A new poem, ‘North Dean’, appears in the autumn 2018 edition of Message in a Bottle magazine: ‘The natural world is very much James Kilner’s metier and he writes of landscape so well’ – Fiona Sinclair, Editor, Message in a Bottle. Take a look.
from North Dean
A gust of wind, I swing wide the door,
the stairs take my breath,
a giant stride
for little legs.
I turn towards the room where I slept,
the cold metal of the threshold strip,
the towering white wooden door
and, at eye level, the oval handle…
Persephone is my second book of poems. It is available from my publisher Lapwing or please send an email to enquire.
‘This is a fine collection that revisits the concept of our connections to the seasons. It does well to pin the Persephone myth onto truths about the light and shade in the human experience’ – Fiona Sinclair. Read her review.
Strips of cloud
drawn to the ends of the Earth
where the sun lies,
a tractor’s twin spotlights
roaming the fading field,
bringing home a harvest
waylaid by the sun’s recalcitrance.
The Earth is turning
its back on the sun:
we know we have lost her…
Frequencies of Light is my first book of poems. Watch and listen to readings here.
‘This is a collection of poems that seem effortless but are technically skilful and a linguistic joy to read.’ The Lake
‘Who said journalists don’t have poetry in their souls? … (His) words will echo with anyone who has ever lost or missed a loved one’. The Press, York
A ‘very good book … with plenty to touch a chord with North East readers.’ The Journal, Newcastle
You can order a copy from my publisher, Lapwing, or please send an email to enquire.
from Driving into England
at Carter Bar
a last look back
down into Scotland
muted colours of hillocks
faded by retreating summer
mixing with yellows
endless plains of harvested land laid out against the horizon
somewhere near Edinburgh.
Ahead is England
a fell blackened by heather
and by the declining October sun
brilliant behind Northumbrian summits
where the wind blows you hollow
like a corpse caught on barbed wire;
the sight of a rolled hay bale represents
a relief from something oppressive…