Ian Bowen Poems

Throughout past movements
of my blunted feather pen,
my mind has been
controlled by frustration.
...

Of course I remember;
being alone in a strange town,
home sick,
missing my family,
...

A curtain slightly moves
as a well-after-midnight breeze
blows cold kisses at a guttering candle.
Silver knives and forks
...

Time lays dry in the fields
as a long Summer gasps
in choking clouds
of windswept polen.
...

Among my dead father's papers,
a sepia photo of a girl.
The inscription on the back,
'С а м м а й .. oт .. С в е т л а н ы '.
...

Each rain soaked cobblestone reflected a midnight moon
as total darkness hid between the close, claustrophobic walls of alleyways.
A single stage rattled to a stop.
The smokey breath of stallions, cut through the evening chill,
...

At my first meeting
I got to my feet, and with
shaking knees and quavering voice
I proclaimed 'I am a poet'.
...