Mary Pomfret writes a lyrical response to the song Fairytale Of New York in the wake of the death of Shane McGowan.
I couldn’t determine his age. Maybe thirty. Maybe sixty. Weathered, muscled and lean.
Saturday night hot and dark/lonely widow sits outside/on front verandah no lights on
Here I am sitting on one side of the dance floor with the other women; the men cluster together on the opposite side. I am waiting for a man to give me a cabeceo – this is a ritual where a man eyeballs a woman and imperceptibly nods his head.
A tall menacing figure quietly entered the room. “I told you to leave the girls alone.”
At the youthful age of 39 poet Michael Leach find teenage memories in a Newcastle museum.
Music is always so much more than just music. It’s quite simply everything.
I had to choose well. Finally, my polished fingers landed on a yellow case, MPB Classics, and picked track nine.
I heard a squeak from the seat beside me and looked across. Jen is pressed back in the burgundy velvet, eyes wide, a look of absolute horror on her face.
If you listened hard enough, you could almost hear the echoes of Grace Slick wailing her backup vocals in her white tasseled top and her funked out hair.