Chris Sparks moved from London to Ireland in 2003. He researched, wrote and taught political and social theory for decades, specializing in social uncertainty and the politics of fear. As theoretical fears became eerily actual, he realized that he needed to look at lived experiences from another angle and took to writing poetry. He studied for an M.A.in Creative Practice at ATU Sligo, working with writers, filmmakers and musicians and has produced published poetry in written and recorded form since 2018.

At Swim

It’s always the sea
The sea
The sea
The sea
And then
There’s me –
Awash with lightning
Fingers sparking up sheer winter
Waves thrash my shoulders
Clean them to the bone – iced
All white and whittled to a point
Where my wings would be
If I were other than my mortal self
Mad for the drowning – but alive
and lively in the swim

Overwhelmed

I succumb –
At once and in the act
Of breathing – this rich ream of ocean air
Thick with pheromones laced with opiates
Opens me up – colours me in
Old golds running to russets reddening
I blush and bow as I must – now
Made shy and happy
To be taken
By this gentle morning
Mood – The greening wind’s
Warm and amorous touch – so much
To be opened from within
To be gentle guiltless guileless –
Without doubt –
Unfounded and undone
Fearless for once –
My mouth moves
Unspeaking –
I want what this is
To be –
Overwhelmed –
Caressed
By life
At the
Last

Favourite book

You are my favourite book
You know you are – always
there just for the taking – of me
in your fancy-full biography
where once again I run my hands
(somehow, they’ve turned to old man hands)
over the curve of your aging spine
every notch cut and scratch
a match with mine –
On evenings I fall face-first
asleep and at dream – eyes cast-closed
in faded covers – chased to the run
of my deep-dreaming mind to reclaim
by recall, from the overstuffed packet
of pantomime days – of drink drugs and lovers –
each pocketed moment where we’ve fooled the book-keeper
to take our best pleasure – turned us together
into one another – the read and the reader
narrator and listener – the loved and the lover
tied tight together – browned leathered
bed-read and bound foot and hand
to a day-dreamer’s life-boat – to float –
turn our thoughts away – from
the dull grinding warehouse of working days
to catch the time-ride tide
inside the hidey-hole space
between beginning and ending
where we find ourselves – playing
the oddities – lingering fingering
through the fragile thinnest fine-leaved pages
of our ever-storied selves