grand Morning
It’s a grand morning now, But it promises rain, So let’s make the most Of the hours that remain:
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.