Guest Poet 19 - Ananya S Guha - Grandmother And Her two Son

(This what I am guessing is the last guest poet is late through been very busy is by Ananya S Guha, a poet from India who I met many years through a website called Heart to Heart which featured some of both of our poems)

I have taken this weight off,

the proverbial burden of responsibility

or irresponsibility, we call it whatever we will.

Once upon a time I sat on grandmother's lap

to listen to stories of ghosts, catcalls and her two sons

climbing up the wind, soaring skies after dying of  poisonous

fumes of the stomach. The narrative, unreal, surreal blended

into my apostasy, my image of myth maker, teller of fables and lies!

The weight suddenly lessened, slowly in life, when I realized

that truths told were untold ( lies!)

Grandmother, her fabulous world were lies, until she died

at a ripe old age of hundred and two. I looked at her frail self,

and wondered how this frailty could cause a string of lies!

Fabulous, untold stories, of her two sons, flying across

when space crafts did not exist. Now I know.

I know, unexplored terrains, I know grandmother as a psychic

teller of tales. Fantasy.

I know, she is still climbing across untenanted skies.

Grandmother's ghost is real. The house in Guwahati

shackled with ominous ruins is as true, or false as

Grandmother's tales. Her rickety fingers still point

at me. Her narratives give me a lull, and then

sleepless nights. Her two sons, dying of cholera

are my dying assets. I still live. Grandmother, her two sons...

They were twins.

(Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong in NE India. His poems in English have been published in both print and online journals in India and abroad. He holds a doctoral degree on the novels of William Golding. He works in the Indira Gandhi National Open University)

Guest Poet 18 - Meshach R. Brencher - A Ghost in Me

(Our 18th Guest Poet, Meshach R Brencher is a young rapper / poet I have known from going to Write Out Loud's monthly event at Stockport. Here he offers a ghost poem that is short but certainly not sweet)

A ghost in me I cannot see The another part of me I cannot be sees the decomposed, Fragmented, Broken elements of myself A formula that cannot work Without being in reach with Every aspect a part of me Collectively makes me who I am Where the ghost shows me who I am not

(Meshach advises me as a bio 'I’m an autistic poet & spoken word artist. I’ve written poetry for round 4 years. I tend to write in character, using deep and emotional or dry humorous content adapted in various different forms and styles)

Guest Poet 17 - P.R Mcdowell - Remembrance (1st draft)

(Our 17th guest poet, P.R. McDowell is another writer who is good friend of mine from Oldham who I am writing a play with him slowly called 'Twisted Promise'. 

In this poem, he offers a different take on my ghost poem which I really enjoyed and hope you enjoy too.)

It was a good day;
Filled with
friendly chatter and
hearty laughs;
Right from the moment
we all met
at Piccadilly Gardens
eager to board the tram
and be on our way,

Our boss had said
we couldn’t organise
“A piss up
in a brewery”
And now we were
about to prove to him
that we could,
Because we had
for his 50^th.

Best was that
he had no idea.
He thought
that we were all
just going for
a curry and drinks,
At that new place
in the city centre
and we’d stay out late.

When the tram came
we hustled him
aboard, and after
it had made two stops
We told him, and
he couldn’t believe
we’d hired
the Irwell Works
brewery in Bury.

When we arrived
he seemed to be in shock
then
we all were
As we were shown
around by the staff
and we saw
where the ales were made.

He thanked us.

Then we sat round
a massive table
the brewery had set out,
Filled with their own
ales and bitters
to wash down
the burgers and
pies they provided
for private parties.

Must have been there
for about four hours
by time we’d done
and the boss exclaimed
“The night’s still young,
so let’s get our
arses back to town again!”

And we all agreed;
like it was a great idea.

Then, before long
we were on a tram again,
Heading to Salford Quays,
and I don’t remember
who even suggested
that we go there.
But I remember
what happened before
we got to our stop…

Blinding light shone
on one side
of the carriage
Then spun in an arc
quickly towards
our tram;
Everyone panicked,
started to run to
the doors at the other end.

But it didn’t stop
the hysteria
or the car
Slamming right into
the exterior,
making the tram flip
Onto its side
where those of us
still conscious and unhurt

Had to rely on
each other, as strangers,
and the doors
on just one side
To escape;
But we didn’t
get chance to.
The car burst
into flames.

Translucent zig-
zags flew through the air,
catching some of us unaware.
Leaving red vines
and crude etches
marking us
As survivors
of
a, great tragedy.

The cries, and
the wails
From inside and out
were deafening
and as the flames
licked hungrily
at the side of the tram
I knew some
more wouldn’t make it.

I could see
the water, it
seemed close enough to
dip a finger into.
And it sent
a shiver
down my spine
just as much
as the dead did.

My boss,
Steve- he was always
so calm and collected
but now
He was cold and so far
away, no amount of time
would lead to him
Telling us
what we should do.

For a moment
I thought of going
to Becky and Mark
who clung onto each other
wet eyed
as he tried to stop her
from seeing her mate
Toni across the aisle,
unmoving.

So many were slumped
lying here and there
like discarded marionettes
Their strings
cut
off like their breath;
Then from the corner
of my eye
I saw the flash of blue

As the emergency services
came racing as fast
as lightning
And I hoped
and -for the first time
in years-, I prayed
That we would
be saved and no one
else would die.

The sky was like treacle
as the smoke seemed
to echo Hirashima;
The firemen fought for
what seemed like hours;
we kept slipping away.
I saw so many
helped out by them,
I was the last to go;

I couldn’t
call out and
fallen seats hid me from view.

The tram finally went
over,
the water ate it up
and freed me.
Out the window
I could see
just how many survived;
 It could have been
so many less and

The dead count
so much more.

They say on the
anniversary of that night
a man can be seen
Walking along the dock,
and then kneeling
as if paying respects;
Then afterwards,
he’s gone
like he never existed.

But I know
people still remember me,
and in a way
I enjoy those peaceful strolls.

(P.R. McDowell is a Mancunian writer of fiction & poetry as well as being one part of Unity Media collective & an occasional event organiser. He currently lives in Oldham and is working on a novel, his first collection, and the Twisted Promise production & other projects in the works by Unity Media; his poetry has been published by JackMove Mag, on the Napalm And Novocain e-zine, and in Best of Manchester Poets third anthology amongst others)

Guest Poet 16 - Jeff Dawson - Eternal Fury

(Our guest last poet, is my good friend Jeff Dawson aka Jeffarama!, who offers this alternative take on the story which has unfolded)

I often wondered

what kind of deaths they led

or I suppose who had it easier?

The ghost killed in a mining accident

the ghost killed in war

the ghost drowned at sea, or

the ghost killed in a dockland tragedy?

Maybe it just depends

on what kind of lives they had

The happy ones

are probably few and far between

Those who play tricks on folk

scaring them half to death

In their homes

or an old country pub

On this occasion

it seemed right to vent their fury

No excuses needed

No motive necessary

They had their reasons

No-one would understand anyway

But in the morning

when the sun rises

through the dockside mist

With a bit of luck

it will be quiet again

Until the next time….

(Jeffarama! is Bolton's Punk Poet and has been writing and performing for 6 years. During that time, he has supported the likes of Dave Sharp (The Alarm) & TV Smith (The Adverts), and loads of other bands. Also part of poetry & music band A Means to an End with Andy N & Petrova.

Jeff is a founder member of Half Evil Promotions Bolton, who organise open mic night and gigs, and went on two tours - Buskin 4 Beer & Jammin with Jeffarama! combining poetry and music. On a similar vein he created the very successful nights Guitar n Verse & Performance!

Jeff also organises Bolton WriteOutLoud nights and has also just released his first solo book 'Loud n Proud', a collection of 40 poems from over the last 6 years (£5 - available from Jeff)

Part XXXII

We met one time after that

Under damp light

Next to that faded red brick tunnel

Which eventually led

Back to Chester Road

Just off the quays,

A few days after

Graced with meloacholy

Sucking in my breath

Swallowing In my nerves

Steeped in a measure of constructed sweat

‘I don’t understand what happened?’

I asked in surprise at your smiling face

‘I could have saved you’

 Looking at the palm of my hand.

But you had gone when I looked up. 

Guest Poet 15 - Kealan Coady - Birthright

(Our next guest poet came from un-usual sources and with a bio which I have doubts about still makes for a stirring poem)

Pale efforts of being, our used pasts whine in nights of blunt and sudden childhoods deformed beyond reason.

The freedom to fail and be flayed for a fathers killing grin or mutant offspring cry.

There is bliss in the shadows, thrills in shade. Nothing is vacant in theory, just empty voices, cold and alone, as silent infants thread the waves of care homes.

Someone abandons all meaning and welcomes the ghost as a birthright.

(Kealan Coady is a fictional Irish writer created by notorious serial killer Michael White. (1856 - 2009) Shortly after his execution, a series of poems and short stories were found to be in his possession. Of the poems, only 'Birthright survives, and is kept at the torture museum, Amsterdam.

Some more of his short stories can be seen here)

XXXI

Afterwards you had gone

when I was picked up

from the edge of the flames

by the first two policemen,

almost like you hadn’t been there

in the first place,

Removing all traces

of your mudden footsteps

and the stains of your denim jacket

which had touched the

edge of the shelter

like you were trying to edit yourself

out of the story,

until it got to the point

when you turn the lights down

and ask yourself whether

the conversations you had

were real,

or imaginary fragments

sulking at the edge of the quays

of some untold novel

lost in your thoughts  

letting your perfume carry

a wordless thank you

over what you had just done. 

Part XXIX and XXX

XXIX

Returning afterwards

All I could see was a burnt out shoe

here and there

And a wheel from a pram,

Trees holding their branches

Over their heads

Like they were covering their faces

Frozen in terror

At all that they had seen

Buried under the foundations,

Wishing they could leap away

On tramplones.

Birds and geese who wouldn’t

stop for days afterwards

and gates on the locks

that remained permently open

signalling to hurry on pass,

rather than your dead body

which must have laid there dead

for minutes

before I got there

and your ghost which wouldn’t

look me in the face afterwards

like a time traveller gone wrong.

XXX

taking back that moment

perhaps I would have stood still

and listened to your final warning

as I saw that tram spin then crash,

perhaps I would have simply called

the Police and the ambulances

and let them deal with the screams

of the dying and the dead,

and listened to your simple no

which got repeated over and over

as I raced towards the tram,

taking each stride

like I didn’t know what I was doing

rather than your warning

running across the tightrope

of baynets stuck in the flames. 

Part XXVII and XXVIII

XXVII

Somewhere in the flames

Lay a toy screaming

As the batteries distinguished

Onto the floor

Then it’s arms

And it’s legs,

Melting underneath

The gaps in the floors

Before dripping onto

The pavement

Next to the charred wheels,

Etched in the heat

With smoke

Coughing out of the windows

With your face pinned

Against the door

Both inside and outside

As much a mirror

To the suffering

But several different kinds

Of warning. 


XVIII

Passing cars deflect on the back

of closed bank counters

holding each others hands

gouged in frozen terror

outstretched on the edge

of the near dead in purgatory

held in place in-between

a frozen surface tension and

the glow of filtered moonlight

ducking and diving between flames

humming like an engine

stained in a nervous sweat

mirroring the fear of my own hands

as I dragged out

two, then three children out

with your words pleading

no, no, no

then I saw your body.

Guest Poet 14 – Scott Devon - Out of the earth

I grew a gun, once, out of the earth and watered it with Galilee,

saw the salt stick to its silver petaled barrel, alone in the earth

as the chamber filled itself with twelve blank bullets, aimed upon the world.

My home was on high, made from Oak my father grew, idyllic view but

in winter the rain fell too warm upon my world, it worried me so

I grew a gun, once, out of the earth and watered it with Galilee.

The rain like leeches addicted to dry would come, naked I’d run in

panic to shelter the trigger, check the safety, keep the powder dry,

as the chamber filled itself with twelve blank bullets, aimed upon the world.

It spoke in whispers to me through the earth and air, said it was ready

to die, told me it was afraid but it had faith in its creator,

I grew a gun, once, out of the earth and watered it with Galilee.

Arm’s length I held it as it died and felt nothing except pure purpose,

the last words in me, the last wish burning the air, how heavy he grew

as the chamber filled itself with twelve blank bullets, aimed upon the world.

Each round I sent down the barrel towards the light, saw the pearly smoke

deafened, knew at once it was my fault because I did not plant a lamb,

I grew a gun, once, out of the earth and watered it with Galilee

as the chamber filled itself with twelve blank bullets, aimed upon the world.

(Scott Devon is a British born poet, with an MA in Creative Writing from MMU. He is the former head of neo:writers, a department of neo:artists CIC, and the organiser of the neo:anthology Project 2013, which has published writers such as multiple Pushcart prize nominee Howie Good, and Faber poet George Szirtes, http://www.neoartists.co.uk/blog/. Scott's work explores the duality of nature and man, attempting to uncover and understand the ambivalence which lies within us all. His work has been published widely across Europe and America, but most recently by the Origami Poetry project, Stepaway Magazine, Epicentre Magazine, Egg poetry, Bareback, Diastixo.gr, Staxtes.com, Chicago Literati, Matchbox Poems and Starburst Magazine. His poem ‘Belief’ was independently selected to be translated and read on National Greek radio, and he was selected to write in conjunction with the Royal Philharmonic Society in July 2013. His two micro-chapbooks ‘Tightrope’ (2012) and ‘The Book of Doubt’ (2014) are both published by Origami Press.

More of his work can be found at:

http://www.origamipoems.com/poets/131-scott-devon

Part XXVI

One of the policemen told me afterwards

they couldn’t believe more

weren’t hurt or even killed

given the size of the crush,

And the fire that sprang

from it afterwards

blazoning across the sky

Let alone how the hell

I wasn’t killed doing what I did.

‘I’m not a hero’ I said to him

with a smile

that bordered on terror

rather than pride

which in truth

summed up the way things went

spiked in melancholia. 

Guest Poet 13 - Michael Wilson - (Untitled)

(Next of our guest poets is a poet I have known for some years now called Michael Wilson who originally from Northern Ireland lived in Manchester, before moving to Portstewart who offers a frightening ghost story which almost had me wondering whether this was a true story or not right after the end) 

The room was a series of rising and falling breaths
A wife and her husband slept as they always did Side by side Something was different that particular night The wife woke to the thought of a voice A feeling, hard to explain went through her body A soft voice, straining to sound quietly was sounding from the corner of the dark bedroom Fright froze her throat she raised her head and looked over her husband's sleeping form There, in the corner of the room was the ghostly appearance of a young man "Come here" he said Silently she eased herself out of bed and made her way over there, mindful to make no noise She stood in front of him "I am lost between two worlds, but one kiss is all I need, one kiss will set me free" So, with her heart in her hand, taken with this poor man's plight, leaned in slowly, so slowly, for a kiss Inches from his lips, a disembodied boot flew across the bedroom and sailed through the ghost's head, the husband shouted "No fucking way!" And with the spell on the wife broken, the ghost of the man vanished never to return

(Mike Wilson is the author of numerous collections. He can be contacted through his facebook page which is here)

Guest Poet 12 - Intoxikie - A Poem about a poem

(Next up of our guest poets is I know called Intoxikie (Not his real name of course), a young writer from Manchester who I encountered through a friend of mine last year who offers a very, very different kind of Ghost Poem which kinda surprised me a little when I read it but of which i hope you enjoy too)

Ghost of my former self, 
Who I used to be
Ghost of Grace and Humility
I'm reaching out for you
Whilst I'm full of confidence and stupidity
I'm wasting time hating
When I know that love can feel so good
The spirit of it touches me
Warm little fingers poking me in the arm
I'm anxious of my own confidence
Perfect paradox
I've said this year could be
Channeling all my Chi
Or suicide 
This year could be
Channeling all my Chi
Or suicide 
This year could easily be
Channeling all my chi 
Or giving in to my homicidal tendencies 
Mix of delusion and memory 

Gun in a red heads mouth
Make her face match her hair: Blaww!!

Angry at the world
Feeling no connection to it
Looking for flesh to get into it 
Making it feel what I am like music
I'll keep my lack of enlightenment 
My frightened sense
And frightening sense of growing confidence and use it 
Getting psychological
Meet Dr Stupid
My patient says he wants to blow up a building
I say "c'mon let's do it
Do it, do it, do it"
Watch a huge hold blast through the bricks
With glass and shrapnel of all sorts 
Flying through it
Along with mangled body parts
Severed arms giving the sky a high five

My Patient tries to restrain
The excitement in his eyes
And before he can reply I say
"C'mon, c'mon
Let's poem the hell out of everyone"

(An slightly different version containing a little bit off offensive language can be seen at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8QNDYsQwrDg&feature=youtu.be)


Intoxikie is a writer from Manchester, UK. His youtube page is https://www.youtube.com/user/TheIntoxikie

Part XXV

Behind the bricked up yard
You could hear two dogs yapping
For hours and hours
Until their voices went,

Almost like they were trying to
Direct the police then the ambulances 
To where the crash happened,

Composing imaginary preludes
To piano solos
Using their barking
Skittled with silver 
Across the dry, red hot air 

Breathing like ghosts 
Frantically trying to get across
The top of the wall
To help out in the carnage
That burned throughout that night. 

Guest Poet 11 - Daniela Voicu - Ghosts of Existence

(Here is another excellent guest poem from an Romanian Poet Daniela Voicu who I met a few months ago and have been enjoying her dark poetry even since)

From dark water,

red sound is born

spreading death into the light

old fog comes home

shadowy spirit sings a dream to escape death

with a new metallic life, soul

fights until the last sword for Peace

shadows scream inside the body of the floating trees:

Who will remain in our blurry world,

hungry for essence?

We are the ghost of this era

no one sees us

we can be what we want,

just closing the eyes

in remembrance of happiness…

(in every mother exists an unborn hero) ,,

They” killed the last Eucharist with stones

in the middle of the big plaza, rewriting history

from the blood of each saint.

(Daniela Voicu is a Romanian poet. Her poems have been published in more than 50 jurnals and magazines Cuget Liber, Agero Stuttgart, New York Magazine, Maintenant 7, Poetic Diversity, Pirene’s Fountain, Curentul Internaţional, Romanian Pages in New Zeeland, Pheonix Mission and much more. In various anthologies (30) including Tears of Ink, The Poetry of War and Peace, Words on the Winds of Change, Just a Dream and Reflections on a Blue Planet etc. Her poetry collections include, Poems of Angels (2006), Blue in Vitro (2012), Surfing Silence (2012), Windows Without Dreams (2012), Sky Hands (2013) and Vulnerable Breeze (2013) Sunset and Love ( 2013), Plan for seduction(2014).

Her poetry collections include, Poems of Angels (2006), Blue in Vitro (2012), Surfing Silence (2012), Windows Without Dreams (2012), Sky Hands (2013) and Vulnerable Breeze (2013) Sunset and Love ( 2013), Plan for seduction(2014).

In 2009, she founded the international journal of culture and literature, Cuib Nest Nido; and in 2011 she founded the international poetry festival of music and contemporary art, The Art of Being Human and poetry group with the same name. She edited in 2013-2014, 9 volumes of The art of being human International Poetry Anthology in English and in Romanian. 
Since 2009, she has been a member of the Writers' League of Romania.)

.

e

Part XXIV

Statistically the ambulance man told me

I should have been killed

Or buried deep under thirty foot of track,

Choked to death in the smoke

Or suffered such burning

It would have looked like

I had gone up like matches in a coal fire

Broken bones that I didn’t know existed

And blinded myself in the brightness

Of the flames which

Shone like a exploding sun in the moonlight

Certainly not walked out of the flames

In slow motion

With several children by my side

Like Jesus walking across water. 

Guest Poet 10 - Antony Owen - A burial of ghosts

(Our Latest guest poet is a poet I have known for some time and has proved inspiration throughout this blog, Antony Owen).

We are all here curled in colour,

barely held together by hair bobbles

which Mum only wore on chip pan Fridays

before the must have perm of nineteen eighty.

We are here in this moth ping light

that money shot of a shit beach in Malta

us five in a red ear sun going down behind us,

where whelks clung on to rocks to never leave them.

All of us were there eating wristband dinners.

We brothers with our bagsy first dives as Dad watched

gleaming gold on hired plastic by our burnt Mum

reading nivea bottles and dousing us thrice hourly in cream.

We are all here fading away in an A-Z loft

that Dad organised when his Mum wasn’t here.

He came up to this place to say goodbye to nineteen fifty nine

when he holidayed in Rhyl and dreamed of Marilyn Monroe.

These sad exhumations of lives that were here

of unrehearsed smiles in rehearsed routines, happy

to be in our roles before life changed us to give life

yet some of us are still there in the old one.

(Antony Owen was born in Coventry and is the author of three poetry collections since 2009; My Father's Eyes Were Blue (Heaventree) The Dreaded Boy (Pighog) & The year I loved England (Pighog) which is out July 2014. Apart from many magazines Owens work has been exhibited at The Hiroshima Peace Museum and he is a past finalist of The Wilfred Owen Story and The Shine Journal.)

Part XXIII

Stuck on the outskirts of the madness,

The heat began to build up in slow motion

Then two dogs began barking in the yard nearby,

Alleyways laced in smoke from miles away

And the panic of the dying and the dead

As I saw the driver hit the barrier

Then fall out almost by luck

As first the front carriage burst into flames

Then the back one in a mirror reaction

With dozens trapped inside.

‘Jesus’ I said falling back to the ground.

‘You better go’ You said to me eventually

staring blankly into the flames

absorbing my footsteps

into the pandemonium of fire

magnifying my terror

with each footstep. 

Guest Poet 9 - Ian Whiteley - That Which Autumn Leaves

(Here is our 8th guest poet of the month, Ian Whiteley,a  poet originally bought in Wakefield but now living in Wigan)

The clowns were funny in the ring,
as they joked and tumbled and fell -
but in the camp, after the show,
they made our young lives hell.
Still in their masks of garish paint
and drunk on Vodka shots,
they cut and bruised and beat us,
hatching cruel, twisted plots.

I never saw the demons
lurking safe behind the masks
and who would have suspected them
as they went about their tasks?
We couldn’t tell our parents,
although so great was our need
to escape their vile clutches,
“Blaming clowns, indeed!”

So as they slept in caravans
painted in autumn shades,
some friends and I crept up on them,
our young hearts so afraid.
We lit a little fire
underneath the sleeping nest
and jammed tree branches in the doors.
Oh, what a jolly jest.

We banged nails in the window frames
and waited for the screams
when those inside rushed at the door.
I hear them in my dreams.
They cursed and swore unholy vengeance
in strange Romany tongues,
as flames and smoke lapped around them
and scorched into their lungs.

The paint on every caravan
peeled and bubbled like hell
and we swore an oath between us
that we would never, ever, tell.
We stood at the far side of the field
as the garish wagons burned.
The shades of autumn lit the sky
as one by one we turned.

The shrieks in the night sounded like
frenzied jesters frying
in a three ring circus of the night.
The children stopped their crying.
The shades of autumn blurred
across an unforgiving sky.
We even raised the alarm ourselves
As we waited for them to die.

Our handiwork went undetected,
just more ash in the rubble.
None of us were suspected then
and no one got into trouble -
but now my friends have all passed on,
as age comes to us all,
every autumn I wait for them
to come around and call.

For every year since that fateful day,
as the night sky burns in season
of falling leaves and epitaphs,
they seem to have a reason
to return to that scorched cradle
and pitch their caravan,
in the same spot in that killing field
where years ago we ran.

I fear them, not for our redemptive past
but, because  I see the eyes
of Paul, Peter, John and Mark
and hear their mournful cries
spilling from cracked and crumbled greasepaint faces
of each and every ghost
that visits me upon that night
I dread and fear the most.

When autumn visits with the clowns
I come to realise,
that I stand in the twilight of my life
and winter, soon, will rise.
The flaming oranges will pass
and give way to the white,
smudged with the ashes of my guilt
and many years of lies.

The clowns will wait round corners
with their evil, coal-black stare
and I will smell them first,
the acrid scent of burning hair.
In livery of orange and gold
they will open the doors wide
on their caravan of collected souls -
and I will step inside.


(Ian Whiteley was born in Wakefield and now lives in Wigan He is a Performance Poet who enjoys writing about anything and everything - usually with a dark twist, it's not all free-verse or a slave to rhythm and rhyme.  The recurring themes of life and the human condition are dealt with head on or with a dark humour.  It is the world of the free spirit with a day job, the open road with traffic cones and of being happy never after.  He uses imagery gleaned from such diverse sources as religion, the supernatural, social politics, pop culture and rock music.  

He has performed throughout Lancashire and Yorkshire and is widely published in collections and anthologies.

His first collection of poems, 'A Step Towards Winter', was published in 2013 as well as a CD of his work, ‘Poetic License’, which is a collection of poetry set to rock, punk, folk and electronic musical backings, released under his music project ‘The Crows Of Albion’.

He has a web page at: http://www.thecrowsofalbion.com/)