Poetry and flash fiction from Portishead, North Somerset every Monday and Thursday - https://blacknorereview.wordpress.com. Edited by @benbanyard.bsky.social
Black Nore Review
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Today's featured poet is Sharon Phillips.
Today's featured poet is Dylan Stallard.
Richard Devereux finds a relic of the 1960s sunning himself in Crete in today's poem. @richarddevereux.bsky.social
A corker today from Julian Dobson.
@juliandobson.bsky.social
We find John Short surveying the splendour of Catalonia in today's poem.
A little jewel of a poem today from Louise J Jones.
A stunning little poem from Tom Kelly today.
Here's the second part of our double header from Heather D Haigh - an excellent piece of flash fiction. @heatherbooknook.bsky.social
Jim Murdoch wishes he could dream of something more exotic in today's poem.
Some fantastic seaside metaphors in Rachael Clyne's poem today. @rachaelclyne.bsky.social
2-for-1 Took him with us just to get him out. We’ll leave if the film is a flop. We are at the cinema often enough to know that plot assumes but character confirms, and we’ll leave if the film is a flop. We have not seen any promising reports, assume he hasn’t either, which he confirms: she was the one who liked to read all that…
old hippy beach at Paleochora at the end of the track an effort to arrive rock campervan 40 going on 50 GB plates right-hand drive mesh of tamarisk figs perhaps a pilgrimage back to youth long hair and beard white now kaftan beads skin wrinkled under many suns smoke soon rising Richard Devereux lives in Bristol. His great interest in life is Greece.
Quaker country Utopia’s as real as wet wood fringed with lichen, squelched leaves along a narrow track, rough sheep grazing in drizzle. The memory chapels keep when the last caretaker locks up. It’s the loop that holds an iron gate in place, a view across uneven fields towards hillsides contoured with fog. It’s slow: an alder’s readiness to stand with sodden feet.
Elevation Barcelona Your new home’s an elevation: a remote edge of city before hills that stretch away to wilderness as locals compare song birds warbling from tiny metal cages and sun sends shadows over stone. Roaming through narrow streets we cross a park where people cram a marquee, applaud dancers and spill outside with champagne. We sample tapas somewhere in a buzz of bars and restaurants,
Keepsakes She put them in a drawer: the spring storm that flung out bats, the Dutch-orange scarf of crepe-de-chine. The rushed trunk call that was overheard. She laid them flat: the slither of mica from northern lands, the going-along with it again, the staggered night when neither touched the other. A small cup of rain. She kept them all: the kink of a word misunderstood,
Unseaworthy My face is a creased skirt, my hands, crabby and stiff my brain, a shell rolled-in-and- out, in-and-out of the tideline. My eyes are grazed by morning’s razor-light. I must have walked ten miles through dunes and rock pools until tangled in drift nets and bottom-trawled to oblivion. Today brings tasks I am not fit for – lists to obey, deadlines to gather.
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Waving For and to Aidan & Fiona They are waving to me from the bus stop. Their smiles are so wide: I am loving it. My smile lives all the way home. Sometimes you just know things cannot be any better, today is one of those days: it just is. Jarrow-born writer Tom Kelly, now lives further up the Tyne at Blaydon. His second collection of poems and prose, These Are My Bounds, was published in March and is his fourteenth publication from Red Squirrel Press.
Girl, Do You Ever picture yourself three decades from now, obscured in a brown checked midi coat, sloping off to the bingo, and weep? Do You Ever Go Clothes Shopping and arrive home with six outfits when you went for one—none of them right, and your purse empty? Do you count the cash in your emergency jar, half-hoping there's enough, half-hoping there isn't.
Careers Advice Brenda didn't try for grammar school there was no point for a girl she’d only end up getting married her mother told mine and besides she’d never get in she left school at fifteen exams would be a waste of time her mother told mine young girls should be out having fun not sticking their noses in books…
The Dream Last night I dreamt of pigeons, common-or-garden pigeons - Columba livia forma urbana - frankly the most boring pigeons one could possibly imagine and I thought: What a waste! It would take precisely the same amount of brain power to dream of eagles or dragons. Jim Murdoch: Scot, gatophile, honorary woman, classical music aficionado, novelist, Whovian and producer of half-to-three-quarter-(and-occasionally-actually-fully)-decent poems for over half a century. Facebook - @Jimmy4559
