Nick Burbridge

Nick Burbridge Poems

The Moon Bear slips
into a nightmare
where they force
him to dance.
...

Tom got by with what H.G. Wells
wrote of a horse in difficulty,
a random redistribution of his legs,
extreme facial expressions
...

3.

City boy, city boy. Last week,
across the square, took on a phonebox:
put my fist right through the glass & laughed.
Saturday tonight, pissed up, pole-axed on a bench.
...

Somewhere among crisp packets and curled plasters,
where the nightlights can’t reach,
push the door shut,
and come to me, naked and quiet.
...

To Harry, the annual bloom of open houses
in the hotbed city is a dream come true.
He leaves his bags of materials
at the church centre and goes armed
...

He decided to make his resignation public.
After two handfuls of blue-coated pills
and a bottle of Aqua Libra
he was bouncing off the kitchen walls
...

I address this to old Doctor Bermingham,
who always asked after my mother,
prescribed the company of dogs, and caught pneumonia,
the keen new psychiatrist from Saudi Arabia,
...

Stanmer Park, late afternoon;
we come for a partial eclipse of the sun
but Molly has us press-ganged
in the belly of the woods
...

We have new neighbours.
They keep parking an old Ford
with no tax disc on the sidewalk.
They come back drunk at three
...

My father tried to make
Sunday afternoons take shape.
He built theatres out of cardboard boxes
fixed with fairy lights and left me
...

Iain, you should go.
Get on the damn plane
and hawk in over the
mountains of Switzerland.
...

Big fish
carp

in
...

The sky disintegrates, in off-white cascades,
as crosswinds slam the nursery schoolyard,
ridging debris of bikes, ladders, tunnels, slides,
dwarf shapes in yellow capes and boots investigate.
...

Nick Burbridge Biography

Nick Burbridge is an Anglo-Irish poet, who has also worked as a playwright, novelist, journalist, short story and song writer. He lives in Brighton, UK, married with three children. Nick is an outspoken sufferer from chronic depression, which both inspires and delimits his creative work. He has published three collections of poetry: On Call (Envoi Poets Publications) , All Kinds Of Disorder (Waterloo Press) , and The Unicycle Set (Waterloo Press) . Poems have appeared in many major UK magazines, including Ambit, Agenda, and Acumen. He has also released an album of readings of poems from All Kinds Of Disorder accompanied by music/effects. As a singer/songwriter he has made six albums with his band McDermott’s Two Hours, The Enemy Within, World Turned Upside Down, Claws And Wings, Disorder, Goodbye To The Madhouse and Besieged, the last five in collaboration with The Levellers, who also recorded his song Dirty Davey on their eponymous number one-selling album, and featured him on a live DVD, Chaos Theory. His plays include Dirty Tricks (Soho Theatre Company) , Vermin (Finborough) , Cock Robin (Verity Bargate Award Runner-up) , Scrap (South East Arts commission/Regional Tour) , and double bills Neck/Cutting Room (Bright Red Theatre) , and Acts Of Violence (Brighton Actors’ Theatre) . He used to run his own fringe company, Tommy McDermott’s Theatre, which often worked with local colleges, youth theatre groups, and centres for the disabled. BBC Radio Drama productions feature Grosse Fugue (Monday Play) , Rites Of Passage (Afternoon Play) , and several short stories. As a novelist, he had Operation Emerald (Pluto) published under the pseudonym Dominic McCartan, and republished in the States by Red Dembner. He collaborated with Captain Fred Holroyd on War Without Honour (Harrap/Medium) , a non-fiction book launched at the House of Commons. His short stories have been printed regularly in literary magazines, and in Arts Council anthologies New Stories 5 and 6 (Hutchinson) and 20 Stories (Secker & Warburg) . Nick has worked also as a PhD student, busker, carer, and voluntary worker in infant and primary schools.)

The Best Poem Of Nick Burbridge

Bad Medicine

The Moon Bear slips
into a nightmare
where they force
him to dance.

When he wakes
the barbed shunt
in his gall-bladder
bites and aches.

Under the cage
bile drips into
a tray, destined
for the phial.

Dancing would be
a kind of fate,
pit-fighting,
taking bait.

Here he drains, only,
wrestles his own pain.
His eyes close slowly.
No more trance.

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