Wild Bluebells


I stared at the photo,

my half reflection

smeared in the dust.


She was standing there, still

turned and distant,

the scent of wild bluebells

a punishment in the air.


Closing my eyes

I floated through a dappled copse,

and in a sea of purple


we kissed. And cried. And laughed.

But when I looked again,

she had gone.  


Jeremy Barron


This poem was long-listed in the York Literary Festival Poetry Competition 2015

Lonely child


I imagined a mother once,

crafted from chalk dust

on coarse, black card.


She was smiling a red smile

beneath a yellow sun,

beside a blue house;

dust smudged over the windows and doors.


But unlike the others

with their faces so keen;

hands waving in the air

I was

not there.


And at a quarter past three

when the day grew dark,

large hands cradling small

they returned to their homes.

And I was left behind

clutching the coarse black card;

house, sun and mother


smeared on my thighs.




Citroen Visa

“Get in,” I said.

The tyres were bald, the roof was pink and

I was eighteen.


With no indicators

and the choke

hanging by her knees,

we wheel spun round Westover.


Through the mist of rubber

her white knuckled body

sunk low into her seat.

And with my elbow on the window –

Hey Mickey thumping in the air,

I knew

she was impressed.


But, on the next date,

she was in another man’s car.



As he opened his eyes, the first thing that alarmed him was the scream. The second was that he could not breathe.

          Everywhere was red and the siren was wailing. He fell from his bunk, landing on his knees. There was no air. The sound was deafening. With his right elbow on the bunk, he tried to lever himself up, but the strain was too much and he collapsed again onto the metal deck. He grabbed his throat. His lungs jerked. But everywhere was red, and there was no air.

          He tried to speak, to shout out, but the siren was too loud. His muscles began to spasm. Consciousness was slipping. And through his blurred vision, drifting towards him in a sea of red, were four figures.

          Then there was darkness.


The Sound of Silence PDF



Gertrude Stein has a very peculiar style – full of repeated words, odd punctuation and an apparent lack of sense. Her writing seems to concentrate more on the sound of words, rather than their meaning. Here is my attempt.


My Collector


My collector with his bags.

            My collector with his bags.

            His bags his bags his bags his bag, collecting.

            On the pavement in the woods on the grass in the mud on a plant in the garden.

            On the low trunk of a tree, collecting.

            Collecting collecting with his bags his bags his bags.

            Collecting. My collector. Collects.

            The wind.

            My face.

            Smells all around.


            Smells smells smells smells smells, glorious smells. All around.

            I sniff the smells. I lick them. All the smells. Smell the smells the smells smell.

            And then I piss on them.

            Piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss piss.

            I piss on all the smells. I’m running! Running I’m alive. It’s wild. Running wildly wildly running wild run run wild.

            And I stop and I crouch. And he waits. With his bag.

The wind. More smells.





My collector collects his collection in his bags.

I’m a good boy.