Welcome To Our Website

We are a friendly local poetry group that meets on

the third Sunday of each month to read our own

poetry, listen to others’ poetry and talk about poetry.

Meetings take place on the third Sunday afternoon of

the month starting at 2.00 o'clock and finishing at

approximately 5.15. In December we meet on the

second Sunday.

They are held in the library of Orley

Farm School, South Hill Avenue, Harrow, Middx.


The nearest tube station is South Harrow. There is no

access by car from the South Harrow end of South

Hill Avenue. Entrance to the library is by a door

round to the left of the building.


Fancy yourself as a poet?


Come and listen or read
your own verse. This local

poetry group started in 1992. Visitors £3.00.

For further details and before coming telephone

0208 864 3149.



Below we will be placing some of our latest verse as tasters.

Friday 29 November 2013

Like My Daughter Says


If, like my daughter says,
you are now a million particles
orbiting in space,
may you keep on spinning.
Or else as I look out tonight,
I hope you fall like snow
and settle for a while.

Neil Elder

Wednesday 20 November 2013

Louisa Bay Café



The blues merge
lose character
as faint-light tinsels
deep as damn 
into dusk-pools.
Day players,
fold salt-wet life back
inside striped canvas bags.
Parading gulls sulk,
their luminous screeches
jump out, brightly voiced
from nightfall's dirge.
A black and orange tug,
wakes by, checking,
dead shore
for the lifeless
and not so.
Sailboarders scoop
a sandpit fireplace,
slotting beach scrap
between tinder flames,
their barbecue group
enthused and vibrant,
patch a pirate's living,
to the fabric they hang on.
Two women's shell-likes,
eavesdrop the seaweed edge,
hearing distant cinema songs,
where the wrecks used to be.
They glaze over, unnoticed,
and the snack bar
crumples into nothing.

Jerry Pike

Betrayal



With your reassuring hum
I never thought you could be
arsonist or assassin.

You kept my food safe,
my drinks cool,
were a familiar friend.

It was only when I heard
how others like you
had caused fire and death

that I came to study you.
You continued humming
but I was no longer fooled.

A man came round
to change the condenser.
No short-circuit now!

We’re friends again.
I’ve almost forgotten
how nearly you killed me.

Jennifer Johnson

Published in Genius Floored: Uncurtained Window edited by Ruth O’Callaghan

Monday 21 October 2013

Seasons

The procession of our seasons
carries us forward afresh, and
transfigures the dark and the grief.

The unfurling leaves of our spring
encode our own sure transience
in the cycle of creation.

The confidence of summer’s growth
allows a myth of permanence,
fuelling the cycles of our love.

Burnished, we prepare to transmute
this our flourishing, to free us
for the cycle of earth’s renewing.

For the seeming deaths in winter
are truly the transfigured lives -
resilient, transcendent, and ineffable

© Anthony Pinching

Coining It

A late March, along the pier
they group, too thin for weather,
all mod cons in gangs of old,
rubbing coppers the wrong way,
as static gambling drags their
carefree souls to sea level.
It slots you in, greases your palm
with spurious dollars,
a brief windfall energised by salt air
and your head screens guilt trailers.
You dig deep, finding the angry money,
you flick it dangerously with a backward spin.
The penny drops,
the penny pushes
and grips your small dreams tightly,
beside a teenage thump.

Jerry Pike