Boy Running

By Paul Henry

An artful collection of poems by noted Welsh poet Paul Henry, Boy Running is the first to follow his widely praised The Brittle Sea. A singer-songwriter, Henry is known for his precise lyricism, intimate tone, and a cast of characters inspired by his childhood by the sea in Aberystwyth, West Wales. The lyrical beauty of the poems will appeal to those who enjoy folk music, and anyone going through divorce will empathize with the poet/protagonist of the poems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seren
• Release date: Aug 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781781722275

Paul Henry

Paul Henry is a poet and songwriter. Since receiving an Eric Gregory Award he’s published nine books of poetry with Seren, including The Brittle Sea: New and Selected Poems, published in India as The Black Guitar. Originally from Aberystwyth, Paul has worked extensively in education and the media, performing his poems and songs at literary and music festivals in Europe, Asia and the USA. Described as “a poet’s poet” by the late U.A. Fanthorpe, co-readers have included Vikram Seth, Paul Muldoon, Carol Ann Duffy and Don Paterson. He’s also been a featured poet on BBC Radio 4’s Poetry Please. 

Book preview

Wind’

I

Studio Flat

Usk

So we’ve moved out of the years.

I am finally back upstream

and, but for their holiday grins

on every bookcase, the boys

were never born, it was a dream.

Here is where my past begins

in a garret beside a bridge,

woken by birds pecking moss

from the dark.The river’s clear.

It will not turn to sludge

till it reaches you and the mess

of streets I hated, endured

only because you were there.

My windows are full of leaves.

There are mountains in my skylight.

Perhaps you would like it here.

It is the same river – it moves,

perhaps, towards the same light.

Moving In

I cannot see the flowers at my feet...

Keats – ‘Ode to a Nightingale.’

They look and wonder what they’re doing here,

those who’ve moved with me across the years –

Dylan Thomas, Picasso, Nightingale Ann,

Goble, David Trevorrow, young Fanny Brawne...

all strewn about this flat where I hide.

(Did I dream, last night, of a tide

laying its artefacts on sand?) They stare

but do not judge, or change, or care.

Dylan’s just opened Manhattan’s cigar box.

‘Try one,’ he says, ‘before you die. Fuck books.’

Pablo’s still pushing against his pane.

He listens for a nightingale in vain.

Goble tilts back in his top hat.

He and Trevorrow could not have shared a flat

but I loved them both, and Fanny Brawne.

There are crows on my roof.The light has gone.

Studio Flat

Socks hang like bats from a skylight.

They may be dry in time for the moon.

The camp site owner’s water-feature

drains more blood from the sun.

Cars queue for the narrow bridge.

Birds catch their pulses and fly.

I am suddenly old.What’s an attic

but a bungalow in the sky.

And where are you, my sons?

I heard your voices in the bells

of snowdrops pulled by the wind.