title

Filling_A_Space

Mike Bell

0
Followers
0
Plays
Filling_A_Space

Filling_A_Space

Mike Bell

0
Followers
0
Plays
OVERVIEWEPISODESYOU MAY ALSO LIKE

Details

About Us

This collection of daily written poems (over 1,200 as of Jan 2019) is my response to actual moments – conjured memories – and a fearful futureMy ambition is to publish 10,000 poems before I fall over with my current diagnosisMy poetry has been published in various formats and journals in the UK & USA.I am Poet-in-Residence for www.dangerousglobe.com – where my words are mainly political

Latest Episodes

THE AMBER LIGHT

EThe Amber Light by M.A. Bell I was caught staring at the amber light - the pause - the stop - the pushed brake before the collision - before the crush of border patrols upon the quick-shift of dream-skinned people in frail boats - none suited to such a rolling exodus - all ferried by the free-traders of prayers - they place a high price on such reveries And now I can feel the white-grinding of ice masses - of quickened melts - of glaciers' hurried abrasions on hills - that accelerated ablation of fixtures We will become the low-down migrants without any possessions - of land or time - as the seas rise to match the price-per-head of our negligence - then my children will cry and they will look at me - my poor pledges - and try not to believe that I too plundered - that their mother stole - the last lit chances - to stop the incited rise of sea levels and lies

1 MIN2019 JAN 16
Comments
THE AMBER LIGHT

West Pier

EWest Pier It may have been the 1970's it may have been Brighton but no one can confirm when my father saved a pier I was railing high navigating the gaps in the planks with a slender fear a cheap thrill as you walked above the sea and below under the bolted timber waves hypnotised the iron work the tang of salt over candyfloss was taken up like Friars Balm through your head As we passed the rides Dad saw smoke a daft smoulder rising up from the deck and we stopped bent to look for timbers for them burning but it was just a cigarette butt still curling PC883 as he was at work called out to an attendant and the fag was drowned with a red bucket marked 'FIRE'

1 MIN2018 JAN 10
Comments
West Pier

Special Measures

ESpecial Measures The text you sent was brief about that bastard the man who is paid to stare in teachers’ meetings This is how they keep you in your place that senior leadership team who throw daggers To deal with it you picture him squatting over a hole in the ground squit-struck still staring

21 s2017 SEP 28
Comments
Special Measures

St. Catherine’s Sniff

ESt. Catherine’s Sniff I do not need to Travel to California To be struck by the low reek From skunks, Those striped creatures Condemned by Jesuits as: ‘Not worthy to be the dogs of Pluto.’* Here that crepuscular Scavenger of the dusk Lifts its too-proud tail To squeeze A malodorous attack Upon us both: ‘The sin smelled by Saint Catherine Must have had the same vile odor’**. ‘Hold your nose,’ I suggest to my wife, But the foulness Is already there, Inside. * **Thwaites, Reuben Gold, ed. (1633–1634). The Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents. Travels and Explorations of the Jesuit Missionaries in New France 1610—1791. VI. Quebec.

35 s2017 SEP 28
Comments
St. Catherine’s Sniff

Trust Nobody

ETrust Nobody All politicians are liars, the priests are hypocrites, those estate agents sell boxes to meet their sales targets. Some doctors can’t be trusted, as your dentist drills for gold, the copper’s lot is valuable, cells ready to be sold. Kick the state-aid scroungers, the devious thieves of pounds, rip those leeches from the books and claim the moral ground. Austerity and denial are the liars’ superior sneer, as our kids fare worse than us with their future full of fear. Take on the Tory values of reduction and rebuke, give those holders of our fate a grip they’ll not reduce: And in a year we will hear the sound of ten years gone, the birthing screams of Austerity will be the loudest ones. As our kids reboot this island, set adrift by Brexiteers, they may ask of us, the voters, how did it come to this? https://mikebellpoems.com/2017/09/15/trust-nobody/

59 s2017 SEP 27
Comments
Trust Nobody

London

ELondon I looked up and suddenly it was London, the one of terraces showing their scabby arses to us, the London of bent sheds and blown clothes horses, of propped bikes and kids’ toys, and down in the ballast the litter of a thousand takeaways, whilst in the distance, above the patchwork of tiles, sit the erect spires and dreams of the ever-dead empire architects, when God and the trains ran on time. https://mikebellpoems.com/2017/09/12/london/

29 s2017 SEP 14
Comments
London

Eating Out

EEating Out He sits opposite me in MacDonald’s, my guest, for a moment, in his curled hands he holds this country’s recent history, not a minimum wage, no longer the gun for that war. We could be anywhere in this fast forward world, almost discarded. https://mikebellpoems.com

20 s2017 SEP 11
Comments
Eating Out

The Hunt

EThe Hunt SEPTEMBER 10, 2017 Hunt down the ragged fox, reduce our long-earned rights, set dogs upon the immigrants, ‘claimants should be denied‘: Praise The Mail’s honesty, share their Photoshop of lies, become a born-again Christian, to fight off Islamic cries. Bitch about striking workers, and ‘those sponging socialists‘, stand up for landed wankers whose shined brogues you long to kiss: Now you are a Conservative, voting for returning to the past, you will fight them on the beaches once our borders return to France. And as your vast shares in disaster push tides and break up skies, your pension fund will collapse, and your children will ask you: ‘Why?’

44 s2017 SEP 10
Comments
The Hunt

On Duke Street

EOn Duke St. SEPTEMBER 8, 2017 As I left the car park men hunkered down, in stain-greyed sleeping bags they bartered their pains: I passed a young bride outside a loud bar, she was laughing unaware of the rain: I found Duke Street, there for a book launch, a drink in a record store, to tip my glass to his. On my way to the bank the black sky collapsed, and on my return I gave the bride a soft kiss.

31 s2017 SEP 8
Comments
On Duke Street

Walk Back, Writing

EWalk Back, Writing MAY 15, 2016 I am wobbly, walking home, some late o’clock, a trespassed short-cut over dampened grass through this estate of town-planned care: No roads, paths only to lamp-lit porches as cars sit, misted, braked on verges. The street light’s spill, a dry amber pool, me, sense-struck by the waft of cuttings; I am re-routed, indirect, by a solitary tree, it’s stillness shocked, split, by a pigeon’s clap, it disturbed by my standing, or my breathing? The momentary effect, combined, then leading to my old flight to Israel – picked fruits, sun-browned, lawn-fronted homes, of sprinkler’s ticker-sound: Same lives parked, people air-conditioned, sat lamp-lit, the sole indication of life struck by us, flighted, but never leaving.

1 MIN2017 SEP 5
Comments
Walk Back, Writing

Latest Episodes

THE AMBER LIGHT

EThe Amber Light by M.A. Bell I was caught staring at the amber light - the pause - the stop - the pushed brake before the collision - before the crush of border patrols upon the quick-shift of dream-skinned people in frail boats - none suited to such a rolling exodus - all ferried by the free-traders of prayers - they place a high price on such reveries And now I can feel the white-grinding of ice masses - of quickened melts - of glaciers' hurried abrasions on hills - that accelerated ablation of fixtures We will become the low-down migrants without any possessions - of land or time - as the seas rise to match the price-per-head of our negligence - then my children will cry and they will look at me - my poor pledges - and try not to believe that I too plundered - that their mother stole - the last lit chances - to stop the incited rise of sea levels and lies

1 MIN2019 JAN 16
Comments
THE AMBER LIGHT

West Pier

EWest Pier It may have been the 1970's it may have been Brighton but no one can confirm when my father saved a pier I was railing high navigating the gaps in the planks with a slender fear a cheap thrill as you walked above the sea and below under the bolted timber waves hypnotised the iron work the tang of salt over candyfloss was taken up like Friars Balm through your head As we passed the rides Dad saw smoke a daft smoulder rising up from the deck and we stopped bent to look for timbers for them burning but it was just a cigarette butt still curling PC883 as he was at work called out to an attendant and the fag was drowned with a red bucket marked 'FIRE'

1 MIN2018 JAN 10
Comments
West Pier

Special Measures

ESpecial Measures The text you sent was brief about that bastard the man who is paid to stare in teachers’ meetings This is how they keep you in your place that senior leadership team who throw daggers To deal with it you picture him squatting over a hole in the ground squit-struck still staring

21 s2017 SEP 28
Comments
Special Measures

St. Catherine’s Sniff

ESt. Catherine’s Sniff I do not need to Travel to California To be struck by the low reek From skunks, Those striped creatures Condemned by Jesuits as: ‘Not worthy to be the dogs of Pluto.’* Here that crepuscular Scavenger of the dusk Lifts its too-proud tail To squeeze A malodorous attack Upon us both: ‘The sin smelled by Saint Catherine Must have had the same vile odor’**. ‘Hold your nose,’ I suggest to my wife, But the foulness Is already there, Inside. * **Thwaites, Reuben Gold, ed. (1633–1634). The Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents. Travels and Explorations of the Jesuit Missionaries in New France 1610—1791. VI. Quebec.

35 s2017 SEP 28
Comments
St. Catherine’s Sniff

Trust Nobody

ETrust Nobody All politicians are liars, the priests are hypocrites, those estate agents sell boxes to meet their sales targets. Some doctors can’t be trusted, as your dentist drills for gold, the copper’s lot is valuable, cells ready to be sold. Kick the state-aid scroungers, the devious thieves of pounds, rip those leeches from the books and claim the moral ground. Austerity and denial are the liars’ superior sneer, as our kids fare worse than us with their future full of fear. Take on the Tory values of reduction and rebuke, give those holders of our fate a grip they’ll not reduce: And in a year we will hear the sound of ten years gone, the birthing screams of Austerity will be the loudest ones. As our kids reboot this island, set adrift by Brexiteers, they may ask of us, the voters, how did it come to this? https://mikebellpoems.com/2017/09/15/trust-nobody/

59 s2017 SEP 27
Comments
Trust Nobody

London

ELondon I looked up and suddenly it was London, the one of terraces showing their scabby arses to us, the London of bent sheds and blown clothes horses, of propped bikes and kids’ toys, and down in the ballast the litter of a thousand takeaways, whilst in the distance, above the patchwork of tiles, sit the erect spires and dreams of the ever-dead empire architects, when God and the trains ran on time. https://mikebellpoems.com/2017/09/12/london/

29 s2017 SEP 14
Comments
London

Eating Out

EEating Out He sits opposite me in MacDonald’s, my guest, for a moment, in his curled hands he holds this country’s recent history, not a minimum wage, no longer the gun for that war. We could be anywhere in this fast forward world, almost discarded. https://mikebellpoems.com

20 s2017 SEP 11
Comments
Eating Out

The Hunt

EThe Hunt SEPTEMBER 10, 2017 Hunt down the ragged fox, reduce our long-earned rights, set dogs upon the immigrants, ‘claimants should be denied‘: Praise The Mail’s honesty, share their Photoshop of lies, become a born-again Christian, to fight off Islamic cries. Bitch about striking workers, and ‘those sponging socialists‘, stand up for landed wankers whose shined brogues you long to kiss: Now you are a Conservative, voting for returning to the past, you will fight them on the beaches once our borders return to France. And as your vast shares in disaster push tides and break up skies, your pension fund will collapse, and your children will ask you: ‘Why?’

44 s2017 SEP 10
Comments
The Hunt

On Duke Street

EOn Duke St. SEPTEMBER 8, 2017 As I left the car park men hunkered down, in stain-greyed sleeping bags they bartered their pains: I passed a young bride outside a loud bar, she was laughing unaware of the rain: I found Duke Street, there for a book launch, a drink in a record store, to tip my glass to his. On my way to the bank the black sky collapsed, and on my return I gave the bride a soft kiss.

31 s2017 SEP 8
Comments
On Duke Street

Walk Back, Writing

EWalk Back, Writing MAY 15, 2016 I am wobbly, walking home, some late o’clock, a trespassed short-cut over dampened grass through this estate of town-planned care: No roads, paths only to lamp-lit porches as cars sit, misted, braked on verges. The street light’s spill, a dry amber pool, me, sense-struck by the waft of cuttings; I am re-routed, indirect, by a solitary tree, it’s stillness shocked, split, by a pigeon’s clap, it disturbed by my standing, or my breathing? The momentary effect, combined, then leading to my old flight to Israel – picked fruits, sun-browned, lawn-fronted homes, of sprinkler’s ticker-sound: Same lives parked, people air-conditioned, sat lamp-lit, the sole indication of life struck by us, flighted, but never leaving.

1 MIN2017 SEP 5
Comments
Walk Back, Writing
hmly
himalayaプレミアムへようこそ聴き放題のオーディオブックをお楽しみください。