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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Thursday, 25 June 2015

Things are looking up…
(or ‘That’s Entertainment’…)

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Once, in a particularly insalubrious pub, an old man with a face like a wet leather satchel gripped my forearm, locked his milky blue e...

Wednesday, 24 June 2015

First-rate Ford…

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In far too many reviews of Love’s Sacrifice , to my mind, the crux of the critics’ argument is that much-vaunted trope, that John Ford...

Tuesday, 23 June 2015

Composed upon Stannals Bridge, June 23, 2015…

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I have rested on your bench so many times: faced the blind sun; dreamt of poor rhymes; but never really thank...

Wednesday, 10 June 2015

Woke up this mornin’…

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The Adrian Mitchell blues (Christmas 2008) I use rock and jazz and blues rhythms because I love that music. I hope my poetry ha...

Tuesday, 9 June 2015

Horde of the Dings: a Highway Code for pedestrians…?

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The usual rights and privileges of citizenship do not apply here… a great wall surrounds this place, and most of what goes on within th...

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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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