Brendan Buxton

Biography

I've been writing poetry for forty years and I've done readings in Britain, Hong Kong and Singapore. My biggest influences are William Blake, Louis MacNeice Bob Dylan and Walt Whitman. My poetry sequence 'Thatcheration Point' has just been published by Pyxis Editions in Taunton. Here's a link to it: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Thatcheration-Point-Brendan-Buxton/dp/0956715249/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1437879574&sr=8-1&keywords=Brendan+Buxton

Samples

Posh Boys The posh boys do not know the price of milk. They do not know of suffering or want. Their rosy cheeks display no shame or guilt. They rose on ladders daddy’s efforts built And lazed on shady playing fields and quads; The posh boys do not know the price of milk. The poor are forced to swallow bitter pills, But posh boys savour Pimms and vol au vents; Their rosy cheeks display no shame or guilt For privilege, wrapped around them like a quilt, Insulates the cruel, crass cliques they haunt; The posh boys do not know the price of milk. Assurance gilds their clever dealing skills That cheer and charm their mogul confidants. Their rosy cheeks display no shame or guilt. Entitlement the whetstone of their will Which cuts through empathy and tolerance, The posh boys do not know the price of milk; Their rosy cheeks display no shame or guilt. Margaret Thatcher for Glenda Jackson MP Bad taste to stoop so low and cheer a death – That levelling deserves, perhaps, some reticence. Conviction, then, might warrant some respect; And strength – she, doubtless, has that crude defence. But strong conviction hardened to contempt And strength became the bully’s iron fist Which hammered whole communities to death: Society, she said, did not exist. Style became the policy. Consensus And compassion, ridiculed as weak, Fell beneath consumerism’s reckless Credit spree, greed’s conscience-free stampede And crawled to crouch in doorways where the cold Ghosts in sleeping bags shamed a nation’s soul. Fire Did someone say No suffering? Did someone Promise you no pain? Both are life’s Sharp offering To scorch Complacency again. Embrace this Agonising pain, Let the burning Melt your heart, Feel the sharpness Of the flame As it bursts Your hopes apart. But don’t stop there. Feel it more. Let it melt you To the core That keeps you from The ones you meet On the bus And in the street Whose eyes are blackened, Burned out dots, Whose faces bear the Scars of pain, Who gave up everything They’d got, Consumed by life’s Voracious flames. Look at them With eyes burnt clear, Feel the scorching Tongues they felt, Feel their hopelessness And fear, The dreams that died – And MELT!

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.