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the poet
Nominated for The Pushcart Prize, poet and reviewer Glenn Barker has had work in Fevers of the Mind, Dreich, The Heron Clan, 60 Odd Poets, Folkheart Press, The Fig Tree, The Starbeck Orion, Black Bough Poetry and Broken Spine Arts. He likes to write in a dance of language and immersive imagery, delving into the ambiguities of earthly life. As a reviewer, Glenn's attracted by poets whose work takes him deep into their own emotional reflections.
the poems
Imagine Yourself
a Body of Water
that you might believe the rain was yours to gain
that you could stop the wind and still it
for a few moments, draw a flat calm
over your surface, though ripples disturb its peace.
You know it to be impossible yet you know
how to dream and sense the water’s motion,
telling you that all things hold a truth
however fleeting, a sudden sharpness
of attention in the gift of ciphers, like
the vectors of migrating geese above, or
the jackdaws nesting in your chimney.
Fame, ubiquity, chance and fate are the teeth
of your mortal ratchet, holding you prisoner
by your own knots of reality and science,
teasing the unblemished stream that still runs
through your own unfathomable body of water.
A Single Silk Thread
There’s freedom in your vision
and movement, while Pandora holds
the lid over her remaining good spirit.
It’s a faith more than understanding
that passes between you and me,
connecting our life cords into one,
each of us a single silk thread that braids
the rope carrying our Fallen weight.
Cassandra only sees your final fate,
not what happens next, and the tarot,
crystal ball, tea leaf and cloudscape
are only the money tree chicanery
of sea-front sibyls, telling you they know
how and where the rain will fall.
Listen out too for the enchantress who
wants to bargain for your confidence
and sell you an empty promise,
from her tomes of cliff-edge incantations
and spell books of absolute certainty.
Nurture and sustain your life cords,
feel them still secure around you
and safe against your uncertain self,
as long as you will it so.
Just Say No
Let’s say that someone offers you
the power of a god; would you want
to swap your dreams for theirs.
They might be more virtuous than mine,
or sweat you in the night terrors
of Victorian Whitby gothic, the ills
of your true nature disclosed.
Would you want my nightmares too?
But we are not gods, and know
the rainbow’s crock of gold passes through
your hands, just as easily as your
tooth faerie prizes and lottery winnings.
Your dreams will always cast you a tide
of enigmas, soaked in the ambiguity
of Pythian prophecies that rarely
resolve to anything in the morning.
If you discern something tangible,
be ready for the 10,000 hours practice
to get you there, with perfection
that last impossible one percent.
Publishing credits
All poems: exclusive first publication by iamb