Tuesday, 28 May 2013



In this issue:

Note from the editor: p.2

Tribute and poem for Bob Cobbing by the poet Scott Thurston: p. 2-4

Adrian Clarke: Poem: p.5

Patricia Farrell: Poems and images: p.6-8

Andrew Taylor: Poem: p.9

Cliff Yates: Poem: p.10

James Murphy: Poem: p.11

Sam Smith: Poems: p.12-15

Dave Ward: Prose poem: p.15-17

Lester Smith: Poem: p. 18-19

Rupert M Loydell: Poem: p.20

Ian Robinson: drawings: front cover and p.11, 20, 21

Reviews: p.21-22

Publications and Journals: p.23-25

Biographies: p.26-27

Subscription Details: p.26

Welcome to the 3rd issue of Neon Highway. It is Thursday 6th February 2003. In this issue I would primarily like to pay tribute to Bob Cobbing the sound and concrete poet who died September 29, 2002.

I never met Bob but having read his ABC in sound and read through his book Word Score Utterance Choreography in Verbal & Visual poetry, edited by Bob Cobbing and Lawrence Upton, I was extremely impressed. I also can’t avoid mentioning bob jubile and bill jubobe texts by Bob Cobbing, works of art in their own right and beautifully put together. Bob also edited And with Adrian Clarke and I would like to point out that issue 11 edited by Bob and Adrian is now available from Writers Forum press, details of which I have put at the back of this magazine under the journals section.

Robert Sheppard and Scott Thurston performed a wonderful performance of Cobbing’s work on 15th October 2002 at Edge-Hill from his ABC. I listened with great enjoyment at this wonderful display of sound text, words coming to life and resonating as if they had been discovered for the first time.

In this issue, I am very pleased to be able to publish a personal tribute to Bob by an interesting and talented poet. I would therefore like to pass you over to Scott Thurston. Thank you.

Alice Lenkiewicz


A TRIBUTE TO BOB COBBING (1920-2002) by Scott Thurston

I first encountered Bob Cobbing at a performance at the Festival Hall, London in early 1990. He was performing as one third of ‘Konkrete Canticle’ with the poets Paula Claire and Bill Griffiths. This was the second poetry event I had ever attended and I was astonished by the extraordinary sound produced by this group. At one point the poets began moving round the audience showing us a copy of the poem that they were performing – when Cobbing came over to me I looked down to see a totally abstract image in black and white and suddenly I was performing it too! This experience had a profound physical effect on me: afterwards I felt overwhelmed, but exhilarated. Afterwards I found out that the ‘concrete’ poetry I had heard and performed worked by creating abstract images and then ‘reading’ or ‘performing’ them with the sounds of the human voice and/or instruments – as if you began spontaneously to read aloud in a language you did not know how to pronounce, yet somehow made ‘sense’. It involved interpreting the marks, lines, textures and shapes of a visual text as if they were analogous to the marks, lines, textures and shapes that make up the characters of writing systems. Cobbing was not only a concrete poet but also produced sound poetry; creating poems which used recognisable characters of the English and other writing systems but patterning them to emphasise their qualities of sound rather than sense. He also produced works which can be described as found poems, collage poems and cut-up poems, indeed claiming to have created cut-up works before the technique’s more often credited creator – William Burroughs – did.

But Cobbing’s legacy extends beyond his creative contribution to his support for creativity in seemingly endless forms and guises. His Writers Forum press, still in operation after his death, published over 1000 titles of poetry over a period of almost forty years including work by Lee Harwood, Maggie O’Sullivan, John Cage and Allen Ginsberg. I consider myself immensely fortunate to have had my first two pamphlets of poetry published by Cobbing; an early and generous start which gave me momentum for years to come. In the second pamphlet’s case I had the pleasure of actually working together with Cobbing to create the book, page by page. His alert eye constantly picked up on anomalies and opportunities. He even sent me off (to his own photocopier in the basement) to progressively reduce a photocopy of the word ‘trills’ which appeared over and over in one of my poems. I had explained that in performance my intention was to say each successive ‘trills’ more quietly than the last. He persuaded me to show this in the ‘score’ of my poem, which I duly did (you can find it in Stateswalks). In addition we also saved going onto another page and thus solved a pagination problem! Such are the joys of small press publication – one is connected with the means of re/production and can therefore explore creative ways of presenting text whilst remaining fully in control: the book becomes part of the poem.

Another important legacy of Cobbing’s manifold energies was the monthly Writers Forum workshop (on-going) which he presided over in various venues in north London. This was the most genuinely open reading space I have ever had the pleasure to come across: a place where many poets came to try things out and to learn: some only once, some returning for years. Although in the wider culture the ‘writing workshop’ has connotations of the masterclass and being corrected in one’s mistakes, Cobbing’s presence at these gatherings allowed poets to learn about themselves and their work through the very act of articulation, without judgement. The only advice I ever heard given was to read either ‘louder’ or ‘slower’ or both. The space allowed you to work it out for yourself. Cobbing also created opportunities for exploration. On one memorable occasion, after I’d just been given the louder and slower treatment for a hesitant performance of one of my poems (on the second run I was rather startled by what came out) Bob handed myself and the poet Johan De Wit a copy of Gerry Loose’s poem ‘Bob in the News’, one of the many birthday poems dedicated to Bob by workshop participants over the years. It was my first performance of a sound poem – no preparation, no practice – and, with the briefest of mutual direction: ‘OK, let’s turn pages at the same time and finish here’ – we were off! Again there was that incredible sense of exhilaration – of one’s voice literally being stretched to things one would never before have felt it capable of. Amazingly, Johan and I kept in time and finished the piece simultaneously! Although I’ve rarely written pure sound poems since – the understanding of sound and the possibilities of performance that I gained during sessions like these were an apprenticeship that has not only informed all of my live reading work since but also my relationship to poetry on the page as well.

It’s with difficulty that one recognises the passing of a truly generous and creative spirit – one who felt no need to hide his talents but who made more effort than most to create spaces in which his abilities also allowed others to be nurtured, to grow and to flourish. British poetry needs more poets like Bob Cobbing.


Rough drafts delaying

You trusted I knew the s goes up

A person

What I was saying comes down

To a lower limit

Slower in delaying the centred poet

Upper limit is what if we tried

The s comes down

Simple testing it that way

Trusted that I knew what

I was saying

And if I didn’t

that I would find out

Scott Thurston

Adrian Clarke

For Robert Sheppard & Patricia Farrell















Patricia Farrell

Patricia Farrell

it’s nice to watch you dancing

not even map yr. silver trail

the little man

on whom you burn yr.fingers

inherits nothing

except the doors already broken

believing it’s already dead

the death of passion

the death of fingers

the death of coffee

his feathers are a printout

face down digging in warm snow

within a paving

jumps around another stone

or the man with small ears

small ears to concentrate the sound

they all come through the floor

and celebrate

across the carpets

practising the next war

we smashed a goldfish with a stone

in dead of night

the velvet paw descends

I stole the rain

vomiting fragments

of fool’s gold

back into the earth

who are those young men knocking

at your front door?

in the surface

thru small cracks seeping

these visitations

are called Shirley

his little face revolving

as he feeds

who are these young men knocking

at your front door?

the cunning tongue darts silent in the ear

sliding over edge

of knife and razor

I have no time for that

I am just a heartbeat

within a fortnight I am gone

I live

but for this moment

twirling from the trees

in ecstasy

without ecstasy

pulling earth

from in my ears

but only when I hear this music

Andrew Taylor

So Modern Everything Seems Pointless.

(for Scott Thurston)

Hum of air conditioning: a kind of comfort as the hour

grinds on with lights low and the click of computers

Feel the need for Melatonin, to paper over the cracks,

lead into the cauldron of sleep where animals roam

safely through streets, cars give way and people

show respect! images high of failing aeroplanes and

evacuation procedures from the 72nd floor of


Close visage and open invis window, a DIFFERENT

view on the world! tread carefully on the streets of the

Village, especially in the month of January. Go to Zinc,

to see the cats through the smoke.

Please be careful this Ritazza beverage is extremely hot.

how that would bring cheer down the icy blast of Bleecker Street!

Sleep deprivation and the queue for fast food at The Peacocks

Centre do not hang well together. Cavernous space with lifts,

escalators and stairs. Shops seem secondary, somehow.

Once Public Space, now

‘The public are invited into the shopping

Centre by courtesy of the management’

security guards follow people badly, while a minimum wage

cleaner polishes a glass balcony, all day.


Cliff Yates


Back then it was live, crowded, blue (the sky)

different, easier, much more fun, a good laugh

longer (the days in winter), February, an hour

before midnight, after

Yes it was crowded the atmosphere was

words can’t describe the atmosphere.

It sounded like a joke but wasn’t. You were

there weren’t you? How old were you

in those days?

cellotape the sky the doorhandle door

open a table in it on end skirting the tower

on the horizon sky above it clouds

the window sill distance cup

on a shelf lino scuffed carpet nervous

beauty smell of your hand in the sunshine

a deckchair like sand the ocean small

creatures not together separating

(like the of like like in the)

man called Walker walking a queue

outside a cinema harmonica out the window

the couple eating breakfast on a stranger’s verandah

Hannibal setting out over the alps the Band’s farewell

view of the Pacific over that bit of flat all

downhill Polish houses like in Poland

the field of gear boxes at the breakers in Flint

the gear box that clicked in first Michaelangelo

on his scaffolding with a bad back the pope

coming to a decision the pope coming

my brother before his bike is stolen

the third reich entering Paris leaving

the roads asleep the melting tarmac melting

Ian Robinson

James Murphy

Day Of Tears

It was pure madness as gunshots echoed

looking out over the morning sunshine

within a lost wish and prayer it had started

one and one, two alone, they were just kids

living out of their world of disbelief

birth, life and death, it happened very quickly

with each breath taken away

moonless become the night sky, darkness

consuming change in stillness

bruised and torn

lasting, burning tears of grief

Sam Smith

Room 20

The rule here is

no cross-contamination.

So all undress,

shower, wear smocks

that fasten at the back.

In the centre

one lies on

the steel table.

The others render

him, or her,


The leader then

takes a blade

and cuts

the body open.

None in the room


their right

to be doing this.

(notes for reading:- To a background tape of steam engines receding. Use large

arm gesticulations.)

Room 21

Stolen key in hand

he slips through the door,

feels for the switch.

There is no light.

Crawling over the windowsill

he sits panting on the floor,

pleased to have arrived.

He frowns,

sees no furniture.

He says a last

charming word at the door,

closes it softly behind him.

The walls are bare.

With a sledgehammer

he pounds through the wall.

Coated in dust

he stands grinning

in the centre of the room.

It collapses about him.

(notes for reading:-Wear cricketing whites. Between stanzas bowl yellow

and red marigold heads at audience.)

Room 29

In the room of sorrowful flowers

catkins have become allergic

to pollen, and sobs are coming from

the freckled throats of mimulus.

In dark corners are glowing

lace discs of elder, pleading

to be moons. A magnolia

is a flock of white doves

trapped in the instant of flight.

The golden laburnum weeps

for them. And still the daisies

are unblinking credulous.

(Next door

sealed off from the aura

of beckoning perfumes,

all old smells, carried there

in the wake of shoulders,

have long since

sunk to the floor.)

(notes for reading:- Go onto tip-toe, as if calling over the heads of a crowd.

Come down onto heels when finished. Look around puzzled.)

Room 30

If this was a zoo of human relationships

and behaviours, then observe Room 30,

which has one table, six chairs,

three beds and three couples.

All come to the table to eat, go in pairs to the beds. Returning to the

table they arrange themselves differently, go in pairs to the beds. Back at the

table, seating is again re-arranged, the talk is animated, laughter quick. Bed to

table, table to bed, all permutations finally exhausted, they are as they began,

have made themselves a history, think themselves wise. They start again.

(notes for reading:- Hold two fingers straight together like a gun. Point the gun

at your temple. Do not attempt to shoot. Lower gun slowly when finished.)

Room 34

Inside only their own moisture

the silver & blue fish

slither and slide between

and over each other. Their mouths

stay open, two rows of

pointed white teeth before

palates and gills of fresh pink.

The floating heads of stuffed animals

(their mouths are blackened, also open)

move about on top of the fish.

Zebra, elk and bison nod

and bow as if conversing.

Hung from the ceiling

are dried humming birds.

When touched, occasionally,

by horn, antler or muzzle,

their jewelled husks rotate.

(notes for reading:- Wrap a pillow around your lower face. Feel the words

hot on your cheeks.)

Room 35

Stacked here are

the trunks of trees that will become

the room’s furniture. Beech & pine

will combine to make a table.

A broad oak will be hollowed out

into a wardrobe. Shavings and woodchip

will be burnt in the quickly blackened

fireplace – its mantle a spare plank

of pine. The twisted hawthorn

will be turned into a hatstand.

In the corner a tub of wax waits

to be applied. Maple & rosewood

will marry into chairs. The many gaps

and spaces left will be filled

with the smell of dessicated and

crystalline sap.

(notes for reading:- Place 6 shimmering angels in a line facing the audience.

At beginning of poem start along the line. Take the harp from each angel,

Drop it to the floor and casually push each angel over.)


Dave Ward


As she gets off the bus she lights another

cigarette. She tries to light another cigarette.

Her fingers fumble its shape to her mouth. Jabbing

it between the red of her lips. The matches slip as

she tries to strike one. The flame goes out, blown

out by the slipstream fumes of the bus as it

retreats down the street.

She doesn’t know where she is. The street is dark.

The lamps are broken, unlit. Watching. She knows

when someone is watching. Someone is watching her

now. But nobody is here. An empty street.

She strikes a match. She lights her cigarette.

Clings to it like a stick. For protection. To

guide her. Its glowing tip the only light as its

ash spills down her dress.

“The sky’s full of rain…I can feel it in my

head…in a cloud shaped like pain…”

The pain has led her here. She is not in the room

where the pain lives with her. Beside the empty bed

where she never sleeps.

“It’s cold…and it’s dark…so I don’t want to go

out…so I get on the bus…okay?…OKAY.”

But the bus has gone. Its lights have gone. Its

warmth has gone. The other passengers who looked at

her but did not look at her. Were there. But are

not here now. Nobody here now. But someone is

watching her.

She can feel the eyes.

She knows. Most people do not want to see her.

Look away. Or they stare. And she knows.

Now no-one is here, but she knows.

The road slopes away. Uneven paving stones.

Slipping between the terraced houses, down towards

the river. Waiting like a darkness, like a

stillness at the bottom of the hill. She cannot see

it, but she knows it’s there. Can feel its tug.

Feel that chill.

Maybe it’s only the river that watches. She shrugs,

shivering, going that way. But no, she knows.

There is someone else. Not eyes behind the

curtains. They don’t count, they are always there.

No, there’s someone else there, out here, with her.

Someone in this street.

She stops. Her feet miss a beat. Are those the

echoes of other footsteps? Is someone keeping time

with her? She turns to look. A swirl of smoke from

her cigarette’s stub.

There’s no-one here.

Distant sirens. A riverboat’s moan.

She hugs herself. She would like someone to.

Someone to hold her. Anyone would do. Just to be

held. She looks again. Her eyes pulse pain, like

the pain in her head. She smudges red lips with the

back of her sleeve.

In the doorway, in the darkness, where there is no-

one, where there is nothing. There is someone


He does not surprise her. She is not startled. She

always knows when someone is watching. But she did

not expect the eyes. The eyes that see her without

seeing her. Which look at her and through her and

do not see.

But see everything.

And she wasn’t expecting the touch of his body. So

moist, so warm. Like a day-old baby, but fully

grown. Wrapped in long darkness. Like a cloak,

like a coat. To protect them. As they dance, in

the silence, in the darkness.

And what did he expect? As she brushes his skin

with two rouged lips. That skin which feels so

thin, so frail. A web of colours which shift and


He takes her to another place. She does not know

where she is now, though she did not know where she

was before. They dance through darkness, through

hidden walls. Through gardens of light.

A dervish waltz, to and fro, to and fro, feeling the

salt, the oil, the flow, till her skin seems to glow

in contact with his own.

They dance through cities beneath this city, where

sunken rivers run.

They go there.

He takes her.

She is not alone.

Lester Smith


Comfortable chairs are like comfortable faces.

Circles look comforting... Deceptiveness is like a microwave. A fluttering fan falls when He wakes us.

Flowers wilt. Large ear. Nose-dull.

Brows prove guilt. Flowers are beautiful

Ear. Wig. “Olga!” Small eye glowers

if only for a matter But... of hours.

Synthetic material tempts us. We float. We hover.

We hoover up panoramic vistas. Seas of shadows support illusions. Is it all seen through His eyes?

I pray I pray I pray. No I don’t.

Back to Braque, analytical, synthetic.

An eye for a leg. Sensory deprivation?

A jest, a chest. Bulls. Chesty, jesty bulls

in synthetic vestibules?

One egg or two. Give us a clue.

Blue moons disguise gashes.

Blown in rose-tinted glasses.

A painter strokes a painter.

Creating primitive patterns.

The plainest hat, the dullest belt.

Lips where butter would not melt.

If only the butter knew.


Please do not force

the square pegs into

round holes.

Lester Smith

Two years old

Only a learner

Toying with ideas could win him a Turner.

Strong Russian stocks. Big hat, slight face.

Quick from the blocks.

Big eyes, fine shape.

Time flies by when you’re the father of a child. In and out of fruity pastel memories, impossible to hide.

Under stated, over stated. Breathing, breathing, breaths.

Such a big hat.

Fuel sweeps material being

Pale innocence cocooned by a mother who knows what is out there

The hatred is an extension of herself. She knows

“I paint as I see fit not as I see:

Yes, there are large eyes and huge arms in my head.

What a carrion, this is not a bench.

I like the ruff it accentuates her charms.

Poetry is in motion. Art tempts devotion.

True. Cezanne was an influence.

Shapes you insist! Is it a couch?”

Ian Robinson

Rupert M Loydell


Awake since 3am,

I note death much in evidence:

meandering down the slope

like a rain-flushed stream.

I prefer not to get wet

in the middle of the day.

Give the viewer

a feeling of space:

connect with sorrow,

sympathise with age.

Electrical discharges

sputter along the margin,

colour wouldn't dare

to hang on to my easel.

Thought is ephemeral,

a site-specific installation.

The rest of the space is dark.


Ian Robinson

The Blickensderfer Punch

Robert Sheppard: text

Patricia Farrell: images

Ship of Fools 2002

Interaction between text and image allows the eye to translate the work fluidly. At the same time the juxtaposition between image and text create a 'mechanical' rhythm that dictates and re-interprets the 'voice' and 'image' of the typewriter.

Patricia Farrell's stark but mellow black and white images float beautifully across the white page melting effortlessly into Sheppard's experimental sound based text. An interesting read , exploring a visionary world of the language of the typewriter,

'The Blickensderfer Punch'. Beautifully presented.

Alice Lenkiewicz


A World Elsewhere by Ian Robinson: ten dream stories & two fragments.

Eidolon press MM ll

Ian Robinson explores the idea of place and relationships through the language of dreams. Visionary and surreal, the stories are written in a matter of ‘fact’ way that accentuates the unusual and sometimes ‘absurd’ subject matter. An interesting worthwhile read. More of this kind of writing needed, I think.

Alice Lenkiewicz

Reviews Continued…

Road Of Sighs, Poems 1985-2001 by James Murphy.

Red Wolf Press: 2002

In Road of Sighs, James Murphy explores the psychological journeys of the misfits of society. The world of substance abuse and street life is vividly and sensitively portrayed in this collection of realistic poems. This collection allows the reader to contemplate not only the difficulties encountered but also the genuine love and affection between people who are at odds with society. I recommend this as a worthwhile book to experience and read.

Alice Lenkiewicz


Sheetlight by Tim Fletcher: text of Poems with CD.

Illustrations by Claire Fletcher

First Offense Publication: 2001

A collection of experimental sound-based/visual text. Fletcher experiments with poetry on and off the page. Tim Fletcher explores his work using a combination of voice, and a variety of instruments. The visual text and CD demand attention and thought from the listener and reader. Although not for the ‘feint hearted’, an experimental piece of work, pushing the reader beyond any conventional and comforting boundaries.

Alice Lenkiewicz


Robert Sheppard, The Lores (£7.50)

Lawrence Upton, Wire Sculptures (£5)

Ken Edwards, eight + six (£7.50)

The first two are available now and the third in late summer. Postage & packing is added at the rate of one pound for one book, one pound fifty for two books, two pounds for three books, four or more books ordered together post free.

Ken Edwards, Reality Street Editions

4 Howard Court, Peckham Rye, London SE15 3PH, UK

Tel: 020 7639 7297

Web: www.realitystreet.co.uk


Ian Robinson: The Glacier In the Cupboard: copy/copies of this book are £5.00 each, post free. Cheques and P.os should be made out to:- ‘Permanent Press’ and sent to 5B Compton Avenue, Canonbury, London N1 2XD.

(Ninety-six black and white drawings, with an introduction by Rupert Vas Dias.)

Ian Robinson: A World Elsewhere. ten dream stories & two fragments

Eidolon press MM ll, 34 Nightingale Square, London SW12 8QN


The Blickensderfer Punch

Robert Sheppard: text

Patricia Farrell: images

Ship of Fools 2002



the necessity of poetics

Robert Sheppard:

ship of fools liverpool, 2002


New Tonal Language

Patricia Farrell

Shelby Matthews

Simon Perril

Keston Sutherland

Reality Street Editions: 1999


James Murphy: Road of Sighs: Paperback, July 2002 $17.95

• Paperback: 162 pages

• Publisher: Red Wolf Press; ; (March 20, 2002)

• ISBN: 0971724458

Available to order on Amazon.com


'Turn For Home'

Andrew Taylor

published by The Brodie Press (www.thebrodiepress.co.uk). Due out end of March, beginning of April.


Andrew also has work published in 'The Liver Bards' poetry and prose anthology published May 2002. Copies can be ordered by emailing the publisher James Bainbridge at theliverbards@hotmail.com


Memories of air: Cory Harding.


Alice Lenkiewicz

Men Hate Blondes: Poems and CD to accompany with music and vocal.2003

Available from Neon Highway. £2.50.


Rupert Loydell: Recent books of poems:

The Museum of Light [Arc], The Museum of Improvisation [Wild Honey] and two collaborative works: The Temperature of Recall, with

Sheila E. Murphy; and A Hawk Into Everywhere, with Roselle Angwin.

read Stride magazine at



A.C Evans

Poetry Magazine contributions (Dec 2002 - Feb 2003)

Pulsar #32 (Dec 2002)

To An Aesthete Dying Young

Inclement #8 (Dec 2002)

Reflections In A Mirrors

Only Shadows

Angels Bring Us

Lost Words

Awen #20 (Feb 2003)

The Night Alone

Moonstone #89 (Feb 2003)

Most Adored



AND No. 11 is now available.

Edited by Bob Cobbing

And Adrian Clarke

Writers Forum. 89a, Petherton Road, London. N5 2QT

Oasis: Editor Ian Robinson and Yann Lovelock.

12 Stavenage Road, London, SW6 6ES

Oasis can be found on First Subscriber website at www.firstsubscriber.com

The Radiator: Edited by Scott Thurston. Rad #2 out now

Ira Lightman 'On the Composition of I-CHING PIECE and O TO SUBJECT'. In a specially commissioned piece Lightman reflects on the composition of two poems which are also published here for the first time. The complexity of Lightman's procedures is an engine for an extraordinary poetics of generative form that acknowledges influences ranging from John Cage to Woody Allen.

ALSO STILL AVAILABLE Issue 1: William Rowe “‘Language . . . poisoned to a wreckage’: on contemporary poetics in Britain and Latin America”. Rowe’s reflections on Ana Maria Pacheco, Barry MacSweeney, Raul Zurita, Mario Montalbetti and Maggie O’Sullivan.

Subscriptions are welcomed at:

The Radiator, Flat 5, 48, Upper Parliament Street, Liverpool, L8 7LF, UK

and cost £5.00 sterling for 3 issues (£10.00 institutions), £2.00 for single issues (£4.00 institutions), surface mail post paid to anywhere and payable to 'Scott Thurston'. The Radiator publishes essays on poetics by contemporary poets.


Future issues will feature poetics and new poetry by Allen Fisher and Jeff Hilson.

Smoke: Edited by Dave Ward and Dave Calder

Published by Windows, Liver House, 96 Bold Street, Liverpool L1 4HY

Fire: Editor Jeremy Hilton. Field Cottage, Old White Hill, Tackley, Kidlington, Oxfordshire OX5 3AB. www.poetical.org

First Offence: Edited by Tim Fletcher. Syringa, Stodmarsh, Canterbury, Kent.

CT3 4BA.

The Paper: Edited by David Kennedy: 29 Vickers Road, Firth Park, Sheffield, S5 6UY, UK. Email: dgk@kennedyd.fsworld.co.uk

The Journal: Editor: Sam Smith

Jacobyte Books. Editor: Sam Smith.


Poetry Salzburg Review

Wolfgang Gortschacher


Stride online journal: Edited by Rupert Loydell

read Stride magazine at


Tremblestone: Edited by Kenny Knight: Tremblestone, Corporation Buildings, 10. F How Street, The Barbican, Plymouth, Devon. PL4 ODB.



Adrian Clarke's collections include "Ghost Measures" (Actual Size, 1987),

and "Obscure Disasters", "Millennial Shades & Three Papers" and "Skeleton

Sonnets" (all Writers Forum). Work anthologised in "Verbi Visi Voco"

(Writers Forum, 1992) and "Foil" (Etruscan Books, 2000). He co-edited

"Floating Capital: new poets from London" (Potes & Poets Press, 1991) with

Robert Sheppard, and five issues of "And" magazine with the late Bob

Cobbing. Since Cobbing's death he has been continuing Writers Forum's

activities with Lawrence Upton.

IAN ROBINSON edits Oasis Magazine and Oasis books. His most recent publications are ‘How Do You Spell Bl…gh?” (Short Stories, Redbeck Press, 2002). And ‘A World Elsewhere’ (10 dream stories, eidolon press, 2002). Redbeck also published his ‘The Invention of Morning’ (poems) in 1997. Ninety six of his drawings were published in 1995 under the title ;The Glacier in the Cupboard’ by Permanent Press and S-Editions; And in 2001 two small pamphlets of visual work, ‘landscapes’ (10 drawings) and ‘Theorems’ (16 collages) were published by , respectively, Oasis Books and Offerta Speciale Visual Editions (Turin).

Scott Thurston's publications include Poems Nov 89 - Jun 91 (1991), Stateswalks (1994) (both Writers Forum) and Two Sequences (RWC, 1998). He also appeared in Sleight of Foot (Reality Street, 1996). He edits the poetics journal The Radiator and is publishing a series of interviews with contemporary poets in Poetry Salzburg Review.

Sam Smith recently employed as an amusement arcade cashier, Sam Smith has been a psychiatric nurse, residential social worker, milkman, plumber, laboratory analyst, groundsman, sailor, computer operator, scaffolder, gardener, painter & decorator........ working at anything, in fact, which has paid the rent, enabled him to raise his three daughters and which didn't get too much in the way of his writing. With poetry and articles widely published, especially in Britain, he already has 5 poetry collections, 10 novels and a history/biography to his name (see his own website for more details - http://members.aol.com/smithsssj/index.html). Editor of The Journal (once 'of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry'), publisher of Original Plus books, he is also proud to be Poetry Editor of Jacobyte Books (Australia) and Associate Editor of The River King Poetry Supplement (Illinois, USA). He was born in 1946.

James Murphy has been writing poetry for many years drawing off his personal experiences with the drug culture and the damage it can wreck. His poetry has appeared in newspapers, magazines and several national anthologies in the United States and his work has appeared in poetry corners in the United Kingdom. Murphy's first collect of poetry entitled "In Search of A soul" was published in 1996 with a Canadian copyright. Murphy has the rare ability to offer vivid imagery, life experiences and with his gift of storytelling to create entertaining, informing and spellbinding poetry.

DAVE WARD’s Publications include JAMBO (Impact), TRACTS (Headland), THE TREE OF DREAMS (Harper Collins), CANDY AND JAZZZ

(Oxford University Press).Poems in Poetry Review, Ambit, Poetry Wales, Oasis, etc.

Co-ordinator The Windows Project. Toured to Singapore.

"Patricia Farrell has had books published by Reality Street and Writers Forum. Her work has appeared in a number of anthologies and magazines. She has also taken part in exhibitions in London, Birmingham, Portsmouth and Cologne."

Andrew Taylor is Poet-In-Residence at Liverpool Architecture and Design

Trust; a PhD Student in Poetry; has had work published nationally and

locally in print and on the airwaves and his first collection is due out in

Summer 2003, published by Sheppard Bainbridge. Andrew Taylor has a book

coming out Summer 2003, as yet untitled, to be published by Sheppard

Bainbridge publishers. Andrew has a collection due out in April titled 'Turn For Home' published by The Brodie Press (www.thebrodiepress.co.uk).

Alice Lenkiewicz: Artist/poet. Lives in Skelmersdale with her two children. Presently studying her MA in Writing Studies at Edge hill College and editing Neon Highway. Member of the poetics research group at Edge hill, she has completed her music and poetry project Men Hate Blondes and is currently working on the Adventures of Maxine, a collection of short stories and poems. She exhibits her art and has written poems and two plays, St Catherine and Wrappers.

Lester Smith writes prose fiction for the most part but has written the occasional poem over the years. His only recorded poem won a prize in the Lancaster Literature Festival. At that time he was a fifteen year-old and full of angst. He felt inspired to take up a pen full of concentrated poet’s ink after exploring and being impressed by the poetry of other writers on the Edge Hill MA programme. Cubism is an interpretation of five paintings by Picasso and is intended to be formed into a cube shape prior to reading, using as a box for keeping strong mints in or replacing misplaced dice.

Cliff Yates' collection of poems 'Henry's Clock' (Smith/Doorstop) won the Aldeburgh prize in 1999. He wrote 'Jumpstart Poetry in the Secondary School' as Poetry Society poet-in-residence, and teaches at Maharishi School in Skelmersdale where his students have won many awards for their writing.

Rupert Loydell is the Managing Editor of Stride, Royal Literary Fund Fellow

at Bath University and Visiting Fellow at Warwick University. Recent books

of poems include The Museum of Light [Arc], The Museum of Improvisation

[Wild Honey] and two collaborative works: The Temperature of Recall, with

Sheila E. Murphy; and A Hawk Into Everywhere, with Roselle Angwin.



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