The website of writer and poet Daniel Bennett
I found a lovely review by Andrew Taylor of my poetry collection West South North, North South East in The Journal, Sam Smith's heroic poetry magazine from Wales. My thanks to both of them. Sometimes, I don't know where any of us would be without the small presses. _________ Following a Red Ceilings Press pamphlet, … Continue reading Reviews: West South North, North South East (2)
As well as including my poem 'Berlin', the current issue of the Frogmore Papers includes a nice review from Peter Stewart of my debut poetry collection, West South North, North South East. 'Among many fine poems in Daniel Bennett's debut collection, 'Still Life' remarks on the featured delicious apples whose green/ will always remind us … Continue reading Reviews: West South North, North South East (1)
My poem 'Berlin' features in issue 95 of the The Frogmore Papers, out now. It's the melancholy of old Europe, darling: the grungy rot of vegetables on a street corner, the busker at the station with his electric harmonium.At Eberswelder Strasse, the greenis fundamentally greenand the train rolls onwards out of arthouse celluloid.
The diary lay blank. A summer job fell through. The engine in my head ran wild, chopping up clay, foliage, nudging farm machineryto roll loose across the landscape down into the valley between the old hills.The pool of mud was meat under moonlight. Someone lit fireworks in a darkened annex.The hooded man offered a long-toothed smile. These things … Continue reading from 'At The Frontier'
The sweet trace of fodderon the breeze, the acidof spilled cider. Occasional carstearing up the air, like the invitesnone of us had received.I don’t even remember a house.What signal set us heading outto ooze like summer starlingsfeeding on insects in the sky? Read more at The Poetry Village
The river is high these early hours, a fine mist reminding us of the Ghost. Someone coughs inside a distant cell, someone chants matins, somewherea renegade brother brews beer.Reports of plague illuminate our books,while the sandstone walls weep like open wounds. Young friars play football amongst bean canesand wild garlic, daydream of sunon white fences, earthly mores. Read more on Allegro … Continue reading The Monks
Penny Falls Burnt sugar, breezy heat. White pollen and the carsick feeling of newly minted shame. It was gambling’s first twitch, in a summer amusement park,as I kept pace with a friend who cast away guilt moneywith easy prodigality. The arcade pumped like an … Continue reading Blue Nib
