PATRICK B. OSADA
Patrick B. Osada is an editor, writes reviews of poetry for magazines and is a member of the Management Team for SOUTH Poetry Magazine.
His first collection, Close to the Edge, was published in 1996 and won the prestigious ROSEMARY ARTHUR AWARD. He has published four collections, with a fifth, CHANGES, published by D & W Publishing in January 2017.
Patrick’s work has been widely published in magazines, anthologies and on the internet..
For more information about his work and a selection of his poetry, visit :
From CHANGES (published by D&W Publishing in January 2017):
And suddenly the season’s rushing on
as everywhere I look there’s bloom and leaf;
this morning more fresh birdsong fills the air
and green begins to show on sluggish beech.
The rising sun has melted, back to dew,
an early mist that blanketed the fields;
and dandelions glow like tiny suns
below the apple blossom’s first pink frills.
Bluebells fill the copse near Wesley Mill
and, in the hedgerows, ransoms start to show.
The old grey urn has been bees’ home for years
as, from the crack, the busy workers flow
to visit more and more enticing flowers –
enjoying sun, dodging sudden showers.
© Patrick B Osada
Fiona Sinclair lives in a village in Kent with her husband Kim and an imaginary dog.
She is the editor of the on-line poetry magazine Message in Bottle. Fiona‘s work has been published in numerous magazines. A TALENT FOR HATS is her sixth collection. Fiona reviews poetry and also art exhibitions, specifically at Turner Contemporary, Margate. She currently has a crush on Grayson Perry.
Fiona is attracted to the overlooked, even peculiar aspects
of modern life. in this short collection she takes as her theme
the “second skins” that we put on in order to cope or hide
from issues of identity, Her knack for mixing slang and every-
day language with a more conventional poetic turn of phrase,
makes these poems sparkle.
From A TALENT FOR HATS (published by D&W Publishing in April 2017:
Drowning in dress choice, she wants no
Marilyn Look at me entrance, rather
something to carry her through dry-mouthed solo arrival.
Pulls out sale dregs number that on her
lives up to its designer label promise,
but flashbacks; blown out by friend last minute,
folk night that anesthetised her rock and roll soul.
restraining yawns like Tourette’s outbursts at dull dinner.
Strokes with little-girl longing new strapless
but time saved up from work plus son sleepover windfall
cannot be gambled on untried garment.
Ponders impulse buy plain-Jane shift
then relives: shoes kicked off dancing until all hours;
gold strike of finding new friends at a 50th;
child’s fizzy laughter uncorked in a comedy club; so slips on the dress that promises an evening well spent…
© Fiona Sinclair
Kyle McHale is originally from the suburbs of Washington D.C. in Maryland. He currently lives and works in Surrey, England. AND NO BIRDS SING is his first published collection of poems, though he has been reading and writing poetry for over a decade.
Kyle cites Robert Frost and John Keats among the poets who have influenced his writing. Kyle writes about nature and 'how we find solace in the natural world when relationships let us down for whatever reason...' [Lisa Kelly]
From AND NO BIRDS SING
(Published by D&W Publishing in May 2017):
Oak leaves are falling gently,
hitting glass, fluttering off the roof
like paper skipping along
a river, like the deliberate
way we wrap presents,
marked, like each leaf
with our unique prints
and best intentions.
All of it a gift, bundles
of them raked into piles
for us to dive into,
throw in the air,
remember what youth
smelled like after the cutting
of the hay in late summer,
there isn’t much else here,
what else would there
ever need to be?
© Kyle McHale
Alexandra Davis lives in Suffolk with her husband and four sons and teaches English. Her poems have appeared in Agenda, Artemis and Emma Press anthologies.
Her poem Stag won the Brian Dempsey Prize in 2017.
SPROUTS is Alexandra's first published pamphlet. The title poem was commended in the Back Room Poets Open Competition in 2015 and Loss was commended by Andrew MacMillan in the Ver Poetry Open Competition in 2016
From SPROUTS (September 2017):
I need to make one thing clear:
I didn’t see the stag. My husband did.
He’d been running; he came through the door,
eyes alight; stood taller in the kitchen,
his legs rooted wide, to tell us both;
his joy so urgent. Son and I sat, rapt
by the boy in his voice, the wild life
in his hands and his face as he drew us
a picture of man and stag who had met
in the field this bright autumn morning.
He lifted his arms in revelation, the size!
The size of his antlers! The span! The height!
The throat on him! He was praising the moment,
too big for the kitchen, and we praised it too,
for the gift of the stag now belonged to us all –
that glimpse of the creature briefly rewilded;
its beauty and might to be breathed, becoming
before us a blur of bristles and musk.
© Alexandra Davis
Scott Elder writes:
'I was born in California and moved around with my family every two years or so until leaving our moving home at seventeen. Writing came in trickle during my early twenties while living in Paris. It must have been a sort of unconscious necessity because no particular will or ambition was involved. I didn't read poetry and lived from day to day as a street musician. However, I kept a notebook and came to feel that something there was worth cultivating. Years later the passion came by itself — sort of like falling in love when one is for nothing in the affair. In between time I worked as a mime artist in France and Portugal before taking vows and spending 12 years in a Buddhist hermitage in France. Now ‘home’ is in Auvergne with my three young children.'
Scott's first collection, 'Breaking Away' was published by Saltzburg Poetry Pamphlets Series in 2015. He has had poems published and commended in numerous poetry anthologies and competitions. PART OF THE DARK is his first full collection.
From PART OF THE DARK (in reference to the painting by Najlen Sanchez on the cover of the first edition published by D&W Publishing, September 2017)
Let's run through it again.
Cheeks—deep pink (too deep).
Hands—closed petals in her lap.
The young lady is sitting in
...call it an elm.
Two blood-red horses share her limb.
They're screamingly small and seem to be blind.
Nothing will come of this, she muttered in Finnish.
Don't worry, he whispered, apart from the pink
all is utterly perfect. She looked aside.
The sky wilted for an instant.
Come my dear, we're nearly there.
She lifted her eyes. The look was ancient.
It pierced the canvas and went on forever.
© Scott Elder
Ray Pool describes himself as 'a semi-retired pianist and self-confessed polymath'. He has had a long career in music as an entertainer on the jazz scene and in a variety of milieus. He now lives in Farnham, Surrey, and writes about the subjects that inspire him: music, memories of his life as an entertainer, the history of the railways and people-watching. He has a sharp ear for dialogue which enables him to write - and read - poems in others' voices. He can do a mean impression of Alan Bennett. With their nostalgic, reminiscent tone and dry humour his poems often remind us of John Betjeman's,
A HISTORY NAILED DOWN (published in May 2017) is Ray Pool's first collection. Here is the poem that contains its title:
The double stroke had placed him
in the best hands
and we met again
ten years down the line.
A deeply disruptive man
uneasy with his life
parted from his wife.
I saw him in the home.
His compulsion for slow suicide
had reduced his frame
his hair just a wisp,
but off the drink he’d regained
an interest in sport
viewed en masse in the lounge
in the static massif of wheelchairs
I spoke fondly of our shared past,
A smile played on his lips –
old jokes we’d shared
with stings in their tales
Thanks, Ray was all he could say.
My visit made me feel the weight of duty lift.
Into fantastic fresh air I went,
a history nailed down inside my head.
© Ray Pool
Wanda Barford was born in Milan. In 1939 her family emigrated to Southern Rhodesia to escape anti-Jewish persecution. She later studied music at the Royal Academy of Music, London, and married an Englishman. Flambard Press (1990 - 2012) published five full collections of Wanda's poems and in 2017 D&W published her sixth, SHALL HAVE TO STOP NOW, which is based on imaginative letter-poems, as a pamphlet.
Here is a poem from SHALL HAVE TO STOP NOW:
From Miriam to her Aunt in Brooklyn
Dear Aunt Rebecca,
You’ve heard, maybe, we’re sailing on the Exodus
to Haifa; there are about 2000 of us,
survivors from those desperate days and nightmare nights.
We left Marseille, in France, four days ago
and every time I think of Haifa and Carmel
my heart misses a beat, leaps up with joy.
Now I can see Mount Carmel gleaming in the sun,
I feel so moved that tears run down my cheeks…
But what is this? The sound of gunfire fills the air!
The ship is turning round…goodbye most Holy Land!
We will be dropped in Cyprus so they say.
The British own these parts, they’ll do just as they please.
Goodbye dear Aunt, I’ll post this letter when we land.
Pray for us…
© Wanda Barford
Timothy Adès is a rhyming translator poet whose publications include:
Here is one of Timothy Adès' lippogrammic translations of Shakespeare's Sonnets, from LOVING BY WILL which we published in 2016 with a second edition in February 2017: Sonnet 18 (in words without 'e'):
Comparing you with a day probably in July or August
I’ll put you up against a balmy day…
You win on looks. Not cold, and not too warm.
Winds cut up rough with darling buds of May;
a two-month contract can’t supply much balm.
Dog-days in August turn to burning hot,
or may contrarily grow all too dim;
and all fair fowls fall foul of you-know-what,
thrown by bad luck, or sunspots, out of trim.
But your hot days will last and last and last,
maintaining tiptop form with full control;
nor shall morticians brag of shadows cast
across your path. My words shall grow your soul.
Mankind may gasp and gawp, unstoppably:
I sign this gift, your immortality.
© Timothy Adès
Trisha Broomfield writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and unfinished crime novels. Her early influences include the Liverpool poets, Ted Hughes and Thomas Hardy. She creates ceramic figures which threaten to take over the house, produces bizarre drawings, which she sells as cards, and has recently taken up life drawing.
Trisha was born in Lincolnshire and lived in Australia as a child, travelling with her family by boat through the Suez Canal to and from Down Under. Now she lives in Surrey with her husband and shares an irascible cat. Some of her poems have been published in the Welsh literary magazine Roundyhouse. Her poems were highly commended in the Brian Dempsey Memorial Competition 2017 and two were published in the anthology, Poems to Keep.
Here is the title poem from Trisha's first pamphlet of poetry, which we published in 2016.
The Equator and other Disappointments
They told me if I watched the water as we crossed the Equator It would
Flow the opposite way
Down the plughole but it didn’t
They told me if I was good when I had my tonsils out I could have ice cream
But they brought me junket
Have you any idea how that tastes?
They told me if I ate the skin from the fish
I would be brainy
They told me if I ate all the crusts from my toast I would have curly hair
And if I finished my supper
there would be no starving children in the world
© Trisha Broomfield
Richard Sellwood lives in Surrey. He won the Dempsey & Windle Poetry Competition in 2016 and had poems highly commended in the Brian Dempsey Memorial Prize competition in 2017 and published in the anthology, POEMS TO KEEP.
Richard has been reading poetry by John Burnside, Alice Oswald, Jorie Graham and Basil Bunting this year. He is currently working on a second fantasy novel, set in the Bronze Age.
Here is one of the poems from his pamphlet, THOR'S LIGHT, which Dempsey & Windle published in 2016.
Elegylight crossed the fields
dawngolden reflecting like
stained glass on the corn.
Out of its pen
is Michael's sacrifice,
gleaning his mortality
from the seeds he pecked
just a moment past;
husks like discarded shells
in this sundying moment,
lay scattered in the yard,
picked by farm sparrows
flitting beneath eves,
watching swallows feeling
the click of their songline,
ancient callings from
winds in the desert;
massing the skies,
pilots awaiting orders
whistling tuneless songs,
scanning the ploughed
passages from grave
to grave. Chaff in the
furrows: devil's spit
on the berries; out
of mist a spider's
web traps the plane,
ravelled in mesh
its guns broken antennae,
a wounded bird
marking its trail
one last time:
watching the archangel
in his line of sight,
as the sun sets,
a burnt umber blessing the land.
© Richard Sellwood