Three kinds of light
A walking stick, a deadly arc Your face unstitched and come apart. The dying light’s the deepest dark It casts a shadow, leaves a mark. A finger painting just in red A rainbow arched beside your bed. No treasured end,…
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[richard uridge]
Poetry, bikes, dementia...
[richard uridge]
Poetry, bikes, dementia...
Category Poetry
If music be the food of love then poetry may just be the language of emotion. Home for my own words and those of others who in some way inspire, inform, entertain or educate me.
Pele’s Poetry Podcast: Episode 2 – the poetry of shock
The poet Pele Cox and I discuss the differences between poetry (her world) and journalism (mine). With the help of Ted Hughes and his Birthday Letters we talk about how poetry can tackle shocking subject matter in a way that…
Pele’s Poetry Podcast: Episode 1 – the world premiere one
Delighted to announce that I’m co-hosting a series of talks on poetry with the poet Pele Cox. I’ll make sure I post each episode here as we record it. Or you can check out the programme website or sign up…
The last bedroom on the right
There is no pastRememberedOr futureImagined.Just the present.Tense.A singularity.You live in the moment. Very on point as they say.Content (or so I hope) sucking tea from a sippy cupOr shredding tissues in your lapWhile I am walking an imaginary dog (the…
Augur
Though August’s barely halfway throughThe copse is clad in autumn’s hueIts summer greens now fading fastAnd taking on a rusty cast. Embroidered by the evening sunThe trees from threads of gold were spunBut in the furnace split and crackenAnd dieback…
Where non-believers pray
Scene one: a cubicle in A & E For what is deathIf not escapeFrom pain in this worldAnd promise in the next? The words sermon-like. Disembodied. A narrator.A bed of music. Pings and beeps. The baseline drone of a ventilator.…
Lorca’s Pencil
Federico García Lorca was one of Spain’s finest poets. Assassinated by Fascists in August 1936 soon after the start of the Spanish Civil War his death should remind us of the dangers of fascism as it rises once again, not…
Rhayader Reveille
Midnight strikes on the memorial clockA flame throwing dragon is guarding the flockWhile a gunpowder fog glistens and glosses The uniform slates and the uniform mosses. For God and for Country. Lest we forget. A window on North Street turned aquarium greenWhere a…
Swift
First south and west, then north and east, I quarter up the sky.I’m watching for your sickle wings to scythe across my eye. I look, I look, then look again and listen for your scream.But bar the clap of pigeon…
From journalist to poet
The “words on a line” world premiere Yup, calling it a world premiere may sound hyperbolic. But, technically at least, it happens to be true… So here I am in full flow (rapture the photographer, Fabio Barry, called it) belting…