Andrew Jamison

Autumning There’s bound to be something in this, this autumning of August, this unsummering of the garden, and the sky that meant so much...

Read a poem exclusively from Andrew's third collection Swans We Cannot See.

Youth Club On a trip to Dundonald Ice Bowl once run by the Presbyterian Church I’ll never forget I found my brother with his mate Mervyn...

Heaven as a Newsagents In heaven there is Mary Miscampbell selling Turkish Delight and Gold and Silver Benson and Hedges, looking down,...

The Party after Chekhov I can see you in the sunlight, Olga, Olga Mikhaylovna, Olga Mikhaylovna, a name that glimmers with its own sense...

September Night ushers in September and streetlights flicker-flicker, the last long evening leaves but nobody grieves when the last leaf...

Words for Summer I’ve wondered if there are words for it, the end of August, all this loving you. Blackberries at Burrington, the sea at...

All the Pretty Horses Tonight I’m saddling up with John Grady on a grey white horse he’s broken in but doesn’t want to lose. For dinner...

"as natural as wildflowers/ that punctuate late summer's uncut lawn." In Praise of Blank Verse The thing I love about blank verse is...

A new poem from Andrew Jamison exclusively for paid subscribers to his blog.

Current How long is the life of a human within the universe’s span? How long is the moment a river otter breaks then unbreaks the...

On Looking Through the Backdoor On Looking Through the Backdoor The wind buffeted solitary red kite, sunlight’s single momentary...

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Where? Through the gorse bushes, over the hedges and barred gates there is a path, past the rabbits, a clearing beyond demands,...

New Poem by Andrew Jamison Why? by Andrew Jamison For quiet in the kitchen before the school pickup. For the bluetit busy in the copper...

Pictured: Mount Vesuvius

Against The freezer’s intermittent buzzing back to life, against the pen’s inklessness, against tomorrow, the moulding fruit bowl, the...

(This poem is exclusive to paid subscribers - thank you for subscribing to The Poetry Jotter!) The Days Four fat birds fill their wings...

Ephemera Muntjac in the morning, muntjac in the evening; silhouette in mist, fleeting being fleeing. Andrew Jamison is a writer and...

I don't write often about snow (probably because it rarely snows), however this is one taken from my first collection, and as I sit here and write I can see snow gathering on the patio, so I thought I'd share this one. It's a version of a a Pablo Neruda poem, and, I might add, a very loose version. I think it's fair to say that Pablo Neruda never visited the Killyleagh Road (a shame as he might have enjoyed the landscape) and to be honest I can't remember for the life of me w