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Black Nore Review

@blacknorereview

Poetry and flash fiction from Portishead, North Somerset every Monday and Thursday - https://blacknorereview.wordpress.com. Edited by @benbanyard.bsky.social

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Latest posts by Black Nore Review @blacknorereview

Finola Scott – “Does time passing matter?” Does time passing matter? your hand at my waist, that kiss, your song echoing beneath the bridge life is not measured with scales but sweetness the frailty of fontanelles the soft of a dying mouse unlock the treasure of pipistrelles the tenacity of weeds that flare of those sparking stars light bouncing to us from millennia those promises sealed in hugs…

A beauty from Finola Scott today.

05.03.2026 05:23 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Irene Cunningham – “The Marriage” The Marriage He’d thrown himself into the sky pulling her with him rising up through a wind-tunnel of glassy blocks into streaking storm clouds. She dangled from his grasp elegantly showing off a spearmint-coloured slimline dress to advantage warm brown boots at perfect angles. His tie flapped away from his neck in wild excitement. Would the wind hold them like tourists…

Irene Cunningham is swept off her feet in today's poem. @ireneintheworld.bsky.social

02.03.2026 05:03 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Beth McDonough – “Untrumpeted” Untrumpeted On the day my father sent his left hearing aid to intercept the underworld, its mission was secret and unexplained. Should you ever wish to plot a course to those depths from East Renfrewshire, you must walk close by Giffnock Synagogue, then select some clay-heavy patch of slabbed earth, laid by nodded agreements of blackcurrant shrubs, under stumped up rhubarb leaves' shade.

Beth McDonough transforms the mundane loss of a hearing aid into something other-wordly.

26.02.2026 05:29 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Steve Babalola – “Pets R Us” Pets R Us Was he just another middle aged crank? Born or bred? But always content to be in the middle of something short lived. Someone, willing to sacrifice common sense on the holy altar of being right, was standing resolute, and all alone in the car park of Pets at Home. A freshly made placard in one hand and a tar infused fag in the other.

Steve Babalola visits the scene of a protest in today's poem.

23.02.2026 05:29 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Gordon Scapens – “Passage” Passage When the stone in my heart becomes a diamond for the fare, when the journey is an answer to my arrival’s question, when the past is overtaken with its different eyes, when missed chances queue to hitch a lift, when the route outmanoeuvres obstacles in my baggage, when the distance travelled waits for me to catch up, when the destination…

Today's featured poet is Gordon Scapens.

19.02.2026 05:42 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Peter J Donnelly – “Evening Drive” Evening Drive We never went out in the car after tea, except occasionally to Presto’s. I asked where we were going of course. To playschool said my mother, it never occurring to me that All Saints church hall had any other function than that. I didn’t question why until she got back, sat with us while my dad went in,

Peter J Donnelly's first brush with the democratic process is the subject of today's poem. @pj-donnelly.bsky.social

16.02.2026 05:19 👍 1 🔁 1 💬 0 📌 0
Gary Jude – “Gerda” Gerda I don’t come from a hot south of horses and colourful houses. Police sirens don’t wail like those in French New Wave cinema. My accent doesn’t make anyone think talk of politics and sex in cafès, and I can’t skin and gut a hare, as you do, without gagging. But I do cook with herbs, garlic and wine. Ginger and chillies too.

Today's featured poet is Gary Jude.

12.02.2026 05:28 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Jim Paterson – “Lying Time” Lying Time The wage packet re-sealed and the money long spent, scrawled in my eighteen-year-old hand: “First Payline 12/07/74” after a week’s lying time. Somewhere under the North Seabed, the steel pipes I helped make that summer. I am probably still here too, still daft, still standing, still no idea where I’ll be months ahead, leaving, taking regrets with me,

Jim Paterson looks back in his poem today.

09.02.2026 05:28 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Phil Wood – “Port Talbot, Steelworks” Port Talbot, Steelworks Here, she heard them on this hill above her childhood town. A fill of youthful light to dart and wink through drizzle days. The sulphur stink! her lover said. A blade in his throat, no honeyed themes in what he spoke. Let him croak. Hear the girlies swear, the flare of them, the schemes they share. Phil Wood was born in Wales. His lifestyle interests include learning German and painting in watercolours or acrylics. His most recent published poetry can be read in Kleksograph.

We're in industrial South Wales today, courtesy of Phil Wood.

05.02.2026 05:12 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
David Hanlon – “Settled” Settled Due to the storm and weather warnings, due to the cancelled trains, I thought I’d have a tough time getting to work. Somehow, I did not. My train arrived on time, and as I settled into my window seat, I watched the scenery pass by. Houses, hills, fields, and fences— all different, yet all covered in magical frost and snow.

A magical, bitter-sweet love poem from David Hanlon today. @vespertine4.bsky.social

02.02.2026 05:33 👍 3 🔁 2 💬 0 📌 0
Jeff Skinner – two poems Train Poem Hook me like the man or woman who's smile's shy of meaning who gets off at London Bridge and doesn't look back. Never do we see each other quite this way again you in the rush hour me almost gone * Dunfermline Rain im John Burnside ...though yes, there is a meadow afterward you said to Lucie in your elegy…

Two impactful little poems from Jeff Skinner today.

29.01.2026 05:07 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Gwil James Thomas – “Smothered with Kewpie” Smothered with Kewpie Thrust into my path – imagining all the places we could go together, as you steadily grow on my mind, whilst I ignore all the red lights of overindulgence – like falling in love with the wrong person all over again, right till the last drop. Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician. He lives in Bristol, England, but has also lived in London, Brighton and Spain.

Japanese mayonnaise gets an unlikely namecheck in today's poem from Gwil James Thomas.

26.01.2026 05:07 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Paul Stephenson – two poems Hallerbos We never made it to the bluebells though the bluebells were only a ten-minute train ride away. We talked about the bluebells and the free bus and the free bikes from outside the station but never made the journey. We had to catch them now or miss them, the bluebells in Halle, carpeting the forest floor. * Irritable Deals…

Two poems of parting today from Paul Stephenson.

22.01.2026 05:07 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
J.M. Summers – “The Body” The Body Hidden among the mourning trees, picked clean but for the coat to keep it warm against frosts as brittle as the leaves fallen underfoot, marking our long descent into darkness, lending dignity to the unmarked demise; eyes glazed, blind to the milky light of morning's sun breaking through the clouds clothing the hillside, deaf too to the haunted cry of the buzzard circling…

Today's poem comes courtesy of J.M. Summers. @jon-summers.bsky.social

19.01.2026 05:50 👍 1 🔁 1 💬 0 📌 1
Mark Valentine – “Summer Harbour” Summer Harbour Flower shops flaunt blue irises. On café tables, dead matches, spent stubs. A tango record crackles. The old men with November faces pore over greasy playing cards. In a back room is the rattle of dice. Pigeons on wrought-iron balconies blink at the blue sea; clanking crates sway drowsily from the crane’s chains. Mark Valentine is from Northampton and now lives in Yorkshire, near the Leeds-Liverpool canal.

Mark Valentine gives us a welcome glimpse of summer in today's poem.

15.01.2026 17:04 👍 1 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Peter Kenny – “Viagra from Vancouver” Viagra from Vancouver I find myself perplexed by Gwen’s email: Pete, wouldn’t you like a giant penis? I stay skeptical, of course—for despite her solemn promise to haunt me non-stop, I’ve had no word in thirty years. But this? Fretting about my membrum virile? I’d expect Nan to leer in my mirror, tongue out, a joke-shop dagger through her head.

Peter Kenny contemplates a pharmaceutical offer in today's poem. @peter-kenny.bsky.social @planetpoetry.bsky.social

12.01.2026 05:07 👍 4 🔁 2 💬 0 📌 0
Greg Freeman – “The Camping Coach” The Camping Coach Our mother always dreamed we would play in the same team. As we scuffled at football in the gravel in matching shirts and shorts we waved to the driver and fireman. Our very own train-set: tank engine, two coaches, single track, every two hours, up towards the junction, or down to the estuary and Budleigh Salterton. I’d walk to the village shop for the Mirror,

Reminiscences from a childhood in Devon from Greg Freeman today. @gregfreemanpoet.bsky.social

08.01.2026 05:03 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Marion McCready – “Apples” Apples My garden tree weighed down by apple moons. The crisp satellites bloom in space polished reddish-green, chosen fruits, soft as the roof of your mouth (touch it with your tongue). My apples mimic the Grain Moon, the Lynx Moon. Each side of apple bears a haunted face like the Corleck Head. The apples hang mob-heavy in their waxing flesh…

Marion McCready is our first featured poet of 2026. @marionmccreadypoet.bsky.social

05.01.2026 06:12 👍 3 🔁 1 💬 0 📌 1
Craig Dobson – “Wrong Ground” Wrong Ground So, take me back to be him then, drawn to where I played. See the place emerge, as he would, from trees and rain – the roundabout’s dizzying, the see-saw ride, excitement’s glimpsing slide, the tempting swings giving out, giving in. And, coming through the trees, along the paths, more of those whose blood spins his to these returns…

Playtime's over in today's poem from Craig Dobson.

18.12.2025 05:21 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Joseph Long – “First Day Back” First Day Back Roll me up in a carpet – oatmeal, Berber twist. Hide me in some wind-swept, mid-west crawl space. Anywhere but here, in this fully furnished stent; injecting me into this chill, collage city. At this moment, I am considering retiring from my room. From their concierged rooms where man is judged by his final failure. I'm thinking of leaving this week, this year behind –

A richly evocative poem of urban ennui from Joseph Long today.

15.12.2025 05:33 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Stuart Pickford – “Circle” Circle For Glen Late October and the weather’s trying everything: Martindale ghost-white in hail, fields frozen in seconds of winter before the sun pulls through wet greens. We’d pitched up on the shore of Ullswater, our mercies not even small: tins of beer, deck chairs in the tent, talking nonsense as always, watching the cloud-smudged fells. Next morning, your children appear outside,

We're in the great outdoors today in Stuart Pickford's evocative poem.

11.12.2025 05:10 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Claire Booker – “Dieu et Mon Droit” Dieu et Mon Droit Two of us at least are gagging for a fag after three hours locked in the jury room on tepid tap water. It all hangs on a word. I’ve slipped the Judge a note asking her to define terms. She claims sure is a word we’re all familiar with. We must sharpen our minds to ice picks, breathe the clean air…

Claire Booker is deliberating in today's poem. @clairebooker.bsky.social

08.12.2025 17:02 👍 2 🔁 1 💬 0 📌 0
Maurice Devitt – “One Day You’ll Be Cool” One Day You’ll Be Cool* for Brian and Terry Smyth I’m watching that scene from Almost Famous – Anita encouraging her younger brother to look under your bed, it’ll set you free. He retrieves a tartan leatherette bag, unzips it to reveal a treasure trove of LPs, and I’m back in La Salle Drive, that day in 1971, your red setter, Rua, padding impatiently…

Maurice Devitt might not have returned the four seminal albums lent to him by his cousins in today's poem, but they hold a special place in his heart.

04.12.2025 05:11 👍 2 🔁 2 💬 0 📌 0
Pam Thomson – “From Sheffield to Huddersfield, early May” From Sheffield to Huddersfield, early May ...................Three whistles and we’re moving, past the electrical works, yellow weeds— or flowers? I’m being pulled ...through this mysterious ordinary world. ......Sheffield breaks open its graffiti tags, blue and silver code I can’t crack. ...................I’ve cleared the window of mist. ...So many greens, like over-cooked spring cabbage, weighed-down trees. On Dodworth platform ........where Passengers must not cross the line…

We're journeying through Yorkshire in Pam Thompson's poem today. @pamthompson240.bsky.social

01.12.2025 05:18 👍 3 🔁 3 💬 1 📌 0
Colette Coen – “In the Beginning” In the Beginning She’d run out of words, or someone had stolen them. She looked everywhere – supermarket, garden, church. Others could access them, reading labels, instructions or prayers, but to her they were elusive. She stopped people in the street, but they turned away from her clasped hands and desperate, silent pleas. Just as she thought she couldn’t go on, a D came tumbling towards her.

An inventive piece of flash fiction today from Colette Coen. @colettecoen.bsky.social

27.11.2025 05:25 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
John Curry – “Kingfisher” Kingfisher Wait— Hush. Still as the bones beneath the silt, The Don breathes cold whispers. Willow stoops like an old crone, Fingers grazing the river's mirror. Combing for ghosts in its sheen. There— Did you see it? A jagged flash, a shard of sapphire— Kingfisher. Sky splinters against marsh marigold and moss, Breaking the hush with its blaze. Your careless foot strikes a brittle fallen alder limb—

John Curry encounters an elusive avian friend in today's poem.

24.11.2025 05:04 👍 1 🔁 0 💬 1 📌 0
Robin Lindsay Wilson – two poems Primary Colours Alison, my pleasure is taking part, with a pair of rounded scissors and scraps of Christmas paper. Here I am, sun blue and colour fast, ready for instruction. You never waste a shred of those cutout clouds or hills, they fold into shiny children and dance on tinfoil waves. A fuzzy-felt square builds a big bright house, for see-through tissue-paper lives…

Two today from Robin Lindsay Wilson.

20.11.2025 05:00 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Julie Hogg – “Agent Barbering” Agent Barbering It’s about this, downtown humanism, cutting edge modernity, hell yeah, salvaged Springs’ palm, own climatic zoned Skiathos Bay courtyard or vocal booth circa Abbey Road, Oasis play the Select-O-Matic 200, Cilla, vogue Bermuda’s, all seasons’ beanies, midsummer skull bandana – Alfie loving Foffa’s hands misting, trimming, tapering quiffs with powdered steel, avant-garde left ear hearing pints pouring at The Whistle,

Julie Hogg is today's featured poet.

17.11.2025 05:04 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Rebecca Gethin – “Subterranean” Subterranean We know this now: everywhere tiny threads of hylae running after one another like a giant underground plant, the largest one known being 10km wide. To grow well, a sapling’s roots must reach into this mycorrhizal network. Even if you get down on your knees and put your ear to the ground you’ll never hear the slow gulp of decay,

Rebecca Gethin puts QI to shame in today's intriguing poem. @rgethin.bsky.social

13.11.2025 05:11 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0
Fokkina McDonnell – “Speaking with the palaeontologist” Speaking with the palaeontologist after Lizzie Hawkins was nearly impossible: he was half-hidden, curled up and surrounded by layered samples, a palisade of aged earth. I appointed myself as his research assistant, proofread grant applications, sprinkled adjectives, added a thousand here and there. He was as moody as most men, his weathervane creaked. His interest in football, horseracing reduced to a fixation…

Fokkina McDonnell gets up close and personal with a man of science in today's poem.

10.11.2025 05:18 👍 0 🔁 0 💬 0 📌 0