PHILIP BURTON

Bacup, Lancs, UK

 

 

In the last twenty years Philip has been very widely published in literary magazines – three hundred and sixty three of his poems in total, including editions of PN Review and Stand, as well as in adult anthologies and in ten anthologies for children. He has won many awards, including First prizes in the Teignmouth,The Lancaster Litfest, theSentinel, and also the Star Magazine humorous poetry competition.

In 2019, Philip concurrently held four First prizes in national or international poetry competitions: the National Arts Centre Jack Clemo poetry competition 2019, the Horwich Writers Hate Crime Awareness poetry competition 2018, the Sandwich (Kent) Poet of the Year award, 2018, and the BARN OWL TRUST poetry competition, 2017. Philip also won Third prize in the 2019 Hastings poetry competition. He has twice had poems chosen for Hammond House poetry anthologies.

Two Poems    Noticing     Writers Lock

Poem written on 27th April 2020

 

Noticing                      

 

Looking north – cork-faced notices –

a poem by a dear son:

This city will not sleep till its

outstretched fingers meet. He’s in Beijing.

Nearby is a warning – don’t park

on the yellow zig zag lines.

 

with which our Elsie won a poster prize –

Cheshire Constabulary –

an offending vehicle, crossed out, excised.

Nearby, a postcard collage –

a week’s worth of Isle of White views

as it was, is now – by and large.

 

Randoms of life, pinned

Victorian butterflies.

Only in lockdown they interlock.

Some worlds grow: makers of masks.

Some things have slowed: cars creep

onto the yellow. Few kids about

 

and police are distancing in town.

Seaside Ventnor, fluttering in the sun,

sees its tiny income drown.

Goliath had three pebbles

on his fireside sill. Resting from fights

he saw them as a beach.

 

 

 

Bacup, Lancashire on Monday 18th May 2020.

 

WRITER’S LOCK     

 

In normal times

this attempted poem would hide –

isolate – lock off – rot among rafters –

lofty – deep in rock wool

yet close enough

to take the rise out of me

and my struggle.

 

I’d shrug, knock off

the uphill quest

roar across town in my Kia

to see a fan about a hog

not stay on task, dismantle the ceiling,

rummage the wad

release the poem.

 

Cabin fever hits. The rustic homestead

of pine and pot-belly stove

strips naked. Dance in the snow.

Look up. There’s no roof –

no sanctuary for words.

Poems are slid free

into open pockets.