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.

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 seed. I picked, pricked my thumbs and tumbled.   God only knows where the ghost has to go. A living dead inside my space; my head Full of wants and woes and the words I’d said To keep unclean the memories of dread. Cold, throwing …Read more

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, plates piling high. Tilting pots stacked. taps, twisted dry.   Cheap, dented tins, dated with guilt; fancy fridge things black as the milk.   Nobody grieves. Door hung on latch; tobacco leaves. Medicines packed.   Tea cupped round stains. Skin shrunk to bone. Burrowed eyes …Read more

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 what we could, as heavy hoes were lifted, then trawled those burrowed plains for weeds, walking the earthen tracks.   Two hours before noon and the sky was burnt spotless and those who wanted water had to weigh the time between turning back and getting …Read more

This Bed Is Not A Bed For Sleeping In

This bed is not a bed for sleeping in, the rub of midnight’s edge scrapes at the night, for curling, twisting sheets erase the skin.   The prying, nettled shafts let loose their sting and hands throw out their fists against the sleight; this bed is not a bed for sleeping in.   Where crackled flames erupt the barbed margin a thousand horses snap the dust and bite, for curling, twisting sheets erase the skin.   As matted mattress bleeds the body thin and night train breaks a scream beyond the light; this bed is not a bed for sleeping …Read more

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, made shadows a parade   all mocking at my sight; their secrets bit in to the hours. I kept the candle burning   all night.

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 the ground and echoes warmly damped inside the street. The lampshade light that scrubs our evening tune, the music sifting through the summer’s heat, from windows opened wide and private rooms, down drifts the scented sound to stain our feet; the cherry ripened fresh, the …Read more

Pin It on Pinterest