Finding Signs

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

There is a languageless rule to reading puddles –to understanding such first-glance nothingness –their impossible silences before trod-in signage – a gauging of place – now – by such offered inches –ones dredged by tyres – those in unfettered lees –below busied hedgerows – there held evergreen against all buffettings – such pleshes can guideyou...


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First Year, 1970

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Aged five to school – an unplanned addition – M. Bell – born into a monochrome 1964 – just after real sex was bargained by Larkin – Miss Green – my teacher – wore the latest fashions – miniskirts and roll-neck tops with cropped hair and big jewellery – all co-ordinated above calf-fixed trends of...


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Plough Parts

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Sometimes I write with a broken stick onto softened soil – a sharp-end cut – Her plough-straight lines of parallel strikes sit side-by-side – like wide tyres’ ruts and bear dark puddles in which sucked boots muddy the shape of my coulter’s truth   Mike Bell Poetry Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick...


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Endings

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

There – an ending – a recourse – a damning by more admissions – by reductions & other canalisations which can no longer be left to flow by a misdiagnosis – by new meds or by wearing of pulled-tight blinkers We are drowning – we blind guides with uncovered still useless eyes miss each slipped...


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Shrove Tuesday

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Shriven into a repentant’s place – readied for a cross of palm ash – a marking – tomorrow – of believers – Yesterday was our early Mardi Gras of confessions – But we do not follow those fading rules of others’ liturgies – We cannot name their Shriving Bell as they stick it loudly to...


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Cox

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Slipped backwards with a slight grumble of keel complaints on that steep slope of gravel – and our loose rudder is quick to shift – left or right – as if kicking sullen under reversed ways – its complaint is slowed – then dismissed by my pull and straightening – my first correction – We...


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Comforts

By Mike Bell Poetry 1 comment

A pint on a Monday – at lunchtime? Things must be bad – Michael – And so they are – but I only offer lies above salted crumbs on my table – small pieces – but shiftable boulders to summer’s soon-invigorated ants – able to heft such burdens of others’ relative insignificance – of leftovers...


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Dry

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

Bugger off to those soda syphons claiming in January sainthood – un-settlers of our sense of right with their smug month-long cast of sober teases off whipped rods – with their dry false flies as bait – those anglers now spreading their dull-witted winter diseases of no more indulgences – drowning by their dry resolution...


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Two Masterclasses

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

A.A. rebuked me –Do not use ‘I’ –that first person singularityit’s not yours to rhyme – It’s of the oppressed –their turned-to-word –for taking control ofthat which is owed – And – A.A. then said –There’s too much ‘the’ – too –‘The’ is a wordwhich only dead poetsshould use But J.G. had reproved me –a...


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Found in Birmingham

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

[A prose poem] Here is an old white male using his poetry to ease off drugs and dropped lines – verse defined words – his strips in place – in plied lines – to avoid being lost in a rush and buff – of being set to in slow motion – fixing over him –...


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