Dave Bryant

Biography

I've been on the London poetry scene now for some considerable time, spending an unhealthy amount of time in that decade we called "the noughties" either performing or checking out other poets on the circuit. I have performed at all kinds of events, from the large to the very small, even taking in theatres, libraries and art galleries when the invitation is extended. I have even been on the same bill as bands and even Burlesque performers before now in a ridiculous and possibly fatal mission to get my slightly jagged observational poetry over to as wide an audience as possible. Over the last few years, I have performed sets for (amongst others): Apples and Snakes Utter! New Blood The George Tavern The Cellar at The Poetry Cafe Whitechapel Art Gallery Novas Gallery Tall Lighthouse The Klinker Y Tuesday Poetry Club Borders Bookstore (RIP) I have also been published alongside John Hegley and Paul Birtill in the Hearing Eye anthology of London writers and performers "In The Company of Poets" which is still commercially available. You can also find some of my work in the "Delinquent" series of anthologies which can be ordered through http://www.thedelinquent.co.uk and also in "South Bank Poetry". Since everyone stopped using MySpace many moons ago, my new website can be found here: http://www.davidbryantpoetry.blogspot.co.uk

Samples

One Central Perfect Circle He is stuck. The slow journey home. Frost on the line or something. Doesn’t question it. It’s not anything anyone has power over. When he was young he’d see tired underwear morose, clinging on to plastic vines in tramp hair grass backyards and ask mother who lived there. Whose knickers were famous every cheap-day? He faces the silhouette at one of the windows. Her mouth “o”s as she sucks on the wooden handle of a brush, the oil mounts on the canvas like grease on skin, then flakes like dandruff. It is someone who is aired to the world. Her expression is that of the train with its one perfectly circular central headlamp day dreaming its way along the familiar track, forgetting what it was made as and just doing. The room is cold. Frost on the window-pane or something. She doesn’t question it. She looks outside on to the stuck train on the track. The passenger still looks through her. Zone 4 Standing at the point Where the buses don’t just stop But finish, Where their destinations of Nowhere somewheres Roll round on displays Like commandments on Scrolls of silk; I try to interpret Meaning in the sounds of Swallowed towns, Like Debden, Sidcup and Ponders End, Mouth melodies to Places never mentioned in song, Where empty, arching Concrete shelters have been Waiting since World War II For their moment, their onslaught, The time when the planet arrives. X I was coming to depend on you to arrive with the gentle morning snow of angry reminders, fast food offers, and requests for me to put this house (which is not even mine) up for sale. Another day, another letter, another nudge towards the core of the iceflake, showing the patterns we keep hidden to others in increasingly microscopic depth. This missive is different from the rest. It ends with a single kiss, marked with an X. “What does that mean?” you ask, and I say it means friendship, nothing more. Closeness. A kiss on the cheek. A female handshake to show an emotional deal done. The friendly, alphabetical neighbour of the sinister mark of Zorro. A week later, you are waiting for me again. The envelope, this time, has my address written in garish coloured ink, like a pentip floral tribute to the uniqueness of my abode. The letter is appropriately perfumed, and written on soft, quilted bond paper, like freshly washed hotel sheets. It ends with five Xs, quins of simulated kisses. “Four more!” you comment archly, and fix me with a suspicious stare. I say it signals appreciation, and nothing more. Grateful that I’d taken the time to listen, to offer words of experience, mixing the colours of our emotional spectrum together to bring variety to our drab landscapes. You say nothing. Clearly there is nothing more to say. Two days later, there is a new letter waiting. The writing on the envelope is larger, more assertive, and each word ends in a long lash of a scorpion tail. Postmarks bleed into the inkwork like Government invasions into secret foreign territory. The letter is too private even for my eyes. Should never have been opened. Cannot be described without breaking some unwritten secrecy act. It ends with an entire line of virtual kisses. You say nothing again, and just stand there, glaring at me. I tell you I know what this means. It represents a length of barbed wire, a signal that I have trekked too far across an alien landscape, found out too much, and can only retreat. You slowly nod your agreement. I don’t reply to the missive for weeks, and when I do, it is nothing more than a short string of winding, point missing jovialities, guided by the hazard posts of exclamation marks. Winter has begun again.

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