Welcome to the fourth virtual show from Dodo Modern Poets, coming at the end of a year which has brought sadness and loss to people across the world. Through these shows we've endeavoured to keep the flame of poetry alive. We're grateful to our contributors for their enthusiastic support since our first outing in April. The current show takes the tally of performances to nearly 120 across the four events. We thank viewers for their time and their positive comments, including one who watched the last show several times. Many have sent messages encouraging us to continue. 

 The new show begins with two excellent featured acts, so please welcome Stuart Larner and Racheal 


STUART LARNER lives in Scarborough. A chartered psychologist, he has written scientific papers, articles, stories, poems and novels and plays. Works include an ebook in verse, Jack Daw and the Cat; a novel about cricket entitled Guile and Spin and with Rosie Larner as Rosy Stewart, the novel, Hope: Stories from a Women’s Refuge. He wrote the illustrated sonnet sequence The Car in 2016. His plays have had rehearsed readings and performances in York and Scarborough. 

He has stories in Bridgehouse anthologies: 'A Real Gem' in Baubles, 2016; 'Pictures at an Exhibition' in Glit-er-ary ,2017; 'The Flaw' in Crackers 2018; 'The Sound of Love' in Mulling it Over, Dec 2020. 

Stuart's blog:
 Link to The Car:

RACHEAL JOSEPH is an actress, poet and story-teller. Having spent many years working in theatre, Racheal decided to try her hand at writing. Her first poetry collection Little Brown Girl took inspiration from her childhood experiences growing up mixed race in 1950s-1960s London. Encouraged by the success of the poetry collection, she has recently published a book of short stories, Tales From A West Indian Childhood. The stories relate to her experience of being taken from her mother and sent to her father's homeland, Antigua where it was believed life would be better.

 Both collections are available from 

 We hope you enjoy the show and wish you the very best for 2021.

 Patric Cunnane, PR Murry: DODO MODERN POETS
Sue Johns PR Murry Aidan Nutbrown Emile Sercombe Lantern Carrier Django Moon Elizabeth Parker Eddie Forde Frabk Crocker Kevin Morris Julie Stevens Roger Stephenson Graham Buchan Paul Gander 

 Our show continues with poems on the page

Patric Cunnane






This is the America that didn't need making great again

With its open spaces, hungry hearts ,bracing optimism


This is the America that welcomed the world                                                                                                                                                                                                    

That fuelled art and poetry, music and expression


This is the America that accepted its past

Knew that good guys don't need white hats


This is the America of Ginsberg and Kerouac, Martin and Angela, Plath and Dylan, Aretha and Berry

This is the America of the Sioux, Cheyenne and Cherokee nations


This is the America I loved                                                                 

Boarding a Greyhound in Miami, disembarking in San Francisco

Eggs & potatoes in New York, chilling with jazzers in Preservation Hall


This is the America that didn't need making great again

Out on the road where moonlight shines on endless highways

And the ghosts of buffaloes roam the plains




Inspired by David Hockney's painting, Pacific Coast Highway and Santa Monica 1990.

Barry Coidan 

Bruegel’s “Icarus”


North Cornwall, mid-October,

the coast road into Bude.

On a bend


a sloping ploughed field

framed by sea, cliffs,

a cloudless sky.


Beyond the field,

the crumbling rocks,

out of the cloudless sky


a young man plunges into

the sea. The moment’s gone.

We drive on.

By Alan the Poet Therapeutic

21 November 2020

© 2020 by Alan Raymond Wheatley

Everybody's Got Talent

 This poem is toward introducing the poem 'The Arts Manager' as one of my open mic contributions for Amnesty International Worcester Group's Human Rights Day Poetry presentation, a Zoom event for the evening of Thursday, 10 December 2020.

Everybody’s Got Talent

While Zen Buddhists pose the question:
“What is the sound of one hand clapping?”
I propose an image for you to imagine:

“Imagine a scene that I have witnessed,
Of a spoon-fed woman’s joyousness
Upon being given a musical shaker
Toward her fuller participation.”

Some adjustments are more delightful
Than ‘reasonable,’ and no-one
Is truly ‘ineducable’.

 John Sephton

Please find a very short but topical poem below:


The Carbuncle


Washed up and wasted,


the carbuncle clings to the wreckage.

Luigi Marchini

Closing the Gate


Not in a garden, nor a house,

I shift worlds in the dig for home.

April, the cruellest month.

A dog barks, a baby cries

a dustbin clatters, all against the dawn

and then the rain falls. 


My fickle conscience riots against

the burden of ego. It is the dog, the baby,

and the dustbin that matter.


Another night and the displaced take shelter,

unravelling, with stern faces, in the dent

of concrete. This is new to me. 

Somewhere else my country awakens

at this hour to a sky of mottled blue tiles

and donkeys will bray.

John Hurley



With old skills dying and craftsmen gone

Old ben had pride and still clung on

He cut willow rods down by the lakes

Knowing bog sally bends but never breaks

Those plants that thrive in boggy lands

Became works of art in his strong hands



On his belt a sheath with one sharp  “scian”

At fairs and fetes old ben was seen

With “skibs “ to be used as potato dishes

And square peat containers he called “kishes”

On his donkeys back,, as he had no wheels

Wicker panniers balanced known as “creels”



When demand for baskets got so few

He must have wondered what to do

Fish no longer sold in “crans”

As plastic containers won over fans

Cheap imports were now the lure

Ben made celtic crosses for the poor

Alan Gleave



The Old Man in his Garden

At last his garden is supremely here, if misty                                    

As colours pulse, forms flex, in meditation.

Against a lawn as plush a green as once

The parkland of the big house, stand his trees,

Their branches figuring the ideal grace                                                  

Of gestures which are neither giving nor taking,

But fill the air with swish and twitterings

Beyond desire and meaning, as he is.                                                              


But to drift among flowerbeds is the pain

Of rediscovered darlings pushing back

From earth. Returning as soft ponderables:    

Those garish, jagged outbursts of his youth    

Pure flower now, there for fruit not symbol                    ,

The weakening fingers crush to faintest scent.      

Joseph Healy


The Owl and the Christmas Tree


A wide eyed owl sat in his tree in a forest of spruce trees in upstate New York

This was Rip Van Winkle country where owls and old men had slept among the forests for centuries seeing the world pass from a vantage point among the thick branches.


The roaring shrieks of chainsaws woke him from his reverie as his tree was torn up and fell among its fellows with a sound like thunder

Branches twigs and leaves fell in all directions but the owl hung on

It was his tree and his world and he would not depart it now


The tree was hauled to the banks of the wide flowing Hudson River

The owl still clinging to his branch found himself on a huge river barge

Wending its way through the bluffs and passing pretty painted villages and

Holiday homes set high above the river with their white clapperboard walls

Reflecting the November sun which fell across the shimmering river waters


The great metropolis of New York was reached and the tree hauled yet again from the barge

And placed upon a truck with great dexterity its extra passenger still puzzled as to their final destination.

Outside the gigantic Rockerfeller Centre the tree was hauled upright and stood again as it had once stood in the snow covered forests of the uplands

It was the Christmas Tree for the plague year of 2020

its lights would help dispel the demon of the virus and create again a winter oasis of gemutlichkeit


The owl flew from a branch to catch a juicy insect drawn by the lights and

Alerted the tree’s guardians who full of amazement took him down and placed him for safety in a nearby animal protection centre

Could not this wild owl have stayed in that tree and looked down each night at the foolish humans who worshipped at its lights and drank in its beauty?

He had made his pilgrimage to bring his wisdom to the skyscaper dwellers and would not return.       

Migrating Children

By Yan Li


Age? Eight, five, and one.

They float on English Channel.

In waves their boat sank.

Max Fishel

a falling out
































Popular posts from this blog



Max Birne