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Dominic Fisher Poetry

As if a tree could stutter briefly into being
 lose all its leaves then vaporise”

Bonfire Night from a Loft Window 

Not burning in Wells

I’m going to go incandescent … no, no, here’s a picture of a flower, and I’m not going not look at the news today about the world burning while politicians … stop, no, here’s something about Fountain Poets in Wells because I’m reading there on Monday 7th August (go here and scroll down) and Fountain Poets are a lovely thing in a lovely place. It’s a city that is sometimes said to be England’s smallest with a population of around 12, 000, which is not a lot, though I don’t think they’ll all get in upstairs at the Kings’s Head on 7th.

Wells gets it’s name from, well, wells. Three of them. The cathedral is world famous, among many other things for music. And in the 19th century the Bishop of Bath and Wells fled the flames and uproar of the Bristol riots in his carriage. Once he got to Wells he had the drawbridge to the Bishop’s Palace pulled up behind him, being that kind of cleric (whoops nearly). The MP for the Wells constituency is James Heappey, a Tory who … no, no, right there, don’t do it to yourself.

Fountain Poets is a Stanza of the Poetry Society and they started having public meetings at the Fountain Inn 20 years ago when the group got too big to meet in the flat of Jane Williams, their founder, who sadly died this year. Today the group is run by Ama Bolton with much support and encouragement from author  David Niven

I’m looking forward to reading there very much as an escape from the cruel and stupid … no there I go again. And anyway my poems are not all about flowers and lovely things, as you may have gathered by now, though as as you can see from the sneak preview below, they’re sometimes not far away. I hope you can make it if you’re anywhere near Wells on 7th.


Putting the work in

Twenty-odd plots run side by side downhill
to brambles, nettles, and a padlocked gate.

To get one you need to be on the list
and you can lose it, because there are rules.

They’re mostly about putting the work in
not letting couch and thistles take over.

It’s also true that you can over-extend
a metaphor, make too much work of it.

The long hills beyond town fade towards grey
or climb on beneath the vapour trails.

(from The Ladies and Gentlemen of the Dead,
The Blue Nib 2019)