2017 is not the time to blink
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For The Chorus

This is a collection about memory, music, loss, sex, God and fighting.  Primarily lyrical in tone, in one way or another it contains only love poems.

Keiran Goddard’s poetry throws light on the things you’re not supposed to notice; the fear and the beauty in a lover’s handwriting, a snapped vine, an uneasy friendship. No cutting through swathes of irony or meta-hedging; Goddard does things the hard way so you don’t have to. Old codes, imminent disasters, the raw clay of change. For The Chorus is the most assured, urgent and unabashedly Romantic debut I’ve read in a very long time.” -Luke Kennard

Keiran Goddard is a writer who sees the visionary in the ordinary - ties on a chair are 'a waterfall of wax tongues'. a jacket is 'two folded ravens....settled for the night' -  and are charged with the presence, or absence, of the other - the friend, the loved one, the lost one. The voice is perfectly judged, with never a surplus word.  - Gillian Clarke, National Poet for Wales

An urgency of direct communication wedded to an inventively metaphorical working through distinguishes the soundscape of Keiran Goddard's first collection. For the Chorus brings up the curtain on a singular voice emerging from its line. - Peter Robinson

AUTHOR

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Keiran Goddard was born and raised in Shard End, Birmingham and educated in Oxford. His work has previously been published in a number of magazines and anthologies and his first pamphlet, Strings, came out in 2013. This is his debut collection

He has worked as a journalist and editor and in higher education. He now works in the third sector, is a poetry editor for the Squawk Back and is undertaking a research project on contemporary poetics. His other interests include wine, whiskey, books, music and invective.

SAMPLE POEM - 'NAPE'

What an utter angle-poise lamp of a neck you have,
you disconcertingly accurate thrower of light
on to the busted hunch of my bedroom furniture.

You have cast the ties looped on the back of my chair
as a festival plant, a waterfall of wax tongues
drooping from a branch above the city square.

Lit my jacket as two folded ravens
that have set their feathers and settled
for the night at the foot of the bed.

In the illuminated shrag of the floorboard
I am made beachcomber, botanist,
someone concerned with forestry.

I am struck, collecting twigs and etching
a comedian’s circle around our feet.
I press a splintered finger against

the button-hole of a bird’s chest,
and edge myself quietly towards the light.