Poems like falling leaves

Usually the end of October sees me charging around trying to absorb as much autumn colour and light as possible before the long slump into darkness. This year I'm experiencing a strange sort of half-life, lived mostly upstairs, while the Northerner stays down and tries to keep his distance from me and my Covid germs. The night the clocks went back saw me tossing and turning the extra hour away on my fever bed with only the dog for company; it was truly as long as the night Odysseus arrived back in Ithaca from the Trojan War and was reunited with Penelope, but almost certainly a lot less fun.

So, trips I'd planned around my son's schedule have been put off, first because of his Covid and now because of mine, and I haven't been anywhere. Time, then, for a poetry round-up, considering the occasional triumph, both modest and more modest, the first of which - completing the Sealey challenge of reading a poetry collection a day through August - I'm pretty proud of, as maintaining the focus required for attentive reading isn't something I find easy.

Some of the books I wished I'd had longer to linger over, and I've already picked one up again, to reread once I recover my concentration, and it's 'Jackself' by Jacob Polley. It took me a few poems to get into it, but what a strange, dark narrative it is. 

Here's another book of interesting narratives, although with only a couple of poems in. (They are mine, however. 😎)

It's always great to have a poem or two included in one of Jane Russ's nature books, published by Graffeg, the latest of which, The Crow Family Book, is now available and would make an excellent Christmas gift, because let's face it, most people love a crow, unless they once pretended to wave a stick at one, ever since when generations of corvids have passed down tales of this misdeed to their nestlings, who are thus primed for attack the instant this hapless miscreant sticks their head out of doors. Yes, that's what crows do. Luckily, our local tribe at Asda recognise me as Friend because I feed them, and just crap on my car roof instead. 

And here's another tome I contributed towards, this time with a review - the mighty Tears in the Fence, issue 78 of which appeared in August. 

Some of my more recent poems, which will be published in a collection by Indigo Dreams next autumn, have been making their way in the world, finding lodgings in both real life and online journals. I'm expecting my contributor's copy of Artemis Poetry some time this month; in the meantime, here's some links to online poems in Crowstep, London Grip and Amsterdam Quarterly.  

Meanwhile, one poem has returned to its roost twice recently, each time with a tattered laurel leaf or two in its beak, having been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and then achieving runner-up status in the Frosted Fire Fourth Annual Single Poem Competition, for which many thanks to judge, Angela France. Since the later accolade includes publication in the competition anthology, that is the end of its journeying until the collection's published. Well done, doughty poem, you've earnt your rest.