Tuesday, 15 April 2014

Public Transport

Traffic stacked back up the hill;
the flash photography of sun
on rain- glossed pavements.

I am travelling incognito,
reading a book I have re-titled
‘Do Not Disturb’.

Still a voice drags me off the page,
out of Carver’s ‘Afghanistan’,
it’s demanding

‘Which stop is it for the bus station?
I’ve got to get to Nottingham
or some place miles from here!’

I force myself to answer
‘I think it’s the one after next’,
and then, because I feel I have to,

 ‘my sister lives near there’,
but he’s screaming ‘I’m leaving before I kill her
or she kills me!’

Beyond the mirrored windscreens
starving Gothic arches roar
above the Portakabins

On College Green
A camera crew is waiting
For news to happen

While the bus trundles
towards our stops.

© Deborah Harvey

From Collage: The Best of Poetry Space 2010 and one of the runners up in Poetry Space Competition 2010, judged by Philip Lyons

Saturday, 12 April 2014


I saw George Best
on a bench today
he was leaning forward
legs crossed
all angles, elbows and joints
spittle grey beard
straggle haired
I stopped the car
and shouted :
he nodded knocking accidental ash from ciggy
"were has the magic gone?"
he looked up
dropped the dog end
it fell in a floating spiral
with one touch of his knee
one twist of his hip
the Strettford End rose
the gasp before...
toe to ball
past man after stock still man
looped the ball over Wilson
as the match was lit
pandemonium ensued.
Sparks hit the floor
George said :
"Andy were's yours?"
I flickered through the reel
trawled the back catalogue
looked at my disshevelled hair
my bruised arms
and said:
"George, I never found it"

Andy Scotson

Today's offering is from regular Poetry Space supporter Andy Scotson. I thought it would entertain...

Sunday, 6 April 2014


The wind is at my window
as a bee comes storming in –
big burly bumbler banging
at blurred glass and stained timber.

He hurls himself around
buzzing like a pylon in a thunderstorm.
He spurns my hat
doffed to guide him out.

He zooms like a space-ship
on edge to be off to the stars.
As his fury grows, I shrink.
His roaring envelops me.

If this were the war
he would be a bomber
broody with high explosive
over crystal city.

But he’s found the gap and is away
helter-skelter over the brambles
out of my muddle into the storm.
I draw the curtains across the wind.

© Martin Bates

This one comes from Green Spaces: poems from Poetry Space Competition 2011 and was highly commended by judge Rose Flint. The remit for the competition was for poets to write on green themes, green spaces that had personal or wider meaning.

This is well worth a read and is available from the online shop