Oliver Gozzard

Biography

Oliver Gozzard has read his poetry at events in London, Birmingham, Oxford, Leicester, Leamington Spa and Brighton. He comperes the Lewes Poetry club in East Sussex, putting on well-known poets such as John Agard. Oliver’s poetry book, The Commuter’s Tale, published by Desert Hearts and available at Amazon and Waterstone’s, is a modern sequel to Byron’s life-story. The Scotsman called it “a dramatic yarn”, and The Frogmore Papers enthused: “It’s brave and singular – quite unlike anything else you’re likely to read.” Hugo Williams said: "A fine book, The Commuter's Tale. I found it very readable."

Samples

Download a free PDF taster of Oliver Gozzard's poetry book, The Commuter's Tale at: http://www.deserthearts.com/commuter.html Here's the beginning: The Commuter’s Tale (opening stanzas) I pen this letter to you my friend, Now my life’s about to end, You have shown me the greatest time And proved that living can be sublime, Now ’tis my duty to record our days: The reckless joyance of your ways, How to begin is hard to see, Recalling how it used to be. Routine is where I ought to start, Train times and work that caged my heart, I was a Commuter, you see, My morning mule: The Six Fifty-Three, Its thraldom I can scarce describe, The collective boredom of a tribe, For seven long years I rode that train, I shudder to think upon it again. The ceaseless search for a seat, Linèd faces that oft repeat Words into a mobile phone: Their office talk, my silent groan, Of course woe sometimes satisfies As in the bash when a colleague dies, Free booze and gossip at the wake That thirst and grief equally slake. So it was on The Six Fifty-Three, Finding a seat gave secretive glee And the presence of a pretty girl Threw my feelings int’ a whirl: Her fiery mane and voluptuous top, Luscious lips to make the heart stop For a beat. . and then accelerate, My senses discombobulate! But ever came the drudge of work, The pointless grind of the office jerk, In that cynical cycle I was included: Making a diff’rence or simply deluded? Every day was a Civil Service yawn Till I began to wish I’d never been born To serve such disingenuous masters, Taking a dive for their lies and disasters. So many projects I had that dragged, My will to live fair waned and sagged, Routine was lord of all I did, Into auto-drive I languidly slid, Every day proved the same slow drain: A swig of coffee, catch the train, Work, work, work and home for tea, TV and bed by ten-thirty. I was far from alone in my funk, The whole nation was beset by junk, Fuel cost a king’s ransom, Families huddled in one room, Credit was a thing of the past, A consumer dream that could not last, Jobs were shed like no one cared, The man on the bus was lost and scared. The day we met I’d felt the strain That morn as I got on the train, The same tired or dozing faces, The same jostling for too-few places, Sadness of seeing make-up slapped on, Besmirching a face till its beauty was gone, And Unironed Shirtman with untied tie; Sartorial shambles to make a grown man cry. The under-dressed and the over-fed And sick folk who should’ve stayed in bed, The Pretty Girl was a dormant mystery, Dreaming of love, oblivious of me? It was Groundhog Day with a cruel twist: If I’d died that day I would not have been missed, My spirit was either banished or sleeping, Rivulets of rain in sympathy weeping. Then you did appear To give me good cheer, I watched you embark As svelte as a lark, Of windswept, erudite looks, Man of Travel! Man of Books! Your beauty gave me quite a fright, I’d say I loved you at first sight.

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