stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 21078
    [post_author] => 11
    [post_date] => 2020-09-24 14:11:59
    [post_date_gmt] => 2020-09-24 14:11:59
    [post_content] => Morning has Broken, said the hymn
like the first morning; and (for me)
was unreadable even when pounded
out with heavy hammers
mor- / -ning / has / bro- / -ken

Teacher would perform the trick
of lifting a sound and a sherbet lemon
from a high shelf – mor, he would say –
cracking the sweet with his teeth
now you, now you…
                                  – ning he would say
now you, now you, NOW YOU…

Each bit spoke for itself, I was told;
he showed his tongue and sweet fragments.
MOR- crack! -NING / HAS / BRO- crack! -KEN
a spine-touching nosedive of sound
scattering hanks of itself on the road outside.
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
okay, but my spoke had a missing bicycle.

Nothing screamed from the page;
even when scratched by an adult fingernail
mor- couldn’t talk, -ning had no bell.
I couldn’t conceive of them leaping through eyes
into the brain, and out of the throat.

I hosted a dream of shapes and cyphers
that whispered, sneezed, clanged and blared
but none of them had any name, or if they did,
it constantly broke, broke again
like the first morning.

When told I was lazy or dull,
springing fresh from the Word
I perched my face on the loops and ascenders
of the wrought iron gate of the school
till morning mended.
    [post_title] => The First Bird of Dyslexia
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => the-first-bird-of-dyslexia
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2020-10-01 06:07:24
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2020-10-01 06:07:24
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=21078
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2020
            [wpcf-summary-description] => Commended in The Poetry Society’s Stanza Poetry Competition 2020 on the theme of ‘Hear’, judged by Heidi Williamson.
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, 2020 Poetry Society Stanza Competition
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 21083
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Philip Burton
            [slug] => philip-burton
            [content] => Philip Burton has a love for readings and performance, developed through life as an English and Drama teacher, Lancashire head teacher, folksinger, actor, and multi-award-winning poet. He was also, for some years, a poetry practitioner who, as Pip The Poet, provided hundreds of poetry days for schools and also for adult learners.

Three hundred and seventy of Philip’s poems have appeared in literary magazines since 1998, including PN Review, and Stand. His poems have been widely anthologised.

In 2019, Philip held four First prizes concurrently in poetry competitions: the National Arts Centre Jack Clemo, 2019; the Horwich Writers, 2018; the Sandwich (Kent) Poet of the Year, 2018; and the Barn Owl Trust, 2017. Philip also won Third prize both in the 2019 Hastings poetry competition, and in The Ware Poets open poetry competition 2020.

He is a member of The Poetry Society's Ribble Valley Stanza, and of the Clitheroe Writers Group, and is Honorary President of Burnley Writers’ Circle.

Philip Burton’s poetry publications include The Raven’s Diary (joe publish 1998), Couples (Clitheroe Books Press 2008), His Usual Theft, (Indigo Dreams Press 2017) and his latest, Gaia Warnings, is due out from Palewell Press in 2021.

www.philipburton.net
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 21083
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Philip Burton
    [slug] => philip-burton
    [content] => Philip Burton has a love for readings and performance, developed through life as an English and Drama teacher, Lancashire head teacher, folksinger, actor, and multi-award-winning poet. He was also, for some years, a poetry practitioner who, as Pip The Poet, provided hundreds of poetry days for schools and also for adult learners.

Three hundred and seventy of Philip’s poems have appeared in literary magazines since 1998, including PN Review, and Stand. His poems have been widely anthologised.

In 2019, Philip held four First prizes concurrently in poetry competitions: the National Arts Centre Jack Clemo, 2019; the Horwich Writers, 2018; the Sandwich (Kent) Poet of the Year, 2018; and the Barn Owl Trust, 2017. Philip also won Third prize both in the 2019 Hastings poetry competition, and in The Ware Poets open poetry competition 2020.

He is a member of The Poetry Society's Ribble Valley Stanza, and of the Clitheroe Writers Group, and is Honorary President of Burnley Writers’ Circle.

Philip Burton’s poetry publications include The Raven’s Diary (joe publish 1998), Couples (Clitheroe Books Press 2008), His Usual Theft, (Indigo Dreams Press 2017) and his latest, Gaia Warnings, is due out from Palewell Press in 2021.

www.philipburton.net
)

The First Bird of Dyslexia

Philip Burton

Morning has Broken, said the hymn
like the first morning; and (for me)
was unreadable even when pounded
out with heavy hammers
mor- / -ning / has / bro- / -ken

Teacher would perform the trick
of lifting a sound and a sherbet lemon
from a high shelf – mor, he would say –
cracking the sweet with his teeth
now you, now you…
                                  – ning he would say
now you, now you, NOW YOU…

Each bit spoke for itself, I was told;
he showed his tongue and sweet fragments.
MOR- crack! -NING / HAS / BRO- crack! -KEN
a spine-touching nosedive of sound
scattering hanks of itself on the road outside.
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
okay, but my spoke had a missing bicycle.

Nothing screamed from the page;
even when scratched by an adult fingernail
mor- couldn’t talk, -ning had no bell.
I couldn’t conceive of them leaping through eyes
into the brain, and out of the throat.

I hosted a dream of shapes and cyphers
that whispered, sneezed, clanged and blared
but none of them had any name, or if they did,
it constantly broke, broke again
like the first morning.

When told I was lazy or dull,
springing fresh from the Word
I perched my face on the loops and ascenders
of the wrought iron gate of the school
till morning mended.