Wednesday, 22 March 2017
Wednesday, 28 December 2016
Latest Poem
My
Bench
Not on the tarmac esplanade
Where the proudest benches tout.
Nor facing the rising or setting suns –
It needs no glory from light’s posturing.
Not varnished annually –
Its grain is weathered truth.
Overgrown, uncatalogued,
It hosts no remembrance spray,
Save the blossom fall
In sadness and in triumph.
Sit away from faster paths.
Under this unpruned bower
The world in shaded silence
Unfolds itself around you.
Stuart Larner
republished from Every Day Poets
Saturday, 5 November 2016
Poem:
6th
November
This morning my son and I
searched
the lane for fallen rockets.
We
found only one:
a charred remnant amongst sodden leaves
run
over by a car.
'Obviously
a dud,' I said, 'burnt out
before
it had even reached those trees.'
'No
Dad,' he said.
'This
fell back to earth
after
it had scorched the stars.'
Stuart
Larner
(earlier
version first published disguised in prose on the letters page Scarborough
Evening News , 10/11/08).
Thursday, 13 October 2016
my new book, written under the nom-de-plume Rosy Stewart. co-authored with Rosie Larner.
Hope: Stories from a Women's Refuge
The story of three women who track down perpetrators of domestic violence. A series of their cases.
Monday, 3 October 2016
Comfort
Regained
I found my old Teddy in a cupboard,
A cross stitched over where each eye once lay.
His mouth is sewn into a smile so broad
As though he’d still have soothing things to say.
His ear hangs off as if he’s strained so long
And worn it out listening all those years.
Time’s washed us both: I’ve grown, he’s shrunk, among
The tumble-turnings of my adult cares.
And worn it out listening all those years.
Time’s washed us both: I’ve grown, he’s shrunk, among
The tumble-turnings of my adult cares.
Feel his fur. Comforting is his soft art.
Still the same cuddly stuffing all way through.
Against my cheek I think I hear his heart.
You hold him. Listen. You might hear him too.
Still the same cuddly stuffing all way through.
Against my cheek I think I hear his heart.
You hold him. Listen. You might hear him too.
Stuart
Larner
first published by Every Day Poets
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