Biography of gerard rochford
He was born in England, raised in Worcestershire, lived in Hong Kong, but has spent most of his life in Scotland: '...where the best footballers leave and the best poets stay. It is good to be near them'.
He has many children and grandchildren.
He writes mostly about intimate human relationships, wildlife and occasionally politics. 'Perhaps they are all one.'
His poem 'My Father's Hand' was selected by Janice Galloway as one of the 20 best scottish poems of 2006 on behalf of the Scottish Poetry Library.
He is the Makar (Laureate) for: www.scottishreview.net -publishing one poem per month.
gerard rochford's Works:
Three Way Street.(with Eddie Gibbons and Douglas W. Gray) .
The Holy Family and other poems.
Figures of Stone. All from: www.koo press.co.uk.
Failing Light - www.embershandpress.co.uk 2010. Handcrafted limited edition - 200 numbered copies. £15.
Of Love and Water _ with images by David Ladmore.
www.koo press.co.uk /Malfranteaux Concepts. 2011. Limited edition - 200 numbered and signed copies. £15. ISBN978 1 870978 82 8
Morning Crossword with images by Esther Green. Published by Malfranteaux and Koo Press.Aberdeen.2013. £10.Limited edition 200 copies, numbered and signed.
ISBN 978 1 870978 82 8
Available to buy via Facebook message or firstname.lastname@example.org
gerard rochford Poems
What My Father Taught Me About Love
I knew but never heard you say the word, although you may have whispered it in the night. So was it the day you looked up from your digging
When you’re alone with that sweet wood, the strings silent, bow taut, the heart hesitant; go into the Forest of Birse and listen. Moonlight is best; you know the music of days.
I know the scene – an aunt, the mix of perfume and talc, demanding a kiss on her rouged target of cheek.
My Father's Hand
I like to wear a band around my wrist, an amulet of copper, links of bling, a hippy weave of cotton or dried grass.
Christmas - Joseph And Mary.
CHRISTMAS. JOSEPH AND MARY. i. Joseph.
We leave our mark by what we do: the heart's tattoo, a fading keyboard's E,
Night Shift You’re sleeping with your back to me tonight. I reach around. Still sleeping you say: Later.
I know the scene – an aunt,
the mix of perfume and talc,
demanding a kiss
on her rouged target of cheek.
I am three: reluctantly oblige,
wipe my lips on my sleeve,
and hide again behind my mother.