Poems by local poets

On this page we'll post occasional poems by local poets. 


Our latest offering is a poem by one of Sheffield's most well-known poets, Matt Black, which he's chosen to suit the holiday season - even though it's now vanishing fast. 


Below Matt's poem is a poem by another local Matt, Matt Clegg's: "The Power-line" and below Matt's poem you'll find Ben Wilkinson's "Lament". Ben kindly consented to be our first contributor. (There's a link to Ben's own blog in the Links on the left). Perhaps you'd like to comment? 


- - - - -

In this tent

where we live for ten days.

In this small blue dome

where warm light filters in,

we squirm in through the zips,

you and I, now nearly the same size.

Dirty socks and extra shirts.

Damp matches and sandy paperbacks.

We share one torch between the two of us.

You have the radio. I have the pillow.

In this spacious cave

that’s six feet by six we combine

sitting-room, bedroom, shed, library, bathroom,

and under the front flaps, condensed kitchen.

Open plan. No feng shui here.

Small mountain ranges. Mixed collections.

Trainers, washbags, guidebooks, tins of beans.

Two teenagers from different generations.

In this calm but flapping tardis

we talk and grin about time as an illusion,

you just fourteen, me just forty-eight, relax,

good nights, good mornings, slow starts,

play Mastermind, watch the orange moon rise.

We make plans blending wryness and optimism,

collect bright leaflets about local attractions,

then lie on the grass, ignoring them.

In this wind-blown snug

we sleep on the sea of an inflatable mattress

that goes down, very slowly, every night.

The weight of these two young men together.

I smile at you, looking older.

You smile at me, looking younger.

Below us the patch of grass turns yellow.

Every day we gather in more light.

Matt Black

- - - - -

The Power-line: Matt Clegg

Like taking a kite for a walk, he’d smile,

Bempton to Flamborough, along the cliffs,

Letting it climb the wind, thermal by thermal.

There’d been an outbreak of myxomatosis

And rabbits crouched puffy-eyed and helpless

On the inland paths. It depressed me

To think the land was so diseased;

New caravan parks laid out like factories;

Each metre portioned out and numbered.

Our nerves had been jangling and raggedy-raw

And nothing we’d shared had gone right

For weeks. He said he would love the boy

Whatever was wrong with him, but I couldn’t

Help feeling it was some kind of punishment

Or a sign revealing all that wasn’t good

Between us. Believe me, it’s a hard path

To carry a life you know to be afflicted

And every day I win and lose my faith.

My sleep had been bad and only two days

Before I’d dreamed something had gone wrong

With the world; the tide stopped and whales

Surfaced and smoked like oil-wells under a sun

That burned and swelled out of all proportion.

He thought taking the kite out might cure

My mood. Calmly, he let the string unwind

And I was glad to follow it skywards, where

It reached its limit and sliced through the wind.

I felt his child kick. Thought of better times.

It was high tide. There were men and boys

Angling from the cliff-tops – their taut lines

Wired up to the mauling of breakers

Below; white-caps butting hard against rocks.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing

And so I let him walk on as I stopped to think,

Transfixed by those men with lines, casting

And gathering far beyond the brink.

I saw a double rainbow over Flamborough

And it was then he must’ve walked the kite

Into the power-line. I can’t remember

A thing between the rainbow and the moment

Of finding his fallen body. The kite

Was tangled, but still tugging, tugging

To be free of the string – a childish toy

Out of place where a man had all feeling

Jolted from his grip. Always slow to let go

My love was too wired to everything.

In that instant between seeing what was

Coming and it happening, could he imagine

Any future that would leave him in one piece?

A brief lapse before coming to his senses:

Danger-signs nailed to alternate posts;

The old path fenced off from subsiding ground.

Then anxious dads, calling back their kids.

Gull-choirs crying. Cloud-masses parting inland.

- - - - -

Matt's pamphlet "Edgelands" is published by Longbarrow Press (http://longbarrowpress.com/current-publications/ ) and his collection "The Power-line" will appear later this year.

- - - - -

Lament:  Ben Wilkinson

Here now, it’s hard to believe this place –

yellowed wallpaper, towels hung over

every decent lager except the guest –

is where we first met and that blur

of brilliance – a world from this pint

and the torn baize of a duff pool table –

meant the next week, the next fortnight,

were the closest things ever get to simple.

So if this is how I know us, want us –

the two who clicked on an understanding

of close as close to sparseness, bluntness –

then that’s why, aware or drifting,

I’ve come to sit in this selfsame chair,

selfsame spot; listening to the traffic

which you must be a part of, somewhere,

pitched as it is among frantic and orphic

while one by one the pigeons flutter off;

draining the glass and closing my book

as the lights click on, someone coughs,

and the place is good as lost, however I look.

© Ben Wilkinson, reproduced by permission of the poet

Ben Wilkinson was born in Stafford, Staffordshire in 1985. He read English and Philosophy at the University of Sheffield, and was awarded an MA in Writing from Sheffield Hallam University. His pamphlet of poems, The Sparks, was published as part of tall-lighthouse’s Pilot series. He regularly reviews new poetry for the Guardian and the Times Literary Supplement, and he was shortlisted for the Picador Poetry Prize. He lives and works in Sheffield, South Yorkshire.