Biography of Roger elkin
Roger Elkin was shortlisted for the Bloodaxe New Blood Book-length Competition (1987):
one of 10 shortlisted (out of 4,000 entries) for the Strokestown International Poetry Competition (2003):
and one of 6 shortlisted for the Keele University Poetry Prize(2007) .
He has won over 150 prizes and places – 38 firsts - in (inter) national poetry competitions. His poetry has received
the Lake Aske Memorial Award (1982 & 1987)
the Douglas Gibson Memorial Award (1986)
the Sylvia Plath Award for Poems about Women (1986)
and the Hugh MacDiarmid Trophy (2003) .
He became the first recipient of the Howard Sergeant Memorial Award for Services to Poetry in 1987; and was The Writer’s Rostrum “Poet of the Year,1991”.
Roger elkin's Works:
Pricking Out (Aquila,1988)
Points of Reference (Headland,1996)
Home Ground (Headland,2002)
Rites of Passing (Shoestring,2006)
Blood Brothers (Headland,2005)
No Laughing Matter (Cinnamon Press,2007)
Dog’s Eye View (Lapwing,2009)
Fixing Things (Indigo Dreams,2011)
Roger elkin Poems
there: a rising nearness, a beacon its blueness a raggy topknot mix of indigo, azure and violet
Alderley Woods, November The First
</>Alderley Woods, November the First i.m. Howard Sergeant
Because she aspired to higher things than other’s uprights, my mother, while Dad’s wealth held, clung to a Bechstein babygrand – a black-lacquered toad with sinister grin that squatted
Sam Hall, Dry-Stone Waller
Most of the time he’s alone, up at the clouds’ edge, fingering the rigging of the hills as he threads together the fields’ reticulated setts.
are October imposters posing as stones; masqueraders parading their polished exteriors; nests of pebbles lying below boles of oaks
Nurtured for years on tales of angels, of gods, of things bringing outward signs we have gazed on moons, on stars, on suns and turned our eyes and minds
Astral Projections I Our fuel bills are costing us the earth.
A Cromford Piece
Arkwright might well be surprised to learn his Cradle of Industrial Revolution that Rocked him to fame (while children tumbled, Over-tired, to early graves, and exhausted
Highways Maintenance – The Poet On Work ...
This week it’s digging ditches, and I’ve been assigned to Jack. He doesn’t banter much – has got his fags so rarely mithers Me but stands there, grins and smokes, or takes a casual hack At last year’s rioting weed, while I nick the ground, cutting back
Six weeks old were the six stirks when they came to where the sky drags its blueness from dregs of speedwell and harebell, and its sunsets from the falcon’s hunger.
You’d never guess from the tailored nails, the refined hands that he spent most of his youth living next to the land. Who would ever imagine that for a backyard he had moorlines, or his playground was the shippon and the black-planked barns?
I Looking down, across and beyond from Roach End apart from the everywhere greenness of bracken frond, of trees clinging to the valley and, up above, the fielded grass
Pulsing heart-beats, the isms of being; almost iambic their blood-tick, their wing-tick – break flash / break flash
Mist In May
for John Sewell The moor’s leanness swathed in scarves of wet where low clouds cling to hillsides
fascinated with their fifties racing-car ways:
blunt-nosed Le-Mans-look-alike roadsters
with nifty black-liquorice fuselage, always
zipping down tracks, then stopping dead
on the spot, circling to rearing wheelies
and tantivying their unflagging laps
(there seemed no holding them) :
or jitterbugging in barn-dances, with