Kester Brewin

Category: Poems

  • New Poem: Fuckers | London Riots

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    KB
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    Fuckers Are you the same, that yank dogs with choke leashes, and smash shops? Tight necks, chain nooses and restricted passage-ways: the dispossessed will tonight by force, take possession of dogs and televisions women and matches and, for a moment, burn brightly before waking, smouldering with no cause to kick the ashes of what time…

  • Tombs for Gods Who Once Spoke

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    KB
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    Tombs For Gods Who Once Spoke Temples, churches, mosques, you great piles of stones gathered against entropy, the fruits of hard labour, gathering moss in the rain and reaching, always reaching high to poke the underbelly of heaven. In all my travels, in all the steps I’ve climbed and candle-lit interiors, heavy with incense and…

  • The Curtain Moves…

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    KB
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    Reminded today of one of RS Thomas’ poems – someone I need to read more of again. This picture of flinging gravel at the sky’s window… all for that small movement of affirmation… Timely right now. Folk Tale Prayers like gravel Flung at the sky’s window, hoping to attract the loved one’s attention. But without…

  • God is Dead. Good.

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    KB
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    Dead Today, there is no hope. There is no resurrection, no looking forward to a Sunday which does not yet exist in even the wildest imaginations. There is no prayer no solace no point. God has died. It’s over. Finished. Give up. Go home. Return to work. The best you can do is carry on…

  • Eating Soft Centres at the Menin Gate…

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    KB
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    Went to Belgium Friday and Saturday for a tour of the World War 1 sites. It was fascinating… but troubling. Led by a retired solider with 30 years experience – much of it in pretty ‘hot’ active service – we toured battlefields and cemeteries around Belgium and France. We ended up at the Menin Gate…

  • Hipsters Don’t Dream Beyond East Croydon

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    KB
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    I had a dream last night. In full vivid colours. Groups of hipsters were walking in woods, by rivers. I wondered where they were, and how they got there, and was shown that this was their Sunday retreat, a place in the countryside, within reach of London, where there was walking, and birdsong. I went…