2015 in poetry

Round up of my year in poetry. Plus one last post before 2016, so i’ll have done 12, one a month

Thanks to my 19 followers. I only had 17 poems published this year including The Coffee House magazine which pleases me and one short story in Carillon. That’s the worst yearly total for five years. Probably due to moving house. I’m pleased with my new house.

So hopefully do better next year, via more submissions. And to magazines more likely to publish me. Been to a lot of writers groups and open mics in Lancashire which I enjoyed

Got two poetry pamphlets “homes” about homes. And “narratives” at first proof stage and sent files for second proofs. And “the love songs of James Dyer” is sent to first proof. So hopefully all will be self published with printers early next year

Started painting watercolours (not very good) I have no expertise!

Hope the readers new years will be prosperpous. In the  words of the editor of Pulsar magazine in Swindon “poetry is all there is.” Will see what can be achieved poetry wise next year. I still havn’t found a regular format for this blog.


kidsty pike? lake district






American realist paintings three

Third instalment of American realist paintings and my poems on

Maybe in much  edited form a future poetry pamphlet


  Wilmslow Homer- Blown Away 1888


Two brothers in a boat

The white sail against silver sea


Soon it will be pitch black

Moon stars waves murmering  to each other

The salt sharp, blissful ecstatic shipwreck


But oh the silver sea, the silver sky, the white sail

The stories we made to be told and re told

blown away wilmslow homer

John Singer Sargent- depicting Rosina Ferrara


White blouse pink skirt


She looks back


Jet black done up hair


Carrying a string of onions

She embraces enchantment for us


Her smile contains a thousand rivers

Is bridgeless


Then I imagine she turns and walks away


Carrying jouessance with her


What sublimity to catch the moments she made

In a painting



sargent rosina


Raphael Soyer- Passerby


The manequins heads are lifeless

And she

Anxious walking home from work

The sidewalks are alien

And she is hurried

A hat a done up coat collar against the cold


A husband sits in a flat lounge, smokes a woodbine


And upon her arrival

The city cascades into cello and clarinet snow drifts


And shes walking through the mined corridors of tall steel scrapers


Another person in the crowd hurrying home


raphael soyer passerby