Published January 1999
Drums At New Brighton
A new collection of poetry by
Jim Bennett
Published in the U.K. by Starwood Publishing
under the sponsorship of
The Seaside Heritage Trust
In this new collection of poetry, jim Bennett explores the
relationship between people and the places they inhabit, and the effects of
modern life in distancing them from the natural world.
Drums At New Brighton is an abstract from Painting On Sand, a full
collection of poetry due in September 1999
What the critics said about "Lessons and Love", Jim Bennett's 1996-7
Poetry Tour
"Amazing images, a real mix of the traditional and the modern." Signpost
Christian
Festival Magazine
"Great stuff... Jim Bennett is an original." Poetry House Mag
"A new name a new style... it is "New Metaphysical"... it is a style that
deserves to be
read widely." John Leyard
Advance copies of Drums At New Brighton can be ordered from;
GFK Enterprises,
39 Oransay Close, Sycamore Grove, Gt Billing,
Northampton, NN3 9HF
£3.50 includes the cost of p&p (Overseas £4.75)
Past Time - from _ Drums at New Brighton
We drove along the lanes that Wordsworth walked
Past lakes whipped into white tipped waves,
Past fields over which he strode for love,
Past gift shops, flower shops, tea shops.
Past bookshops selling the collected works.
Past his home, his other home and hers.
Then to Dove Cottage and the obligatory tour,
To see the things he lived with,
To hear the sound of creaking beams he heard.
To smell the plaster, feel the wooden floor.
To see a pen he wrote with
And a letter written at this desk.
But in it all no sign of him
Just spores left in his wake
He has gone, heaved anchor sailed off
To find Arcadia.
Arrived home past nine,
Past time collating memories.
Then found him lurking in a poem.
Leasow Beach - From _Drums At New Brighton_
Wings frozen in rigor flight
Soaring into death
Elegance hidden by black tar
The silent gull lies on the sand
Once it lay on the thermals of the world
Uplifted by invisible hands
Shaping the air with each wing sweep
As it sculled across the sky
But now encased in death
Its sightless eyes, and beak, wide
Its final shriek locked in a swollen throat
It lies stiff and cold on Leasow Beach
We came, as we often do, to find shells,
See the pool life, rest our feet on drying sand
Instead, we found the gull,
A metaphor mummified by waist.
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