Ian Bowen


Ian Bowen Poems

121. A Need For Further Investigation 2/3/2010
122. A Sign Of The Times* 2/20/2010
123. Achieved 2/24/2010
124. ...And You 2/24/2010
125. ***varying Emotions*** 2/16/2010
126. ***shopping With An Angel*** 2/24/2010
127. ***poetic Suicide*** 2/24/2010
128. A Merry Widow 2/3/2010
129. A Third Helping Of Pork 2/2/2010
130. A Queen For The Day 2/7/2010
131. A Slave To Temptation* 2/17/2010
132. ***the Grasslands Of Tranquility*** 1/7/2010
133. ***i Remember Crying In My Sleep*** 2/16/2010
134. ***alternative Rhapsody For A Queen 2/17/2010
135. ***dying Of Time*** 12/29/2009
136. ***the Dream Watchers*** 2/5/2010
137. ***on Becoming Blind*** 1/6/2010
138. A Poem About Nothing 1/30/2010

Comments about Ian Bowen

  • Lynda Robson (1/25/2008 6:09:00 AM)

    I am a great fan of Ian's poetry. He has a way of expressing his thoughts, whatever the theme. I would recommend anyone taking a look at Ian's work, I'm sure they won't be disappointed.
    I echo Will's words.

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  • Will Barber (4/10/2007 5:00:00 AM)

    Ian Bowen's poetry moves through concrete, particular images to the universal. Whether he writes of boyhood or of his mature years, a constant theme emerges - deeply felt experiences, expressed compactly in in vivid, utterly convincing detail.

    Pathos, humor, and sheer narrative skill distinguish his verses - deeply felt, and eloquently expressed.

Best Poem of Ian Bowen

A Poem About Nothing

I want to write a poem about 'nothing'
(not an easy thing to do) .
I want to describe the emptiness
that I've found since I lost you.
The crashing waves of ecstasy
will me missing from my verse.
There will no expletive adjectives
or headless-chicken curse.
The glorification of life's scenery
will be omitted from this page.
I will not mention the 'seven wonders'
or some ancient, historic age.

I will simpy be negative
and just scribble what comes out.
Leave you hopelessly pondering...

what this poem is all about

Read the full of A Poem About Nothing

***dying Of Time***

Now in my grey-haired heart,
Flows the blood of seasons past.

Those pastoral beats, that once surged
In a sea of windmill leaves.

My haygold, harvest days, warmed
My cockles; all splashed in sun.

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