by Alex Mazey

It’s getting late in the year and I’m
still twenty five taking the bus from
one town to another, going to see
Erin who works out of a building at
Minton Hollins. I watch the wet
slate run down the bus where so
many people come to escape the
weather, because it is cold out, and
as the evening draws near they
know it will only get colder.
The children will race home like
fireflies through the street lamps,
their arms that chase the sun like
moon moths, chasing Lenard Street
to a red horizon, where birds might
fly over an orange pasture. Above
everything, the fresh wind will
taste of autumn and a woman will
speak to me in cigarette tongues,
“Go home, go home” She’ll say, –
“Don’t you know it’s dark out?”


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Alex_Mazey_Photo_1Charles Wright, a poet from Virginia, Charlottesville, said writing poems was his reason for living. I always thought Virginia sounded like some faraway place, somewhere open and free where cattle grazed amongst tomato orchards. For many of us, poetry exists as this faraway place too, operating with an inaccessible kind of geography. Like many people, I had always felt ostracized from those kinds of places where – I was told – the magic of poetry could happen, the transcendental space between us and the lines.
Now I know poetry is an unmade bed. It’s the poignancy of small things. – Alex

Alex Mazey’s poetry has featured regularly in anthologies and literary press magazines, most notably in The London Magazine, and in Anima. He has helped facilitate workshops for Writing West Midlands, an Arts Council England National Portfolio Organisation created to support creative writers and creative writing in the West Midlands region. He has lived in three of the six towns that originally formed Stoke-on-Trent, including Fenton, Tunstall, and Burslem; where he currently resides.