Biography of Brian Wake
Writer, publisher and promoter of poetry for many years.8 books of poetry published. Work broadcast and published internationally.
Organised poetry events and open mic sessions for Sefton Council in Merseyside. Readings have involved
most of the biggest names in contemporary poetry.
Most recent publication, 'Etcetera - new and selected poems.'
Read at poetry events and readings throughout the UK.
Brian Wake's Works:
Ghost Of Myselves (Second Aeon 1968)
Stars (Driftwood 1972)
Doing Nothing (Windows 1975)
Into Hiding (Headland 1992)
Unbuilding The Ark (Headland 1998)
Raining Upwards (Driftwood 2000)
So What ((Driftwood 2003)
Etcetera (Headland 2011)
Brian Wake Poems
At thirteen forty five our train begins to move, and, late to board, what seats remain face not toward but from. I shuffle off and fold my overcoat and sit, do battle with a newspaper to find a decent page and settle down
Goethe’s clock is ticking in an empty room. He sits quite motionless. All art, then peels a curling strip of wallpaper from a dilapidated wall, begins, he says, from what we know
There is nothing to be frightened of, she said, but come along and lie here on the bed. We spoke of country dancing and of how so very sad it was to have to dance alone,
He fills, with pink, polluted dregs, a yellow plastic can, and Lake Muhazi fills again with water bleeding through its pot-shot bullet holes.
Lazarus Meets The Press
What bothers me, said Lazarus, trapping flies in a glass, brushing dust from his shirt, what concerns me most of all,
Died at sea. The pylorus blocked-stop-suddenly-stop-kingsline-stop was latin we had never learned, was the ship that ran aground, a killer, caught too late, that swam in him. The shark’s unblinking eye and terrifying fin both shocking in the foaming depths.
Clutching At Straw
An unexamined life, thought Daniel, settling for the night on an eiderdown of lions, is not a life at all. I was hardly born until a little while ago,
Lucky for you, lucky for you I lived not in the glass house of my fathers, not in the bricks and mortar, in the mud and bullets
A good, Cain sighs, book, counting the steps, four, five, then resting, six, for a moment on the seventh in his cell, is quite, good morning sir, the purest essence of the human soul. I’m best inside, he says, best locked away.
Eighty seven or eight years old, she was, quite deaf and yet we’d bawl our names as though to rouse her from the slow
During the war, their breakfast, every morning on the devastated farm, was either, nine times out of ten, an extraordinarily renewed determination or remorse. The cattle gone, the sheep, the horse.
My father talks of being twenty days in an open boat. Adrift. My father and others. War time and the ocean was a bloodslick
Leading The Blind
Blind himself, so Samson’s dog made absolutely no concession to the dark, but would cross, and bark, the river on a bridge of crocodiles with neither he nor they aware that either he or they were there.
In the early hours then, sometime between not wanting to get up and needing to, expectant silences, the visual discrepancy between gunmetal blues of fading night
We graze for hours through the densely structured arguments
about what is and what is not, the genesis of patterns framed
and hung for all to see. But we are prisoners.
Have taken for granted that a fundamental mark
of our distinction is the time somebody takes to understand
that we are not the cut-out clouds they thought, constrained
by all their own subjective contours, not mere inkblots
or the accidental shape of cattle, chiaroscuro cows abstracted