Poems by Grant Tarbard

Observing the Sabbath


Sabbath on yellow

Wolf’s mountain, no false

Idols are present.

Ladybird incense

Languishes, floating.


Gifts from my Son





under the gallows


of a Belgian battlefield


he picks a relic



a dagger of wood


lying in its grave so long


resurrection was



a certainty, all


he had to do was prize it


from the bank of soil



wrestle the husk from


the uncertain gale of time’s


russet paroxysm







under the rock crown


of a Tintagel grotto


lies the magics source



weeping turquoise tears


of departing smoke vapours


sorcery in an



unmarked grave. The cave


was flooded when he went there


he had his knights quest



to bring me back a


piece of Arthur, of Merlin


of Britain itself






2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Maureen Weldon
    Aug 04, 2014 @ 00:18:18

    I like both of Grant Tarbard’s poems.

    Maureen Weldon


  2. Paul Beech
    Aug 10, 2014 @ 07:00:29


    Arresting wordplay and imagery, but much more than this – both your poems set me thinking. I like ‘Gifts from my Son’ especially.



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