INDIGO DREAMS PUBLISHING LTD
Andy Brown is Professor of English & Creative Writing at Exeter University and widely-known as a poet and writing tutor. His many poetry books include Casket (Shearsman 2019); Bloodlines (Worple, 2018); Exurbia (Worple, 2014); The Fool and the Physician (Salt, 2012); Goose Music (with John Burnside, (Salt, 2008) and Fall of the Rebel Angels: Poems 1996-2006 (Salt, 2006), among others. He co-edited A Body of Work: an anthology of poetry and medicine (Bloomsbury, 2016) and edited The Writing Occurs As Song: a Kelvin Corcoran reader (Shearsman, 2015).
Marc Woodward’s chapbook A Fright of Jays was published by Maquette Press in 2015 and his first full collection, Hide Songs, by Green Bottle Press in 2018. He has published poems in a wide variety of magazines, anthologies and websites and has performed his work regularly. He is also a highly respected musician and an internationally known mandolin player.
Marc Woodward and Andy Brown regularly perform live music together
as The SKPs.
138 x 216mm
£10.00 + P&P UK
The Tin Lodes
Andy Brown & Marc Woodward
'The Tin Lodes' is a collaboration between two poets living around the Teign estuary in South Devon.
To the west lies Dartmoor and the source of the river;
to the east: the coast and the English Channel.
These poems distill the natural, human and industrial history of the area and consider the many anonymous lives that have inhabited it.
This is a sympathetic and enlightening study which places a beautiful region in a global context,
ringing with lyricism.
THE SURFER KING
This is my last request of those I love:
I’m wiped out now – carry me to the cove,
not on my surfboard, but a wicker chair,
then point me at the sea and leave me there.
I’ll sit and count each fabled seventh wave
then gather beach glass washed from mermaids’ graves
with which I’ll open up my arteries
and let my weary blood flow to the sea.
Poseidon falling from Atlantic highs
come take my heart for a halibut’s eye.
Let my rib cage form a sieve of baleen
to skim all plastic, leave the oceans clean.
Take my demented brain for isinglass.
Repurpose me. This is my wish. My last.
THE OLD BOATYARD
He measured out the working day in tea breaks,
his rambling dock piled high with tools and motors;
a flock of anchors stacked against the wall;
jerry cans of two-stroke, engine oil;
discarded prop-shafts, boss caps and, to one side,
rusting under tarps beneath the windows,
their panes obscured by webs and smuts of grease…
the deconstructed heart of some old cruiser.
Work could always wait until the tea
had brewed – the biscuits dunked – then he would dig
his boots and spanner out and disappear
inside a hull, to jump start the machine.
Now there’s a prefab; a steel & glass cabin.
Some new bloke with a clipboard and a rota.
The levee broke and the flatlands flooded
up to the farmhouse door. A cow swam by
and all manner of stuff floated round.
For six green months she’d sat in her room,
looked out across the constant meadows,
watched cattle come and go, taking their turn,
saw seagulls stamping turf to summon worms.
The rooks grew feather trousers, balding beaks,
while slowly the levee was springing leaks,
bulging for a thunderstorm to snap.
For all that time her mind was parched
and to slake some kind of thirst she lay
down in a deluge of poor-boy music.
Stolen blues and songs of desolation.
Now the levee had burst she might move on.
When the water drained. She was just dry,
Hardtack dry. In need of rehydration.
At low tide
a wide sandbank
rises in the river.
A flat Salty
where gulls mine
and the oystercatchers’ skirl
sails the water.
On cockle-bucket days
we canoe to this island
beach our boats and stay
on the wave-slapped sand
until the new tide washes us away.
When the ayot breaches
on black-glass nights
it cracks the moon’s mirror
into stippled lace.
Lost and reclaimed,
midnight to noon,
this sea-given land,
this land in the call of the moon.
Cover design from an original painting
‘Woods above the River Teign, at Fingle Bridge’
by James Tatum. Copyright, James Tatum, SWAc www.jamestatumartist.com