Derek Walcott, 1930-2017

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

'Rhyme remains the parenthesis of palms,'
possibly misquoted, by myself, not the man..


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The Flood

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Evangelina Chamorro Díaz
climbed, primal, from the flood,
risen from muckled timbers,
smothered in Creation's mud
...


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Eppur si muove

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

“And yet it moves” was his response to the given freedom after arguing with God about the spin of the ‘great light’ sun – his telescopic facts which the church unspun. Still their untruths shine, ever since Day Four: theology blocks heliocentric thought. Mike Bell Poetry Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them...


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The Funts

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

The foul-mouthed family held court in the bar, tossing “f#cking” and “c#nt” in their expletive spars: Sharp threats of a knifing, came too easy, too quick, that night of hard curses got me peeved, thinking this, I may have to frequent a family-free pub: A more friendly local, With no fucking cunts. Mike Bell Poetry...


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Ozymandias

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Following the find of an archeological wonder under the slums of Cairo.


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My Work

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

My work, the drawn-up stuff, takes me to chair-rattled halls and outwardly fabulous hotels, but these days I visit on-line to inspect the not-right spaces, to then conjure in the nothing of their rent-echoed rooms such ideas and extents of build that will last hours, days or weeks, but never much more: My work, the...


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The Son of the Wind

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

John Surtees, CBE 1934 – 2017 ‘Figlio del vento’ this knight was called by the motoring fraternity from which he won all, but he was never bestowed a higher ranked honour, that master, that maven, the lord of horse power: Championship titles were his laurel-rewards, perhaps no need for the touch of her sword. Donations...


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Practice 

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

She plays her scales on our upright piano, her late hour practice is appassionato. Her traveling completed, enough notes pressed, the white keys gleam in this switched darkness. I revel in the room’s serene composure, I am left alone in our echo chamber. I hammer this review into lowly verse, my midnight rehearsals are never...


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The Hulking Giants

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

East of Polegate, as the cars fly by, stand the three farmers arcing their scythes: Each a proud labourer sweeping the field, with clean cut blades they slice nature’s yield. As I drive alongside them, breathing diesel’s spill, I cannot understand why we tilt at windmills. Mike Bell Poetry Mike Bell aims to write 10,000...


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We Few, We Happy Few

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

I could steal a line from Henry the Fifth, but his battles were not with himself, (he fought the French, which we can’t, or else we’ll be fighting Knockaert). Instead I’ll offer you my crass words at this last phase of our season’s churn: From Falmer’s low dip in our rolling county The Albion will...


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