Tag Archives: Ian O’Brien

Pantomimes 

Posted on September 24, 2017 by Ian O'Brien

It was an illusion, walking home afterwards, eyes wild wet. The moon was large and Hollywood yellow and beneath this, in a bus shelter, two teens kiss, lit by the shelter light but from this angle, from Sorrow Hill, I … Continue reading →

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Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

Posted on July 9, 2016 by Ian O'Brien

The ghost of William Shakespeare to a pupil who accidentally conjures him whilst frantically writing an essay at 3 o’clock in the morning: “Don’t wrap me up in the chains of your poxy writing frames or pick at my remains … Continue reading →

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Generator

Posted on April 4, 2015 by Ian O'Brien

Completely forgot about this poem until out and about walking today. The poem was published in Other Poetry way back in 2003. It’s a bit pretentious but I still like the imagery and feel of it.       

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Removals

Posted on March 25, 2015 by Ian O'Brien

12 months ago today I lost my best friend, Suzy, to breast cancer. Recently, I drove past her old house and was sad to see her car gone from the space where it used to be, the empty house unlit. … Continue reading →

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The Witch

Posted on January 31, 2015 by Ian O'Brien
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There Is A Light

Posted on December 6, 2014 by Ian O'Brien

Just listened to Mike Garry talking about the Smiths on Radio 4 (check out his blog godisamanc.wordpress.com.) Got me thinking about the first time I heard the Smiths. Just left this response on Mike’s page: I don’t know what I’m … Continue reading →

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Where You Are (In Memoriam: Robert Stuart 1924-2012)

Posted on February 2, 2014 by Ian O'Brien

  When my granddad died, I wanted to write something for him, but couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come. When we took the train to Newcastle to scatter his ashes in the Tyne, I wanted to say something, but couldn’t. This … Continue reading →

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Sunlight (Eston Street): A poem for Keith Bennett

Posted on December 27, 2013 by Ian O'Brien

For the post-war, post-1960s, post-modern, post-Tony Wilson, post-Smiths, post-everything generation, Manchester’s past is a projection, a kind of grim nostalgia, stitched together in song lyrics and cult films, stills of Coronation Street and Rita Tushingham. The early 1960s is black … Continue reading →

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Butcher Son

Posted on August 13, 2013 by Ian O'Brien

A thick sea curdles as, from within the steel, a bladed sea of calls cranes and lifts, out across mud, up walls, to the curtained ear. His white coat spattered with blood dawn tears. A flinching twist, the waking kiss … Continue reading →

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Hands Under Water

Posted on July 14, 2013 by Ian O'Brien

Fireworks in the night sky Light up darkened cloud. There’s a boy on the coastline. Black waves will lift you down. Hands move under water; Let go of light and sound. Dust moves on forever. Answers that were never found. … Continue reading →

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