Rich Uridge

Rich Uridge

Training company boss by day. Poet and a whole heap of other things by night. Plus the son of a mother who was killed in a care home while living with dementia.
  • Joined: August 18, 2015
  • Articles: 159
  • Comments: 19

Being a newsreader is boring

Let me start with a confession: I wasn’t a very good newsreader. And I didn’t do it for very long. But I did it for long enough to learn that (a) sitting around all day reading somebody else’s words from…

My life in words – in words

I was asked to be a guest of the inimitable Eric Doyle on The Crux Cast which is streamed live on LinkedIn, YouTube and Twitter. If you’re interested in what makes me tick – and fancy a bit of a…

Fern Hill

by Dylan Thomas My poetry coach, the wonderful Pele Cox, has asked me to commit this poem to memory. It’s proving to be a tough gig. Not least because the last time I learned lines was probably as Friedrich von…

A birthday poem

I was asked to pen a birthday poem to celebrate the first anniversary of The Big Live Breakfast Burrito – perhaps the weirdest, most eclectic but nonetheless wonderful LinkedIn live you’ll ever see. Follow the Burrito link to see the…

Lost in the woods – a Catholic shrine

This is a story that resonates with what is happening today. It was first broadcast on BBC Radio Norfolk and features an interview with my good friend and former BBC colleague Conal O’Donnell. It’s the extraordinary story of Paul Hoda’c…

So Sunflowers Grow

Ukraine sunflowers

Of all the tear-jerking images of war on the edges of Europe, one or two have stayed with me: birds shocked from their treetop roosts by the deep boom of artillery fire; a woman handing out sunflower seeds to occupying…

Lost Words

Here’s how the dream unfolds: behind the gritted lids of night is told the story of an ironed-flat sea – moonlight over mercury. Soon out. Beyond the beach. Deep down below the folds and creases. Rapid eyes. Heart beat increases.…

A Postcard from Tenerife

Dear Mum Wish you were here! El Medano reminds me of Swanage. Sand, sea, sunshine, taut salty skin. The tide of geological time turning as the waves wash in and out and in…But then these days everywhere reminds me of Swanage.  Wish…

The father, the son and the surgical spirit

* wuldres wealdend || woroldáre forgeaf “Take as long as you like he’s ready for you.” Shit and surgical spirit. There, I’ve said itIt’s only taken 22 years A forehead kissed. No words. No tears Too airless. Two chests deflated. His dressed in half…

The patron saint of paint

He spoke to me in a dream on the road to Santiago The pilgrim father. Ochre boots. Lamp black hair. “Any path can be a Camino. “Just start walking. You’ll know when you get there.” Now forgive me if I…