There was the Savoy and Lyceum, the Majestic and Colosseum, the Regal and the Roxy, the Tonic and the Troxy, the Princess and the Pallidrome, the Alhambra and Hippodrome. Great picture palaces, art deco and glass, velvet and brass, where the poor of Belfast could feel like stars for a night.
And the Strand, sailing up the Holywood Road like a great ocean liner, where my grandmother took a flask of tea and sandwiches to Gone With The Wind, and my father watched Flash Gordon and Roy Rodgers, and rode an imaginary Trigger the two miles home.
Now the Lido is a chapel, the Metro sells fried chicken the Apollo, a Chinese supermarket, and the Alpha, a loyalist drinking den.
But the Strand, where my father saw Flash kiss Dale, and my grandmother saw Rhett kiss Scarlet, where I kissed a girl badly in the back row, five minutes before the film ended,
Irish poet, who spent his early years in Belfast and now lives in Coleraine with his wife and 2 children. His first collection "Thomas" was published by Lapwing in 2005, and his second collection "Black Eyed Peace" has just been published. It is available as either a free eBook or in traditional printed format. His work has been widely published in magazines, anthologies, and on-line. His work has also been broadcast and published by the BBC and a number of his poems have achieved competition success. He has been involved with the Ballymoney Writers for over 15 years and has edited and published 3 collections of their work.
I hate the self-immolation of orange sex. Weather was leaving blue strings on the skin. Redemption was incomplete by sharing the legs Lips will not knead the ears. Like wakng in darkness for a passage to grief. Black moon will
A volcanic kiss was becoming ungreen. The shark was coming. All night it was raining. The sap was rising and love-farm was deluged. A blue moon walks on the dry eyes. Why the tears had gone to exile? A mole
The dark clouds are rolling in quickly, wild wind blows fast and fiercely Many leaves and twigs start twirling around and circling Feeling like Edgar Allen Poe, In the distance I can hear some echo’s Of many dog’s barking in
Pillage started, when there were anti-answers. The trapped light- wanted to be released, from brutalism. When you were nearly drowned, in the multitude of questions, joining the palms, you collect the moments of solitude. You drop a key in the
As the sun dives into the beguiling sky And the darkness is about to smear the vault of heaven. The mind, then wanders the lonesome places. The moment , when the mollified region is filled with despondency. The night, then