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FOCUS ON RHYS MILSOM

LETHARGY, DRINK, DRUGS... THE TOPICS OF A LOT OF GOOD MODERN POETRY - AND THEMES MILSOM EXPLORES
 
Rhys Milsom is a poet, writer, reviewer, creative writing tutor and workshop facilitator based in Cardiff. He has a BA in Creative Writing from the University of South Wales and an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Wales: Trinity Saint David.
His fiction and poetry has been widely published, including in Wales Arts ReviewLitro Magazine,The Lonely Crowd and The Lampeter Review, amongst others. His debut poetry collection, Amnesia, is published by Onion Custard Publishing and has been described as ‘…a frank comment on increasingly important conversations:

youth lethargy, drink, drugs and notions of masculinity’ and states ‘the voice of the poems is a raw, transparent and open one throughout.’
Rhys has spoken and read at various literary spaces, including Dylan Thomas Day. He was awarded The Short Story’s International Writers Award in February 2016, a revered worldwide competition.
 
 
 
A View: Thomas Street;
Broadfield Close; Sleep



Getting in at

2

a.m.

stinking of other

people’s lies and

a mouth with tinges

of an hour-old

cigarette

knowing that tomorrow’s

going to be

no different sort of

makes it

easier

to understand why some

dissolve out of it all

perhaps they’re not

so

cowardly after all

perhaps they’re the

realists



my father’s snores

remind me of

when I was

younger

in my grandparents

house with

the

T.V so loud

& the horses

racing for the needs

of the desperate

with my granddad sat

in his chair

a cigarette burning

away between

his fingertips

shouting at the screen

cigarette ash flicking &

blemishing the carpet



I’m on that

carpet

watching with a

golden Labrador polishing

my fingers clean

when the race is over it’s quiet

and the Labrador

sighs and lies down

my head falls on

her softly

breathing

body

golden splinters sewing into

my hair and

creased clothes


my granddad gets another smoke

10 minutes later

he’s

asleep

snoring like my father

the cat settles

curls onto my lap

tiny claws pin-

pricking

my skin

the sound of a car passing on the bypass

my father’s snores

I now know why

Sleep

comes so easily
 
 

 
 
 
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