"Mark's work is full of surprises. Sometimes mournful, always potent, and everywhere filled with good humour. Even at his most experimental, Mark's generous spirit shines through making for sometimes provocative, but always an inclusive, body of work."
"The only thing equal to Mark Connors' enthusiasm for poetry is his own writing. To watch him take the stage and perform is to watch a tennis player waiting to serve the first ball of a Wimbledon final. There is a quiet hush, a slight shuffle, then his voice - strong and assured. It's no surprise to see him finally getting the recognition he richly deserves, both for the championing of other poets' work and for his own, often mesmerising, poems."
And we leave Dervaig before the final bell,
cutting through an artery of Mull.
The only stars visible are from a galaxy not so far away:
a panicked constellation, huddled
and teetering on the sharp edge of a passing place
high above a path of silhouetted death:
the gnarled and charred remains of tortured pine.
And as we pass those stars, we give the gift of flight
to a pair of barn Owls, their wings like white shirts
under the black light of rock clubs
we used to frequent; magnesium bright,
As they rise from the dark for a beat
then fly back into black
away from the fire of our full beam,
their almost screams filling up the big black sky.
Published by Indigo Dreams (The Dawntrader, 2013)
Home is not sad. It stays as it should stay,
redolent of early morning scurries
from those who left, to go to work or play;
keeps the cat dry and safe, smells of curries
lovingly made the night before, displays
excerpts of lived lives on its hallowed walls,
a joyous exhibition with no pain
on show; a worn welcome mat in the hall,
a place to return to: again, again.
Your clutter and hoard. The full fridge. That smell.
Published by Prole Books, 2014
If I was a location scout
for ITV procedurals,
I’d show them places made for murder:
The allotments on Low Lane,
the air-raid shelters in the woods,
Clayton Quarry, Bray's roof,
the stagnant pond where the old soap mill once stood,
and a hundred other spots
where we hung out as kids.
Or we could go to Alma Road,
New Street or Prince Philip Playing Fields;
but that wouldn’t be the same now, would it?
Published by Leads to Leeds, 2015