The North 33 puts to the test our claim that we are more concerned with the poem than the poet (all 33 of them!): all the poems appear anonymously, though there is a key at the back for the faint-hearted.
So far, response from readers has been favourable; the poems get read more closely, and there are interesting surprises to be had.
There are also reviews, four articles on the poetry of Tom Raworth, and Keith Jafrate's powerful and moving tribute to Ken Smith, plus the usual tasty mix of 'Blind Criticism', 'Poets I Go back To' and 'The Collection'.
Three poems by Geoff Hattersley
THAT WAS YOUR LIFE
I can’t believe how fast
it all goes by,
seven years from now I’ll be sitting round
and I’ll be fifty-three.
Sixteen years from now I’ll be sitting round
and I’ll be sixty-two.
Twenty years ago I was sitting round
and I was twenty-six.
STAND-IN
I’m standing in for a suicidal man,
doing his job. It’s boring, boring
like the life of a nail in a box.
I stand with folded arms and watch
a circular saw relentlessly spin.
wonder about this man I’ve not met.
I know his name, Lawrence, that he’s fifty-one,
suffering from chronic depression,
also a First-Aid man, also disliked.
It’s not a lot. No one talks about him.
Asking about him gets me nowhere.
‘Lawrence is Lawrence.’ That’s all they give me.
SUNRISE
A fat man
running from his bed
wearing only a vest
is a much less
beautiful sight.
So far, response from readers has been favourable; the poems get read more closely, and there are interesting surprises to be had.
There are also reviews, four articles on the poetry of Tom Raworth, and Keith Jafrate's powerful and moving tribute to Ken Smith, plus the usual tasty mix of 'Blind Criticism', 'Poets I Go back To' and 'The Collection'.
Three poems by Geoff Hattersley
THAT WAS YOUR LIFE
I can’t believe how fast
it all goes by,
seven years from now I’ll be sitting round
and I’ll be fifty-three.
Sixteen years from now I’ll be sitting round
and I’ll be sixty-two.
Twenty years ago I was sitting round
and I was twenty-six.
STAND-IN
I’m standing in for a suicidal man,
doing his job. It’s boring, boring
like the life of a nail in a box.
I stand with folded arms and watch
a circular saw relentlessly spin.
wonder about this man I’ve not met.
I know his name, Lawrence, that he’s fifty-one,
suffering from chronic depression,
also a First-Aid man, also disliked.
It’s not a lot. No one talks about him.
Asking about him gets me nowhere.
‘Lawrence is Lawrence.’ That’s all they give me.
SUNRISE
A fat man
running from his bed
wearing only a vest
is a much less
beautiful sight.