NIGHTS FULL NINE

I was recently reminded of the creation of my final piece for my university dissertation. As it was a Creative Writing Masters Degree, I had opted to write a portfolio of 30 poems, but after many weeks of trial and error, I couldn't decide where to go with the project.  So, in order to get away from the pressure of not writing, I went  to visit a good car boot at York Racecourse, its one of the best venues I have ever seen, with a great mix of genuine sellers and antique dealers.  After picking up a few diecasts, a couple of old camera lenses and the odd book, I was wrapping up my perusal when I came upon a stall which was obviously from a house clearance. There was the usual array of boxes of ornaments, books, kitchen equipment and old shoes - but on the floor in a plastic washing basket were several boxes of old photographic camera slides. Initially, I thought the boxes would be useful, but on closer inspection, I found they were glass positives, hand finished and l

No island am I for my shores are visited by fleets of others. Tarrying on sea-wet cobbles green shores. Midst wrack and ruin tired merlons gaze on heathered fiefdoms. Pierced by pike, gifted by thorn dressed in bitter flesh. Bannered colours feint now land holds stones secret fast.

Take a walk on the dark side with ‘Perambulans Tenebris’ a heptade of poetry and image available now from: https://zimzalla.co.uk/ Poetry is by the mighty Brendan Quinn and imagery by myself. Set composed of mini-poster of photographs and seven postcards with seven poems, seven lines each and seven syllables per line. Just £5.00. Imagery is a sequence of tintype prints documenting dream-like visions and states culled from the dark paths of creative inspiration.

No garden then that concrete year grey as Mare Crisum, sun dappled island of cement - stars my destination moon in the gutter. James Burke commentates As Eagle leaves the safety of a  kitchen orbit. Three days circle the yard silver plastic glinting, module making unexpected course corrections near Mother of all asteroids. Sheets battening in solar wind, tracking the washing line, over a landing site secured. Countdown to burn, finger and  thumb executing last minute correction as Armstrong flew dead stick with computer off. Hundred feet –  closing fast like cheese. Craters and dust. Easy now Almost Brace And The Eagle Has Landed Tranquility Base here. Magnificent desolation. Roll back on warm concrete Admiring the achievement tiny plastic LEM on harsh lunar surface Prepare for EVA as a shadow falls - One Giant Step as the final shirt is pegged out like a conquering flag, crushing my dreams of

A light of other days gleaming wanly from no glass. Conspicuous by an absence locked and shuttered against times arrows. Sparrows flutter and nest picking spiders from cracks fertilising the beds. I see flaws in your plan creeping tendrils hiding scarlet rust. Red marrow against bone white pale shades move amongst the fronds. Hobs nails strike sparks Beneath locked botany faux goddesses and lost captains. Watch over these weathered days shall we meet again within or without ?

I see you now you wanton harlot On street corners beckoning lustered rainwashed colour across your windowed eyes half closed and glinting slyly in the sashes. Shamelessly pouting for selfies in ornate arches your well turned railings curve away to darkly inviting cul de sacs and mews where I could lately linger   as white stars pass by silent in the twilight Skirting the hallowed halls and vaults Filled with plundered treasures A Lovely bust framed in crumpled iron and brass. There may be snow on your roofs but the flame in your grates still warms the cockles of my heart. Mature as a rare vintage, sparkling and heady you’re drunk on Saturday nights but always daisy fresh by Monday, ready to throw open your doors to your faithful legions of furtive lovers. To paint your nails and gloss your lips, cinch your corsets and tress your hair, It takes work to look this good. It hasn’t just happened by chance experienced hands attend your ne

The sun has set on my incoming tides the rush to claim the fairground rides to throw my afghan across the puddles the very thought leaves me in muddles. Yet it seems just yesterday I ran through the market past the van unloading fruit and veg, fish and meat to our lunchtime bevvy, our special treat. A pint of Higsons and a couple of straws the blue one mine and the pink one yours gazing into your mascara’d eyes I wove a net of conniving lies I’ve really only me to blame with promises of stardom, dreams of fame no wonder you saw through my schemes to try and fool you with my dreams. My Biba model, my Mary Quant what I thought every girl would want to pose before a gleaming lens but that ideal is surely mens. No dolly bird would want to strip for a party seven and a greasy chip so although I thought I had you made you had no intention to parade Around my dingy terraced flat with me as Warhol thinking that I had conned you

I At 3.00pm yesterday, a large sinkhole appeared in the pedestrianized section of Chapel Street. Liverpool council have requested an investigation into the appearance of the hole and the Lord Mayor is looking into it. II In the city of Magnetogorsk this week, steelworker Boris Valigorsky discovered the distinct likeness  of the Russian Premiere on a salted cracker in a vodka bar over lunch. The Kremlin meanwhile strenuously denies it is Putin on the Ritz. III William Shatner, 72, famous for his roles as Captain James T. Kirk and T.J Hooker, faces assault charges following a visit to the White House this week, after misidentifying the presidential hairpiece as a Tribble. IV A certain Dolores Rheinart of Dolt, Missourri was dismayed to discover that the jar of pickled cauliflower florets she had won on Ebay.com, was in fact the preserved missing frontal lobe of Einstein’s brain. V Employees of the Manchester branch of Johnson Advertising Hoardings were forc

I still check the dark street corners Amongst fading flowers and crowds of mourners For flapping swathes of black and blue But these days it seems  there’s no sign of you. For us mere mortals, things are rotten It seems to me that you’ve forgotten It’s your place to right our wrongs And hear your exploits hailed in songs. But lately I’ve noticed it’s been a while Since you brought any baddies home to trial Are you getting old, do you walk now with a Kane? Has all of that battling left you in pain? Or has middle age spread and too much fast food Made you lethargic and less in the mood To fight our injustices and settle our scores Or is the man in the street now a lost cause? But then you’re human too just like me Probably turned on your telly and been able to see That your supervillain and nemesis is now long gone You’re the last of your kind, the only one. Unable to be anywhere at a glance You’re not Superman, you haven’t a chance

The culmination of several months work, volunteering to support Dr Catherine Marcangeli in the 50th anniversary celebrations of the Mersey Sound, 'Happening Tonight' was intended as a low key reading of work from Adrian Henri, Roger McGough and Brian Patten, fifty years to the day after the publication of Penguin Modern Poets No10. Along with students from Edge Hill University and a brace of established contemporary poets, the evening became one of magic and surprise. Firstly a BBC film crew asked to be invited along to film the event, with a view to preparing a BBC4 documentary on the anthology, then on the day of the reading, I discovered that Roger McGough himself was going to be making a special appearance. If I wasn't nervous already, meeting one of my poetic heroes in person was a major event. Novice reader Eve Lewis gave a spirited rendition of classic poems, no small feat for a student just entering her second year on the Creative Writing course.  On o