November 1, 2019

I live sometimes in a city and by the sea

Where wolds meet sky and clouds are fishing boats,

Luckily there’s nowhere I’d rather be

Than where I am.  A blackbird’s notes

Sound just as good in either place, as pure,

I am transported by the joy, the evening song

Perched on chim...

October 4, 2019

He thinks of himself as ventriloquist

Finding the voice behind my metal stare.

But it’s true to say he may well have missed

The point of me on horseback in City Square.

This is what he does, takes on the world he sees

In sonnets, obsessed with fourteen lines and rhyme,

This...

September 6, 2019

When we were last here many decades since,

We were unbroken glass, chipped but clear,

As we walk I’m looking for clues, some hints

To our boyhood spent in this city here.

And it slowly returns, history revealed,

A carved Victorian building, your voice and its tone,

Hidden me...

August 7, 2019

‘If a tree falls in a forest and no-one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?’.

 By way of George Berkeley [1685 to 1753]

The tide of trees is in, up against the glass,

Silence but for the drip of rain on stone

As I wait here indoors for it to pass,

Floating in the fo...

July 7, 2019

The sharper-eyed amongst you may recognise the picture attached to this month’s poem.  It’s the cover picture [by the enormously talented Jacky Fleming] from my latest collection, and it’s here so you can imagine the scene from earlier this year when we climbed down to...

June 4, 2019

An amazing morning in almost May

Too early for the woodpecker to tap,

Soft, green leaves wave in honour of the day,

I slow down, breathe in, and then I stop.

These few acres hold a world within

Their old walls, graffitied railway fence,

They care for lungs where city air is...

May 9, 2019

Walking home after a shower of rain

Drops still fall from a fresh-dressed chestnut tree,

Below the paving stones glow and shine

Reflecting each candle blossom to me.

The city spring season, I smell its green,

See harts tongue clinging to the granite wall,

Seven decades of it...

April 10, 2019

This is not Headingley. We’re both on bikes,

The Hudson on our right and skyscrapers on our left,

Aiming for Central Park, no gears, no brakes,

Just fixed wheels turning, bobble hats aloft. 

And I am cycling through all my years

Each one as sharp as the March sun for me

But...

March 6, 2019

I lit a candle in the ancient church

Set it burning there with a borrowed flame

Amongst ikon saints and high vaulting arch

To flicker for a while in your name.

It was not a prayer more a memory

And a signal for tears unshed ‘til then

And the shadows it made were cast on me,

Y...

February 10, 2019

I am tidal: my blood and heart are one

Current in me, I cycle round the bay.

Along the sea, molten silver in the sun,

Figures on the beach are inked against the day.

Wading birds still scuffle, children shout,

Dogs chase balls, and humans walk, take stock,

I feel my legs pum...

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© 2018 James Morgan Nash - Writer and Poet - Leeds, West Yorkshire, United Kingdom - james@jamesnash.co.uk 

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