Benjamin Evans - Author

Hi all Its been a long break, which I have spent mainly running through mud and writing poetry. For more on the former I will soon post my new book entitled The Road Runner, but in the meantime here's some verse, recognised as 'very good' in my Creative Writing course. Paths to Enlightenment The Bus Stop Beneath the tors and moors of England I sit and wait for the bus to come. A stoic worship in a pagan shrine Amongst mags, rags and stench of humankind. Rains fall, plants sprout and stone becomes moss. My thoughts meander to a timeless flow. Then one day I hear a mechanic roar And a garrulous cascade thunder off the tor. A torrent of screams urging me aboard: 'Get on, we're late! Come on, open the door!' I withdraw inside the empty shelter To shield my soul in its dark embrace The Sign A rusting pendulum rocks on the breeze Creaking and squeaking like old man's knees. 'The centre of the financial world,' it screams Over a desert of discarded dreams. ...

This the short story that I submitted for my open university course, which has been described by my tutor as a 'magical and quirky' and 'reminiscent of the Witches of Eastwick.' Here it is anyway: The Single Vicars Club For ten years of my life I was an angel. You know - a proper angel with blond hair, perfect white skin and pink virginal lips, sent by God to do His work on earth. I don’t know why God chose me in particular. I know He works in ways we don’t understand. Maybe it was because I spent a lot of time alone. Maybe it was because my mother was dead and my father barely noticed I was alive. Maybe it was because I was smart and I would know what he wanted me to do. Or maybe it was because I was fifteen years old, had slept with over a hundred men and had never felt anything for any of them. Yes, yes I think that’s probably what it was. Why do I think this? Because the work that God wanted me to do didn’t require his usual recruits, like charity workers or clean c...

Yes, that was the exercise. A poem with alliteration on every line written about love for an object. Very trying, but it did mean that I got to let out some more confessions about the concerning relationship between my bike and I. Love on Two Wheels - A Poem Clunk clunk clunk Shifts will shank and slip Click click click Barings bounce and break Squeaal. Squeaaal. Pads rasp on rim Scratch, scratch. Saddle scrapes my crotch Handles hammer hands Wheelarch rakes the thigh Pedals pummel my shin You’re unreliable as a rat Painful as a piercing You hurt and harangue me, You make my stomach sick Yet my bike, my beau I love you For all the hurt and the pain When we pedal the peaks, We speed and fly on the freeway You make me live and laugh; Clamour and acclaim. We journey, one organ, one person. We join together, cycle and soul We are welded Amalgamated A bond unbreakable That’s why you are more Than a painting or ...

Hello all Its poetry time on the Creative Writing Course. I am dothing my beret and will go and sit in the nearest field, just when it stops raining and/or being freezing. So far it has proved a mixed bag. I have written a poem while listening to music (exercise 12.3) which went well, and i have written a poem about a cow (exercise 12.5), which was awful. I will share the former if you don't mind. The Lake The plain of your stomach Still and serene as a mountain lake I kiss the top of the water A ripple up your body A breath of air sounds above me Leaves rustle in recognition The waters lap against my face Warm and soft like the womb I want to dive in Submerge myself in blue syrup Fill my pores with your touch Mix my body with you You urge me down deeper Until i can see or feel no other The world is blue, is you I am blue. I am the water. So that was written while listening to Tender by Blur interestingly enough. Okay its not perfect, but its a start. Next assignment - a poem with...

The Action Man I am pedaling towards a village. It is a small village with a church, a pub and a pond, and not much else. It is like a hundred other villages I have passed through in the fifty days I have been pedaling, like the thousands of villages that exist in this country, that I could pass through if I could keep pedaling. This is the last village I am going to see however, because after fifty days and fifty nights I am going to have to stop. I don’t want to. I love pedaling on my bicycle. But I am not going to have a choice. I can see them already, waiting for me. They are waiting and they are not going to let me leave. They want me to stay in the village forever. When I started fifty days ago I didn’t want to leave the village. I was a scared little boy. I didn’t think I would survive out there. As I pedaled I could see the corner shop where I used to steal sweets, the playing fields where I had mud kicked at my face, the lake where I had capsized Vanessa Angel’s boat...

Okay, so Creative Writing Assignment One is back. The idea was to use your skills in err...creativity, to put together a piece from one of a few prompts: - The house opposite - Driving alone - The smells of home - A beach in winter - Things that make the heart beat faster Naturally i chose the latter, and considered the idea of a man trapped in routine and regulation, who is obsessed with time and lives by the ticking of his watch. Then he meets a woman and the pace and rhythm of his life suddenly is taken beyond his control. Here's the main piece: Running Out of Time There are fifty minutes until its nine o’clock. That means there are fifteen hours and fifty minutes left in the day. In forty-one days, fifteen hours and fifty minutes I will be thirty-five years old. After that I will probably have another forty years left to live. The clock is ticking. Tick, tick, tick, tick. The tube train is late. A platform sighs and the temperature rises. It is late on av...

Whistle, cough, yawn, sniff A-hem, ahem, ahem, ahem ahem! Nice weather, At least it’s Friday I’ve got Shepherd’s Pie for dinner Whisper, whisper Love you. Love you. Would you like a bite of this? Ring ring, ring, ring, ring ring, ring ring Please hold. Please call back later. Waa! Waa! Waa! Waaeeeeaaaa! Its different when you have kids Beep. Oi oi. Yes mate, yes mate. How was you. In'it. Yeah you? Click, click. Tap tap. Pat pat. Scratch scratch. Yawwwnn. Oh dear! Oh my God. Save the children! Big Issue? Ten for a pound. Have a nice day! Humm Humm. Doo de doo. Whistle whistle whistle whistle. Is it because we don't talk That we make so much noise? Okay okay, nothing to be taken too seriously here – I’m not taking poetry writing until next year, but I think it does beg a few questions nonetheless. Why, in a world where we have such a wealth of sounds and images to distract us, do we persist in in...