About Eyewear the blog

Eyewear THE BLOG is the most read British poetry blogzine, getting more than 25,000 page-views a month. It began in 2005. and ha snow been read by over 2 million The views expressed by editor Todd Swift are not necessarily shared by the contributing poets and reviewers. Any material on this blog infringing copyright will be removed upon request.

Monday, 27 July 2015


Very sad news.  Lee Harwood has died.  Harwood was an important British poet, whose work bridged over to American poetics and styles, especially those of the abstract lyricists of the New York School, perhaps.

He was a gentle person, and his presence was lovely.  Had his work not fallen foul of certain critical tendencies in British poetry reception of the 60s-80s especially, which favoured a more well-made traditional poem, he would have surely been more widely enjoyed for what he truly was - one of the best, and most lyrically evocative  poets- sensuous of thought if minimal of touch - of his generation. As it was, those in the know loved his writing.



The STYLISH Eyewear 20/20 Pamphlet series - edited by Les Robinson and designed by Edwin Smet - is now up to 16 poets - and we're launching 8 of the collections July 29th, at The Rugby Tavern, Bloomsbury, at 7-9pm, in a pub famous for being a watering hole for Plath and Hughes.

Fans of great contemporary poetry by new, emerging, and established poets cannot but find something to enjoy - and since each poet will be reading for only 5 minutes, it will be a relatively quick and fun event (plus drinks, chance to get books signed, chat, and generally mingle).

Here are the poets reading, IN NO ORDER, including a guest from Ireland, Julie Morrissy, whose work with Eyewear is out only later - she's a taste of things to come (I will be reading from Jack Little's pamphlet, he is back to Mexico now)....


Tuesday, 7 July 2015


The Best New Poets: 50 Poems From Emerging Writers is a brilliant series from America, that seeks to celebrate younger poets that don't yet have a first book published yet.

Eyewear PUBLISHING is now starting a similar series for the UK and Irish poets in a similar boat, in pure and honourable homage to a great series we admire from abroad, much as Salt has the Best British Poetry series, modelled after its American influential counterpart.

THE BEST NEW BRITISH AND IRISH POETS 2016 can be submitted to now...

How does one get included? Simple. You enter our competition to be considered.

You email us between 1-3 of your best poems (no more than 100 lines please)  in a word doc, including a 50-100 word bio, to info at eyewearpublishing dot com.

You then become a micropatron for £10  as entrance fee (which also entitles you to 2 free 2015 paperback collections or pamphlets) and Eyewear's team of judges, including Todd Swift and Cate Myddleton-Evans, will select any poets's poem that strikes them as extraordinary*.

The poems can have appeared before; they cannot be online. They must be original. You must be either a British or Irish citizen or a permanent resident of Britain or Ireland.  You cannot have a full collection published or due out before July 1, 2016.

The deadline to submit is September 1, 2015 - so you have the dog days of summer to polish those quills and tap those itty iPhone keys... good luck!

This paperback, out early 2016, designed by Edwin Smet, will be a wonderful way to get your work out there, as we will sell it in shops in the USA, UK, Ireland, and on Amazon and via our website.

We hope to make this an annual event!

*We reserve the right to call in poems and poets, if we do not receive enough top notch work over the transom.

7/7 ten years on

Eyewear was a very young blog of a few weeks, when tragedy struck London, ten years ago today in the morning.

Here is what we wrote then:

'The thing we feared most has happened: Madrid-style, multiple terrorist attacks on the London Underground and bus routes in the heart of London, timed with surgical cruelty after London's Olympic win and the start of the G8 summit. It is an unsettling time, and there have been many casualties. So far, over 33 fatalities have been reported.

It is - weatherwise and ironically (as in New York in 2001) - a warm, sunny day now, with lovely blue skies. Tens of thousands of would-be commuters are slowly walking home early. With no underground system, some mainline services closed, and few buses in Zone 1, some will be walking for hours. The streets are eerily calm, punctuated by sirens.

The people of London, accustomed to such things, are brave and will endure, but this is a sad day for all who love London and live here.'

Sadly, it ended up that more died - amid stories of great bravery and suffering, often deep underground - or in the twisted metal of the red bus in the violently disrupted street. One victim, at least, was evacuated from the tube to find herself moments later on the bus that exploded.

Ten years on, London's attacks remain the worst the country has endured since WW2  - though Tunisia is another awful event - and we can thank the security services for that.

However, we are not complacent. We know that a small group of lone wolves are out there, full of hate for Western values. They hate women and gays having equality. They hate British culture. They despise moderates on all sides.  They seek more destruction.

We are brave in London. We honour the dead. We respect the injured, and those who rescued them. We will stand strong.

But we must also do our best to vote for positions that will emphasise peace, tolerance, multiculturalism, and openness. We must not let our fear predominate. And we must do just battle, when required, with villains who would otherwise slay us. There be dragons. And we have Arthur's sword.

We are Britain, now and forever.

Monday, 6 July 2015


Eyewear doesn't usually break its protocol - we list our fave songs and tracks on a semi-regular basis, but not often would we just throw one name at you.

Here is a difference - the just-released single from the new Foals album, out August, is titled 'What Went Down' - and it heralds a mean, powerfully-driven, intense, and fully enclosed worldview - Foals are, with this song, the single most exciting rock (even hard rock) indie band in the UK.

Forget Arctic Monkeys, Royal Blood - this is a new level for 21st century rock music in England.  This is as hard as Led Zep. Has there been a British rock song this lean, pure, intelligent, resonant, and affecting this decade? We love it.  Do you?



For Immediate Release

B7 Media secures film and television rights

to Sumia Sukkar’s acclaimed novel of Syrian conflict

The Boy from Aleppo Who Painted the War follows B7 Media’s successful BBC Radio 4 dramatisation of a modern literary masterpiece

London, 6 July 2015:  The film and television rights to The Boy from Aleppo Who Painted the War, the debut novel by Sumia Sukkar set during the outbreak of the Syrian conflict, have been acquired by B7 Media.

Independent production and distribution company B7 Media has announced it has acquired an option to develop a motion picture or television serial based on Sumia Sukkar’s acclaimed debut novel of the Syrian conflict, The Boy from Aleppo Who Painted the War.
Following B7’s critically acclaimed radio dramatisation of the novel for BBC Radio 4 in 2014, featuring Farshid Rokey, this new film adaptation will look to explore this powerful and intimate drama in a widescreen setting. Simon Moorhead (Mirrormask, Luna) and Andrew Mark Sewell (Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont, Exit Thread) will produce.

Published by Eyewear, London, the novel was an immediate critical success on publication. The story gained a whole new audience when B7 Media adapted it into a successful Saturday Drama for BBC Radio 4, directed by Fiona McAlpine, produced by Andrew Mark Sewell and Patrick Chapman and dramatised for radio by Richard Kurti and Bev Doyle. Farshid Rokey, Noof Ousellam and Jalleh Alizadeh led an outstanding young cast in this moving realisation of a heartrending story.

About The Boy from Aleppo Who Painted the War

Adam is a 14-year-old boy with Asperger Syndrome, who attempts to understand the Syrian conflict and its effect on his life and family by painting his feelings.  Yasmine, his devoted older sister, has to cope with her own traumas when government soldiers abduct and torture her. His older brothers face the dilemma – on whether or not to take sides and the consequences of their eventual choices have repercussions for the entire family. 

The Boy From Aleppo Who Painted The War is the powerful and deeply moving debut novel from Sumia Sukkar.  It chronicles the intimate sufferings of a family in the midst of civil war – with uncommon compassion, wit and imaginative force.  Told mainly from Adam’s perspective, this gripping story achieves the timeless dignity of a true report from an unpredictable and frightening place. How do we preserve love and beauty in brutal times? What does a major conflict do to the fabric of a family? How does one challenged young man survive when his world falls apart?

Producer, Andrew Mark Sewell says of the project: “The immediacy and impact of this drama bear witness to the horror of war, and the triumph of the human spirit over almost unbearable adversity. When our development producer, Patrick Chapman, first brought Sumia’s novel to my attention, I was struck by the intimate and powerful voice Sumia brought to the story.”

Written when she was a mere 21-years-old, Sumia Sukkar is the youngest female British Muslim to have had a novel published in the UK: “Writing my timely novel was a way for me to express my grief towards the tragedies of what's happening in my country. Readers will find it interesting to experience the traumatising events of war through the eyes of an innocent young autistic boy who has lived his whole life completely dependant on his family and then having to be separated from them.  It contains a blend of political events, emotional drive and Arabian tradition.”


About B7 Media

B7 Media is an independent production company that has an extensive track record in film, television, radio and theatre. Notable credits include Haunted for UKTV (shortlisted for the Montreux e-Rose); the acclaimed motion picture Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont starring Joan Plowright, Anna Massey and Rupert Friend; and Tim Arnold’s Sonnet 155, staged at the Almeida Theatre featuring Benedict Cumberbatch, Hattie Morahan, Paul McGann, Lisa Dillon and Richard Briers (in his last stage appearance).

Recently completed projects include two independent features by Canadian director Paul Kimball, The Cuckoo in the Clock, featuring Jacob James; and Roundabout, featuring Annie Briggs. Both films premiered at last year’s Atlantic Film Festival. B7’s latest collaboration with Kimball, Exit Thread, is currently shooting in Nova Scotia.

In the realm of radio drama its reputation for creating dramatic, widescreen audio worlds that sound lived-in, real and cinematic, was demonstrated to epic effect in its recent BBC Radio 4 adaptations of Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles (a Silver award winner for Best Drama Special in the prestigious 2015 New York Festivals International Radio Program Awards); and Sumia Sukkar’s The Boy from Aleppo Who Painted the War. B7 is also known for the epic audio reboot of cult TV classic Blake’s 7, featuring Derek Riddell, Colin Salmon and Daniela Nardini (for BBC Radio 4 Extra).

Press Contact

Patrick Chapman | Development Executive

B7 Productions Ltd | Station Court | High Road | Cookham | Berkshire | SL6 9JF

e: patrick@b7media.com | w: www.b7media.com | Twitter: @B7Media

Sunday, 5 July 2015



A poem after reading a Donald Davie Carcanet collection

Severity to such things: 1971-1983
painfully exact
Donald Davie
by way of tact
So 2015 - July 1.

now what is moral, what
merely excess in language
has a place in this garden,
this garden in Dial M for Maida Vale.

Hot days crush roses. Here
we have examples of this.
Count four crushed, bruised, defeated
pink rose bushes, beaten as
at Waterloo.

This being time
and history being in time
just as this heat is in this garden;
so we must note Greece
defaulting. Broken by creditors.

Pound would have a livid field day.
A famous Attic Light.
Reason, drama, art.

We were shaped by a Greece
we now break like ice.
The way we enmesh
ourselves in difficulties,
by custom, by design.

By birth.
Language, financial controls, thought.
Shaped, and shaping, murkily
as if divers in blooded waters

In years, this will mean very little.
The bloom come off the resonance.
A serious book, the Davie,
but the purple cover image
is of cyclists on amusement rides.

An air of seaside provincialism
comfortingly reflects
poems that 'continue to address
the British readers'. Addresses
don't always reach persons

no longer residing there.
Lost property ensues. Broken
messages. I think of 1971-1983
as a quaint period now
of TV we rarely remember,

or do so with rising panic
finally recognising the illicit behaviour
at the core of British broadcasting culture
paid for by the British viewer.

Time seems a trough between waves.
They batter some port; some beach;
indefinite because unclear the need
to specify that which has no import,
recedes as any rumour, or disproved lie.

It's unclear the past has much value
if it needs protection from being lost;
what no longer adheres or pertains
remains limitless, like air, unloved
too, though, in its blithe evanescence;

the lyric protrudes like a riding accident;
one could record the exact
topographies, where once present;
where clouds gathered; precipitation
came and went, occurrence.

Topographies, values, levels of seabed
to hillside. The light that alters
the day and then again nothing,
as no day has precedence over any other
except for the visitor to that place.

Compare hawk to pigeon
in your outdated guidebook to
THE SHIRES. So many lives still
and quiet at this hour (five to seven
in the evening). Battles, museums

celebrating what barely happened
in retrospect; it all shimmers; is vague;
is a rumour, a whisper, a ghostly trace,
a closure and a moment of rain.
England, has been, going, for

awhile; the rose bush
tempered by the heat. Heat rising
mid-summer like a killing bird
among the quietude. A rustling
never ends, the styles or forms

of tree in leaf; money continues
to go about its vast estates.
In my English words, an I, a lord
no less, or more, of conquest.
A Greek tonight at Piraeus,

feels the disdain of elemental forces;
a combination of crushing power and distant
disdain. At times, Roman, or Chinese,
American, Russian, French, German
even British - out from central command

it rolls, a thunder that is heard
before the violence of the sky is created
to be seen and made sublime.
Politics as natural disaster -
natural disaster

no human nature can alter
or decide. Fate, empire, under the sea
in a tangle of monstrous properties;
red blooms from the wounds
of war, rolling to the shore.

The rose bush withers, regardless,
remotely spoken for,
or to, or by, power, a poetry
of reference, of studied indifference.
Baseless continuation of what will harm

or sow; the gardener's tantrum
or sleep forgotten; the shears in sun
on the lawn, attractive.
REFERENDUM. To decide delays
only the moment, not the full sea's breakage.

Dive, with constraint, lucid
or chaotic and afraid; how one speaks
makes only the words different;
beneath the waves of heat or cold
the petals ruin equally. Force being true.

JULY 1-5, 2015

@copyright the author

Sunday, 28 June 2015


Want: 2; Have: 1

For James Brookes
Last year tossed many friends into bin bags...
for all their sins, they were better alive;

thrived in the sun, dirt annoys the skin,
erodes faith. I have never met a dead

believer. We love God most when living.
The dead know the bald mysteries.
You get rich with washboard abs
and blonde curls. 90% of porn

is police handcuffs and suffering
in falconry hoods; fellators paid
to appear illegal but just over the line.
You want to be oriental potentates

with power and slaves to kneel and adore
an engorged sense of self. You crave
being craved. Wish to be Gosling,
or whoever the next Gosling is, will be.

I have been accused of murdering
my love hearts, as if I doodled scum

across my forehead on Wednesdays;
no, I am innocent of all surplus crimes

except grandiosity. Pere of my own
ubiquity, grossly over-privileged;

in the blind and dumb mirror of the networks
where I am bound by gimpy Hephaestus,

who locks up our faces in smart wire
we cannot break out of, no matter how hard

we bleat books, sighing we want to be A-list.
My V-shaped torso rises from a swamp,

triggering salivation in the audience, who’d
crawl over muscles to mouth a tensile sword.
God’s silence is not absence, it is omission.
Purely, he punishes us by not intervening.

Jehovah could come like a solar flare, burst
all the power lines, wipe our screens away.

We could be cleansed as the solar wind is,
rising out of its own circles of eruption to stay.

copyright the author, Todd Swift, 2015




I burn it off to be like me, again.

I took my skin back to being

A baby, more or less.  Spotless,

Milky, not a cast of sin.  Tattoo-less

Was the second new beginning.

She used a laser like in Bond,

I saw the hearts, the dragons,

The names of lovers undo

Their fame.  It was like a pond

Freezing over, going all ice-blank.

I began to forget my body’s

Debts to those I’d once paid

Honour with this pain of inking.

Half-way through her surgery

I got to thinking, this was erasure

Not of the visible, but the unseen.

The daggers and the bloody crucifix,

The Hindenburg date and Germanic

Signs, the beaded tears and sweat,

The badly-drawn porcupine,

Shelley, Medbh and Anne-Marie –

It wasn’t ripping off a simple layer,

But drinking out the dregs of an ID,

So that what I could remember

Would be remapped as pristine.

No good to be so clean, I said.

I broke from that low chair and fled

Fast from her Harley street prison

Hell-bent on getting remade

In the image of all those imagoes,

My spattered insignia to be reapplied

So I could fit into my own job description.



In today's Sunday Times Culture section, there is a dismissive review of the latest E.L. James novel, Grey, which as you already know follows the 125 million-selling paperback trilogy about S&M, naïve virgins, haunted billionaires, and contractual sexual punishments and rewards. Rather wittily following on from Freud, it implies that what women "really want" is very badly written prose. On the same page, there is a review of the "traditional" light-verse popular British poet and crime novelist (she did the new Agatha Christie and an anthology of Sex poetry) Sophie Hannah, and it is of course a slim volume of selected and new poems that here is offered, from Carcanet.

One of these books has sold a million copies or so already, the other, in all likelihood (and even given the charm, talent and fame of the poet as prose writer), will sell a few hundred, perhaps a few thousand.  If one believes, as I do, that intelligent poetry represents the deep end of the swimming pool, and pulp paperback best-seller porn the shallow end, then, this summer - as in all seasons - we must reflect on which end is more packed with readers/ bathers, and be sad. 99.9% of books that sell are genre best-sellers. Some, such as those by Lee Child, are well-crafted, but those by James are so far as I can tell, barely literate. Yet they have made this non-entity and no-talent a very rich person, while deeply talented, long-suffering literary artists will mostly live impoverished or financially trying lives for decades if not forever.

Why why why? It is like being King Lear, and wondering at the human condition. But it is worse, because writers are at least meant to know how to write, about the human condition among other things. I am not a prude, and not a literary moralist in the ordinary sense (like Greene, another Catholic, I understand that writing is most ethical which most engages with all of human life, especially the question of evil). I welcome erotic novels. But need they be so badly-written? The odd thing is, there are about a thousand, no maybe ten thousand, erotic novels out there at the moment, online and so forth, and many must be the equal or better of Grey, but while they may sell a handful, their peer will sell millions.  Who is to blame? The media? Human curiosity?

Has the net's gratuitous promiscuous breaking of borders allowed the lone wolf killer and the lone wolf writer both to thrive? A thousand points of light my arse. We are all now connected to do each other harm, use each other, show off, show feigned interest, and try and sell shit to each other. Bad sex writing is not as bad as bad sex - or perhaps it is. Read more poetry. Even sex poetry. But you already knew that.

Saturday, 27 June 2015


President Obama is a great orator, and he more than rose to the occasion of his eulogy for the nine killed in their bible class in Charleston by a racist youth. He went beyond the call of duty, and gave a speech that is the equal to some of Lincoln's.

It touched on issues of morality, and decency, and in some ways, reminds us that though life can feel meaningless, those who feel touched by God's grace can find healing purpose even in tragedy. Ending with the song 'Amazing Grace,' which he sang, President Obama fittingly, and movingly, brought his eloquence into the form of address most suited to the occasion, a song that all in the great African-American church could sing along with as well.  He exemplified the power of words to move into song, into community, and to spread ideas of communion, and goodness.

It is a matter of record that, meanwhile, the world is being ravaged by a religious murderousness that does not seek community, communion, peace, accord, forgiveness, mercy, or grace.  A virulent and violent form of misinterpreted religion that kills one and all, cruelly, sowing discord. It is perhaps the worst form of terrorism ever spawned in the human heart, and it is by all definitions, evil.

Those of us who love God and religion, as exemplified by the gentle mercy and goodness of a forgiving Jesus, should welcome the goodness of the Black American Church - as good an example of why Atheism seems blind to the plight of millions in history who found refuge there in a pew or pulpit - for God is hope, for those often enslaved, without any otherwise. God is meaning. Reason and science do not provide the healing balm, the uplifting songs, of the Black American Church. Atheism does not forgive, and love - it cannot offer a Grace that forgives murder.

But religion can be cruel - in the wrong hands, in the wrong lands. It can be misused by intolerant, by wicked, human minds.

So too in America, some good Christians cannot forgive the Supreme Court, this week, for permitting Gay marriage - and that is a pity.  Jesus loved and forgave all. The mercy that can forgive a killer must be able to welcome those who love and seek profound union, despite their gender.

What divides us must be overcome. Religion shows the best and worst of us. But God is the best of us, and God is love. Or so we hope, or so we hope.