June 10, 2020

At first I do not recognise the sound
As I cycle the empty lane through fields,
And my eyes are reaching out, all around,
To the greens and bright yellows of the Wolds
Perhaps, I think, it is the seashell breeze
Of woolly hat pulled low over my ears,
No. It’s a happy,...

March 10, 2020

I wrote this poem over twenty years ago now.  It is one I return to and think, with no false modesty, ‘Do you know what, that’s really OK’. 

And it is.  It may be my first unconscious move towards writing sonnets ten years later in its economy, argument and, to som...

February 4, 2020

You old seducer, with your chlorophyll,
Are your promise; their hidden prickle will
Remind me each joy comes with wounds somehow.
And taken by surprise I am undone,
As I find myself to be every year,
I welcome Shakespearean phrases in,
Its very theatre demands it here.

December 31, 2019

This is grim; it seems no end in sight

Though perhaps the darkest point is here,

The plumber will come, and this freezing night

Will die, and glow of morning reappear.

Until then we are reduced to a tribal dance

Negotiating the ice-cold shower,

Scott of the Antarctic would h...

December 9, 2019

Wood transforms itself under my touch

Whether it be hard olive or mountain pine,

Something I never questioned much,

Belonging to a carpenter’s long line.

I love the scent, the texture and the grain

Revealed by my steady and knowing hand

As I make things both elegant and plai...

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,


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...

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

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