Tag Archives: poem

A Walk

An oily sun

turns on England, see

rolling icons:

the slick stuff of old photos in


a shade of green that still

seems somewhat unlikely.

Pylons lurch from groaning gaps

where rust and soil collide


blowing inwards a

childhood terror, egged on

by public service broadcasts –

a boy once died


alongside greasy signs, all

Danger Of Death

and yellowed reminders that

our trespasses will be prosecuted,



Out here, no good mornings,

no forelocks tugged.

Just wet stones, slowly turning.


Yet still cars pass,

out for Sundays strapped in.


A corner was taken at speed.

Birds slice up the skies.

Ores II

it seems all things leave a powder trail

forced out behind and scattered down

all things showing where what was

from green eyed girls across the border, to


scrapings of metals across new skin and

I can only really tell what changes

by observing the flashes in this refracted

show of blinding living lights


and each flash keeps blowing sulphates to

shuffled feet attracting rusts

which in turn, get dragged and shown

all that slowly gums my eyes

Ores I

We bore holes in us, as if attrition comes naturally.

Water does what water does, slowly builds more layers

while time comes on and throws us under inch-

thick crusts of residue. Slapped on fast, this way and

that, varnish up our weakest points so we can’t see

despite being flush against the panes – we stay

sitting, smoking slowly, refining the crudeness

of our gestures until we pump ourselves outside


even then, nothing can remind you of the day

when our selves glinted, shiny new:

hips crackle and spit, and something silver corrugates lips

with not quite words slagged out in heaps.


We grow inside houses, this much is clear, yet

our hair stays flat, we count the days in single strands.

Reduced to a specimen, a set of samples:

hours kept stock in breathing bowls, broken bones

pile up with kisses, the taste of iron.

My memories clamber under skies,

fuming full of smashed clay pots and the days

when our mouths moved, and music came

a year of all

For every sound stays netted, always

turning handles, smearing names and

I can only tell what changes

by picking out the rise and fall

of nebulous shows of skyscapes held


tightly trapped in bell-jars, we

push lips against the glass to see

only what is ascertained

between the splits made out to us –

winter passes quickly so


flick the switches, change the name and

open your mouths again to call

do us part

the air around my heaving face clambers with

smashed terracotta, glass, the transition of hemispheres

hauling a sun from this end to that one.

Dust catches on my lip and words still fail but


“one foot falls behind the last, and

he’ll be all he can for you”

yet while we wait for rings on our fingers

and bells on our heels – voices cease to start

for an end again

my half-held breath will follow – it always seems

you cannot help but sack my words and

tie them down between our days to


find a moment in which to wish

you’d stayed behind, away from lungs

which forced a space into your home


a curled form pressed upon your bed, still

the presence left in air forced out

between antique chairs I re-position –


yet still you welcome, me, my being

here leaves an image inside your eyes

a memory: there was a moment, we danced

An Interjection

My barnacled hull has ported – for a moment – and I request a bending of your ears and a pricking of your interests…

Just a few updates. Firstly, thankyou all for your attention. It has been to my unwavering and fragrant delight that so many of you are taking the time to read my poems each day – when I started this blog to display my first tentative (and admittedly amateur, occasionally appalling) forays into poetry, I did not imagine that a) I would still be doing it nearly four years later and b) gather over 500 “followers” and several hundred viewers per day. I am flattered, and grateful.

I just want to direct your eyes to a few developments which have occurred these last two months, and to promote a few who have decided to promote me. It seems only proper, after all.

The last few weeks have seen my work published on the frankly lovely Poetry Breakfast website – almost ironic seeing as I am far from a morning person, as many people would attest to, seeing me stumble around searching for my shoes and complaining loudly whilst others are going about their business, like real people. I genuinely pity any students who have me bang on about old Indian buildings before midday, I really do. Anyway, you can find me here: http://poetrybreakfast.wordpress.com/category/poets/benjamin-norris/ and I would encourage you to check many more of the pieces included.

Also, in the next few weeks, my work will be included on http://vscorpiozine.wordpress.com/ – another poetry/cultural dispatch website I must strongly endorse.

On a slightly different note, I am delighted to announce that my personal favourite work “The Hothouse” has found a fine and fitting home in the dry valleys of California, and will be featured in the next issue of the fantastic poetry journal “A Few Lines” alongside some truly far-out writers. I am greatly pleased about this. If any of you come from the New World, and wear flowers in your hair, I would urge you to get yourself a copy. http://www.afewlinesmagazine.com/

Also, the very dedicated Bonnie McClellan runs International Poetry Month’s flash poetry section through a series of readings online – this year, there is to be one reading per day on the subject of ‘Gesture’. She has kindly requested to read my poem ‘Gesture IV’ at some point over the next two weeks. More information can be found on her blog at http://bonniemcclellan.wordpress.com/

Finally (for now, I’m still waiting for confirmation from two other journals), one of my recent poems will be featured on the popular ‘Ink, Sweat and Tears’ poetry site http://ink-sweat-and-tears.com/  in the next couple of weeks. So be sure to keep checking and enjoying the work on that website.

I wish to say thankyou kindly to all of these publishers for giving me the opportunity to share more of my work with a kind and appreciative audience. And thankyou very much to all of you for your comments, critiques and feedback – it means more to me than any of you realise. I can only apologise when I slip into a level of surrealism and arseyness which is uncomfortable for all. I apologise, but by no means intend to stop.

Love from an icy strait

Benjamin Norris