Robert Grant

After periods working in a variety of jobs, from agriculture to the print media, Robert Grant read Psychology at the University of Wales.Although writing fiction had always played an important part in his life, it was not until contracting a debilitating long term illness did he turn to poetry.Exploring the essences of ritual, belief and mythology, through to interpersonal relationships and conflict, he found inspiration in such poets as Siegfried Sassoon and W. H. Auden.Robert Grant’s own verse is chiefly written in closed forms, with the likes of sonnets, villanelles, pantoums, triolets and ballads creating the backbone of his work. Although not unfamiliar with free verse, it is within the classical forms that he believes he is best equipped to express himself.A self taught poet, after a decade of writing, Robert Grant released his first collection of poems, entitled, ‘The Judas Tree’, (available on Amazon), in 2013.Robert currently resides in east Sussex.

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Raven’s Worth

Three broke relationships down, I stumbled To this town, this city by the sea. Worked Sweat, uncompromised, as each long step hurt Bones, hurt eyes. And, wanting more, I fumbled A house, broke what benefits, and mumbled A word or two about lost pride, to search For things I’d lost outside: a raven’s worth Of …

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Memory Games

Bare yellow walls, painted white sill. Books, lining hall, bed without frill.   Curtains drawn closed, windows sealed shut. Still air, unbreathed; intimate dust.   Scuffed, neat slippers, knocked eye-to-eye; kipper draped socks hung up to dry.   An old wet room tiled as flesh pink: toilet, shower, flannel and sink.   Cupboard cups cracked, …

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A Lincolnshire Field

An hour’s journey ended, the van in which we sat pulled away from gravel and local roads, to crawl that last meter and stop. Tools gathered, the sprawled field, horizon deep, breathed heat along its flats. Shirts removed to awkward rubs of lotion, and caps tucked tight over the glare of vision’s line. We stalled …

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Edgar Allen

I kept the candle burning throughout that winter’s eve, where sleep had left me yearning.   Remembered summer’s faces, some greener, pleasant places; I kept the candle burning.   And found on half lit mirror no ripple of reprieve, but dance of darkness, turning.   I kept the candle burning. My plundered head, all night, …

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Summer’s Heat

Drifting the art of stars above our moon, behind the blanket clouds and summer heat, to walk the sticks of life, reveal the moon, a blistered coin of white in sharp relief, pricked from the night, the shadows and the sounds, all bit to twist the buzz of summer’s heat; the breathless, breathing footsteps on …

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