I'm currently scheduling readings for 2027 and would be delighted to hear from any lit/book fests in the U.K. that might be able to offer me a slot (see my contact details in my blogger profile).
I'm the Guest Poetry Editor for the October issue of The Madrid Review. Subs are open from now till 28/8, and I'd be delighted to read your poems (see the guidelines here).
I have a poem forthcoming in Ecoshock, an anthology of ecopoetry that's due to be published at the end of July by The Aftershock Review. The list of contributors is pretty impressive...
I'm delighted to feature today a poem by Stephen Claughton, taken from his pamphlet titled The 3-D Clock (Dempsey & Windle, 2020).The collection in question is thematic in nature, taking a mother's dementia as its point of departure, tackling some of life's big issues.
As a reader, I was especially drawn to this poem by the way Claughton's use of emotional restraint and understatement serves to heighten its resonance. Much of its power can be found in what remains unsaid by the two protagonists, left to be inferred by the reader. In fact, the supposed closure of the poem's seemingly circular ending opens out far beyond the limits of its lines. I do hope you enjoy it...!
Anomia
Even the words for ordinary,
everyday things are beginning to fail you now
like old labels that come unstuck
and get muddled beyond recall.
I do my best to help you,
as together we puzzle out
what exactly it is you mean.
It isn’t an easy task –
I’m not a mind-reader, Mum,
and you don’t give me much to go on.
Your periphrases, though accurate enough,
are somehow beside the point.
“The thing that holds water,” you say,
I lamely render as “jug”,
only to find it was “radiator” you meant.
There’s even a name for it,
a word for the loss of words,
though it isn’t one I use.
I work around it instead,
not wanting to worry you.
“It’s just old age,” I say,
“or because you’re feeling tired.”
You seem satisfied with that,
though you’ve seen it happen before –
to your sister and some of your friends.
We don’t need words for it,
this thing that’s bothering you;
we both know what it means.
Stephen Claughton
(first published in The Poetry Shed)
I have another new poem in The Spectator this week, using the closing minutes of a football match as a metaphor for old age. You can read it via this link.
Pleasantly surprised to find my name on the cover of The New Criterion. I wish I could show it to my parents...!
Here's my new article on Pablo García Casado's exceptional poetry. It's just been published in the latest issue of The Madrid Review...
