Wurmfest

Just arrived back from Wurmfest, Dublin. My camera refuses to work, so no photos this time I’m afraid. The photo above illustrates Coracle Press, which produces the most beautiful books I’ve ever seen. Also, it was quite a fleeting visit so I didn’t have a chance to look round the city. I did, however, meet lotsContinue reading “Wurmfest”

Deutschediary, a Tourist-Eye-View

Friday 20 Nov So, after a short but uncomfortable flight courtesy of Ryanair, Sarah and I land at Schonfeld Airport, Berlin. I have no German whatsoever, Sarah only a remnant of pre-GCSE vocab, so with some trepidation we manage to find our way into the city on one of those amazing double-decker trains you also see in France. Danke,Continue reading “Deutschediary, a Tourist-Eye-View”

Don’t let George introduce you

Tom Chivers drinks Thames water for breakfast. Tom Chivers has Liverpool Street Station flat packed in his bedroom. Tom Chivers left eye points at the city’s skyline; his right eye glares through cement into London’s sewers. Tom Chivers spews. Tom Chivers does not write for the Daily Telegraph. Tom Chivers leads undead criminals out ofContinue reading “Don’t let George introduce you”

The cities we walk through

My copy of the Autumn issue of Poetry London popped through the post today (Post, you say? Oh yeah – ) and lo and behold it contains a review – the first in print – of my book How To Build A City. I’m pretty ecstatic. That horribly talented Luke Kennard was tasked with perusingContinue reading “The cities we walk through”

Gettin’ ‘Pataphysical

Via reading about the Canadian poet Christian Bok, I found about the mysterious world of ‘Pataphysics. This is from the Wikipedia entry: ‘Pataphysics (French: ‘Pataphysique), a term coined by French writer Alfred Jarry (1873 – 1907), is a philosophy or pseudophilosophy dedicated to studying what lies beyond the realm of metaphysics. It is a parody ofContinue reading “Gettin’ ‘Pataphysical”

That was Yoruba

I get the fear, a lot. I often think I will never write anything of value ever again. Sometimes, I look back at what I’ve already written and consider it all worthless. Perhaps this is the writer’s lot, or perhaps just a particularly frustrating part of my own psyche. But if there’s one poem that I’veContinue reading “That was Yoruba”