Kathryn Gray

❤️

On a ‘70s staircase, three children are gathered, with my cousin lovingly holding my hand, creating a warm and joyful scene.

53 tomorrow. We’ve come a long, long way together—little one, little me—through the bad carpets and the good.

Vintage black and white image of three individuals posing in front of a bar, evoking a nostalgic atmosphere.

Happy St. David’s Day from my late bampy (that’s a grandad, to the non-Welshies). Greatest publican South Wales ever knew. Here he is in The Greyhound (now The Llanfabon Inn), with two of his most wonderful, no-nonsense bar staff. A blessing on their beautiful memory.

The "Bookish Beck" blog likes "Dirt Rich" - you might like it too...

I love Dirt Rich!

Happy Birthday, Cal.

Buy this wonderful book!

Issue twenty-three — Bad Lilies

OUT NOW. Issue twenty-three: 'Wildfires' badlilies.uk/issue-twenty-three

Marty Supreme! What a film—fantastic.

Painting one’s toenails in January is an embrace of the coming spring.

I have a book out in a couple of months. It's only taken me 50 years to get there. So of course I have been mired in total lethargy as I regard its emergence on the event horizon.

Then I fixed a toilet lid yesterday and now I am all POETRY ACTION. #DIYDONTDIE

Confessions of a parish priest | The Observer In frank, witty, soul-searching poems, clergyman turned archaeologist Graeme Richardson draws on both strands of his career for his debut collection Dirt Rich

Very grateful for this generous and perceptive review from Jade Cuttle - observer.co.uk/culture/book...

That’s so lovely, Gareth. Thank you. HNY when it arrives!

Cover: Hollywood or Home by Kathryn Gray. Inspired by the film Sunset Boulevard, this is a Gloria Swanson pop portrait of her in a yellow dress walking out for her " Comeback " while her lover is drowning in the swimming pool. It's an oil and acrylic on canvas.

‘Tis the season to flog my poetry. Hollywood or Home—a Tinseltown of the mind. An unusual stocking filler for the cinephile in your life.

A lush green hillside overlooks a city skyline under a bright blue sky with wispy clouds, creating a serene and expansive view.

It’s my 28th year in London. In 1997, I turned up with a suitcase and no prospects but for the kind loan of a friend’s room while she was on the other side of the world. I thought it would likely be a momentary adventure. It became my life.

Here’s my favourite view.

Stand By Me — Deer YouTube video by wheel

So incredibly sad about Rob Reiner.

youtu.be/c9imHz0nBd4?...

While Trump is awful and very dangerous, a bit weird if he really said that. No greater criminal in history? I mean, really! At least 20 spring to mind as contenders off the top of my head.

Issues — Bad Lilies Issues of Bad Lilies, a digital poetry journal.

Amazing to me, but @andrewjamesneilson.bsky.social and I began @badlilies.bsky.social five years ago this coming spring. Five years! A lockdown project of optimism in a sad time. The world continues to disappoint. Bad Lilies keeps going. Explore our archive: www.badlilies.uk/issues

Issues — Bad Lilies Issues of Bad Lilies, a digital poetry journal.

Amazing to me, but @andrewjamesneilson.bsky.social and I began @badlilies.bsky.social five years ago this coming spring. Five years! A lockdown project of optimism in a sad time. The world continues to disappoint. Bad Lilies keeps going. Explore our archive: www.badlilies.uk/issues

Cover: The Colossus (also known as The Giant), is known in Spanish as El Coloso and also El Gigante (The Giant), El Pánico (The Panic) and La Tormenta (The Storm).[2] It is a painting traditionally attributed to Francisco de Goya that shows a giant in the centre of the canvas walking towards the left hand side of the picture. Mountains obscure his legs up to his thighs and clouds surround his body; the giant appears to be adopting an aggressive posture as he is holding one of his fists up at shoulder height. A dark valley containing a crowd of people and herds of cattle fleeing in all directions occupies the lower third of the painting. Legend: Queries on Death, the Infinite and Irrational Numbers

Here’s the latest poetry collection from John Stammers—his first in fifteen years.

Cover: The Colossus (also known as The Giant), is known in Spanish as El Coloso and also El Gigante (The Giant), El Pánico (The Panic) and La Tormenta (The Storm).[2] It is a painting traditionally attributed to Francisco de Goya that shows a giant in the centre of the canvas walking towards the left hand side of the picture. Mountains obscure his legs up to his thighs and clouds surround his body; the giant appears to be adopting an aggressive posture as he is holding one of his fists up at shoulder height. A dark valley containing a crowd of people and herds of cattle fleeing in all directions occupies the lower third of the painting. Legend: Queries on Death, the Infinite and Irrational Numbers

Here’s the latest poetry collection from John Stammers—his first in fifteen years.

Slightly, a Lost Boy Not that my heart is a stopped clock. Not that I even think of it at all, come to think of it. To tell the truth, I've long since regarded such things as more or less inevitable, particularly at three in the morning. There is, quite naturally, the perambulator to consider, and the smallness of you tumbling out of time so long ago, it might as well have been yesterday, for what that means... That sort of set-up can make you emotional. But my ways are logic, lately. I tell myself you are happy with your gift. I see you, there much pleasure in your flute, fashioned from a branch, and you are dancing! Dancing to your self! You are merry, and you are grateful for that tree. I don't think you are lonely, not especially. Truly—I don't. You have company. I don't think you give much thought to it, quite honestly. Still, I ponder the story, its radical departure. Maybe someone is sleeping on the job. I've thought of that. A lacuna in my heart, this morning night. The boys stay lost, but not really, not really when you come to think of it, which mostly I do not. It's just that it's three in the night of morning, and I do that hauntological thing with the pages. I guess this is what happens when you get to my age. Not that I miss you. Not even, Slightly.

Something strange happens to time when you get older. Over the past few days, it’s dawned on me that Roddy Lumsden has been dead six years this coming January. A poem I wrote about incorrigible Roddy—my early mentor, my friend, and then not my friend, but always my friend.

Issue twenty-two — Bad Lilies

We have now reached 2,500 unique visitors for our latest issue! Read it here: badlilies.uk/issue-twenty-two

Issue twenty-two — Bad Lilies

OUT NOW. Issue Twenty-Two: 'Ghost Ship'. badlilies.uk/issue-twenty-two

Austin Allen — Bad Lilies A poem by Austin Allen

Grateful to @kathryngray.bsky.social and @andrewjamesneilson.bsky.social for including my narrative poem "Dissent at the Temple of Gemini" in the new issue of Bad Lilies. Enjoy, and please do yourself the favor of reading the full issue!

www.badlilies.uk/austin-allen-2

We’ve a beautiful new @badlilies.bsky.social landing on Halloween! Expect poems that will stay with you at this time of the thin veil between worlds.

We’ve a beautiful new @badlilies.bsky.social landing on Halloween! Expect poems that will stay with you at this time of the thin veil between worlds.

Going on a Stevie Smith pilgrimage tomorrow. 🌸

Norma Desmond, yellow dress and heels. She has curlers in her hair and wields a cigarette. Drowned man to her left. Pure Sunset Boulevard.

Not been well all week. Feeling a bit better. But ailing, I never noted that Hollywood or Home turned the grand old age of two a few days ago. Thank you to everyone who bought her and who said nice things. I appreciate you hugely, more than you will know (and so does Norma Desmond!).

Songs Alvin Pleasant Carter was a man who knew— a pilgrim of the ultimate tune. A.P. at his counter, hefting over the sacks of brown sugar— years after the road, when he'd lost his Sara, and a man can measure the weight of forever... A.P. knew, stood in that general store, we never hear the songs we are listening for.

Sunday evening. A small poem from Hollywood or Home about art, lost love, and reversal of fortune. Guest stars the marvellous Alvin Pleasant Carter, a patriarch of the legendary Carter Family, who pioneered country music. I’ve never performed it at readings. Must fix that.