Poem published in The Clearing

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The Clearing is a fascinating and beautiful online journal published by Little Toller Books that “offers writers and artists a dedicated space in which to explore and celebrate the landscapes we live in”. I’m really delighted to have just had one of my poems – “Spit” – posted in the journal, alongside fine pieces by three other poets, Garry Mackenzie, Mark Howarth Booth and Oliver Southall.

You can read all four poems here.

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Four poems in Sleet Magazine

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The summer 2018 issue of Sleet Magazine is now live, and I’m honoured to have four of my poems appearing there. You can check out “Airport Run”, “Coming Back”, “Harry” and “Caprice” by following this here link.

I’m grateful to Susan Solomon and the rest of the editorial team at Sleet for finding a space for my work in this very fine issue.

Thoughts from an early morning train

Thoughts

 

Thoughts from an early morning train

 

Strange how certain things – whilst falling apart –

take on shapes that almost seem deliberate,

as though planned that way, as though this

were merely a truer angle to see them from.

A reassembly of ideas. A reversal of mirrors.

So you become the terrified hare cowering in

the tractor wheel ruts as the carriage spears by,

not the owner of the jaded eyes witnessing it.

You always have been. You see holes now

where once there were pegs, an illusion of

opportunity created by yourself, by your own

shadow sweeping across the picture as you pass.

 

first published in Across The Margin, 2017

Christopher became a chief constable

Christopher became a chief constable


Christopher became a chief constable

 

You once went to his house and

drank milk from plastic beakers.

His mother gave you one biscuit,

and kept the small house tidy,

and you never saw his father,

although you knew he had one.

 

What you didn’t know then was

just how handsome he would be,

a classical kind of beauty, like an

English actor from the nineteen-fifties,

always smouldering from a uniform;

dashing, yet incapable of empathy.

 

But you know it now. You see,

in your memory, his elegant nose

and immaculate skin the colour

of bones, the way his brown eyes

judged the world as if they were grey,

made of impossibly precious metals.

 

None of you noticed. You were all

too pre-occupied with teasing, and

something close to but not quite bullying,

with his bookishness – too dismissive

of the awkwardness in his limbs

to see where they were taking him.

 

 

first published in Clear Poetry, 2017

Poem in The Pangolin Review

Not only is The Pangolin Review named after my favourite creature I’ve never seen, it’s editor Amit Parmessur has been kind enough to publish one of my poems in the latest issue.

You can find “An old friend” by clicking here and scrolling down about two-thirds of the way, though you’re very likely to get distracted as you go. My thanks to Amit for including my poem.

Robert Ford–Interview — The Magnolia Review

As well as publishing my poem “Little Grey Cloud” earlier this year, The Magnolia Review was also kind enough to ask me a few questions as part of their series of contributor interviews.

Suzanna Anderson, editor of TMR, has now posted the interview, which you can read by following the link from the original post below. I’m really grateful to Suzanna for giving me the opportunity to share a little of my experience as a writer.

Describe your creative space. Do you work at home, in public spaces, etc.? Although it sounds fun to have an office, shack or cave set up deliberately to facilitate writing, I don’t have one. So I write wherever I am, whenever I can. Which can be inconvenient. What kind of materials do you use? Do […]

via Robert Ford–Interview — The Magnolia Review

Drawing trees

Drawing Trees


Drawing trees

 

I thought I was doing them properly, the way

you’re supposed to, crayoning out raw shapes

that were, if not quite exactly lollipops, then

certainly something lickable, perhaps clouds

of candy floss wound onto sticks, or ice cream.

I filled them in with a pistachio green to avoid

any ambiguity, ticking in a circle of birds above,

a butterfly the size of a moose. A sun, smiling.

 

Those, she told me would lose their leaves

in the autumn, spend fingerbone winters naked

and heartless. She didn’t say why. I didn’t ask.

Hers were drilled brigades of triangles, isosceles,

getting smaller towards the top of the page

to suggest distance, within which you could

see each and every Starbucks needle, every

chocolate-coloured cone a dangling reproach.

 

first published in Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine Anthology, 2017