The Bard of Tysoe

“Beautiful writing. Each word pulls you towards the next in effortless momentum. Very much enjoy your work.”
— Mark Peter Beeson
“I love your blog! You write so beautifully.”
— Oliver Ryan

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Wednesday, 5 March 2014

Another found poem…

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…Never fair Fly unto a curlew’s weeping distance; But grant your arching wings a closer hold, That, reaching down, their feathe...

Monday, 3 March 2014

Why do we need to build (so much…)?

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Like food, there is actually more than enough housing to go round – at least for the moment. Not only in the UK (which has more than 700,00...

Sunday, 2 March 2014

Bard & Tew (Part 1)

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With Mike Sanderson Tew had been thinking hard since the FSD skirmish on Oxhill Road. He had come across the Bard, out perambulat...

Friday, 28 February 2014

The return of the Night Wasteman – Sustainable Tysoe?

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By Mike Sanderson Tew sat on the ridge and furrow outside the manor. This site was now the infamous site of the first battle o...

Monday, 24 February 2014

The good strife…

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The modern artist must live by craft and violence. His gods are violent gods. Those artists, so called, whose work does not show this strif...

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EVERYTHING YOU WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT THE BARD BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK:

The Bard of Tysoe: Copeland, Cumbria, United Kingdom; Originally an amateur musician… — yet having worked in IT and marketing communication for a quarter of a century — both as manager and consultant; as well as writing for the Guardian… — the Bard retired for medical reasons; and now devotes his life to keeping as healthy as possible by putting one foot in front of another (badly, but semi-frequently); watching the world, with all its vagaries, go by (in great puzzlement); capturing what he sees (in words and pictures); and trying to leave a trail of happiness in his wake. What matters most to him are beauty, truth, cats, and fairness — in whatever myriad forms they occur — and he despises inequality, greed, fascists, and hate. His favourite occupation is thinking; and he was (therefore) — for a handful of years — the Orchestra of the Swan’s ‘writer in reticence’. You are now, though, most likely to encounter him staring into space, with a thoughtful grin beneath his wonted hat and dark glasses, walking stick in hand, somewhere in the quieter parts of the Northern, North Western, and Western Fells of Lakeland. (He resembles nothing so much as a badly-dressed Herdwick.)

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