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Poetry, bikes, dementia care...
Poetry, bikes, dementia care...
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 just in Spain where I’m…
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 Six Nations turf war bled…
Tradition has it that when you retire from or leave the BBC your colleagues produce a light-hearted video to mark the occasion. And so it was when I left BBC Pebble Mill’s Midlands Today in 1995. Watch out for wonderful performances from the late greats…
Tin hats at the ready. In this Armageddon-inspired episode our newsreader lands an an exclusive interview with Prince Andrew who claims he can’t possibly have been with the businessman-come-spy, Yang Tengbo, because he was ordering a Chinese giveaway (sorry takeaway) at Sum Phat Lie’s in…
It’s more than two years since my mother, Sheila Hartman, was attacked by another resident as she lay in bed at her care home, Ridgeway Lodge in Dunstable, Bedfordshire. Sheila – mum – was beaten around her head and body with the curved end of…
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 wings there’s nothing to be…
I’m not a big fan of anniversaries. The ones you want to forget, you remember. The ones you want to remember, you forget. And so it was I found myself wide awake early this morning exactly a year to the hour since my mum, Sheila…
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 out one of the poems…
A little loose. Like a soft toy sewn on where it’s lost it’s stuffing. Magpies showing zero respect You sketched our field with straight line speed. Sent my blood coursing, bounding. The hearts’ pounding now stopped. In a beat. A car I think. A scrape…
One way or another I’ve been writing for a living for more than 40 years – first as a cub newspaper reporter on the Reading Chronicle; then as a journalist and broadcaster for the BBC; and now as a budding poet taught for the past…
Union flags and bunting. The Kings Head. A telly on the wall And a row of mugs Raising glasses. Bottoms up, no shilling (coronation bitter £4 a pint) But press ganged by the Daily Mail All the same. Toasting two crowns. Heads of state wearing…
Ring rolling in a Bedfordshire field. Breaking up the heavy clodsAnd leverets. Blind to the danger. I stopped at first. Got down from the tractorTo shoo and scatter. At first. Too many of the sods Harrowing. The clatterFlint on iron drowning out the sound. What now in the…