The website of writer and poet Daniel Bennett
I have five (not so easy) pieces in the most recent edition of Morphrog online magazine, including a prose poem, 'Birches'. Here's an excerpt: 'I found myself in a small copse of young birches: a damp smell of humus and fresh rain, the sky closed and white, the onset of spring heralded in distant, waxy … Continue reading Morphrog 23
I liked to ride the Docklands railway in those days, sitting at the very front of the electric trains, when they were being driven by an operator at the back. As we zipped around the waterfront of the Thames, following rails set on an overpass of raised concrete, I thought of myself as living in … Continue reading I Liked To Take The Trains
Now that I have moved to the tower, I'm positioned closer to the weather, pushed up against the atmosphere and affected by its changes. Even though I live in the city, and look over the skyline from my vantage point, I feel remote and outcast, as though I've renounced my urban life for some sort … Continue reading Weather
My poem 'After The Beach' is now live on Tentacular Magazine. Black rock parts the sand,sleek as porpoise finspoised for the depths or launched from prehistory.We buried ourselves here,accumulated like time or metal work, the sandshuffled out of geography.The ship on the horizon pulls us into its nets.Neither of us drew the map:here be dragons, … Continue reading Tentacular 6
At this time of year, as summer builds and I head to the coast, I remember my old ambition to be a novelist. This usually comes with a sense of embarrassment and regret. I've written a few novels, and they've been mostly unsuccessful, although I'm lenient enough on myself to think of this as a … Continue reading The Novelist
I think of those days often, when I seemed to spend my life on trains. In some ways, I've never left that journey, and the landmarks along the way have assumed the importance of personal ciphers. The dead tree at the centre of a marsh, pale as bone. The clearing at the edge of a … Continue reading Clean
I visited an old acquaintance, a performance poet who had left the city some years before, and moved to the wilds of the north. Our friendship had always been tentative and slightly awkward, in that I had little respect for his work, and he, I knew, felt the same about mine. Still, after many years … Continue reading Automated Houses
At one time or another, the cottage appeared to have been the residence for a landscape painter: Mitchell uncovered scraps of oil-soaked material, brushes, and dried-out paints, and on a set of shelves at the back of the room, he found a pile of canvases. One of the pictures showed a coastal scene, a wide … Continue reading Canvases
We headed to the outskirts of the city to buy snakes, travelling by train to a dirt track beside a busy road. We saw them uncoiling by a long ditch that ran along the dark fields: long black snakes, muscular and flexuous, some of them two or three metres in length. Headlights picked up the … Continue reading Snakes
I sat out my war in a series of back end stations, always behind the frontline, couched down away from missiles and drones. The days were long and filled with abortive chess moves, and the radios rarely worked. We raided local supplies for wine and cheeses, although these were poor products, lacking in bucolic artistry, … Continue reading My War
Absence Club 