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Andrew Wynn Owen
Andrew Wynn Owen

Andrew Wynn Owen is reading for a BA in English Language and Literature at Magdalen College, Oxford. He is a former winner of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award, the Ledbury Poetry Competition, The Times Stephen Spender Prize for poetry translation, and The Richard Selig Prize. He is currently Secretary of the Oxford University Poetry Society and co-editor of The Mays anthology for 2014.

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Andrew Wynn Owen Poetry

Poems from Raspberries for the Ferry by Andrew Wynn Owen (The Emma Press – March 2014)







Rock-reptilian, land bound, looking round,
cumbersome thundersome, the wondersome survivor.


Schildkröten, ground besotten, age rotten,
wide thrown, seed sown, unknown.


Abdominally-all, steady canopic crawl,
Terragogous, analogous, one solus.


Rising up, mountain top, tired not,
mountaineer, buccaneer, aged seer.


Strong, striking pillar, salad killer,
Desert tracker, can’t walk back-er.


Tortue, fought-few, end due, never new,
Stronghold, bulky bold, winter-told.


Armoured for battle, a pebble rattle, tiny cattle,
Mud spattered, shell flattered, egg shattered.


Tartaruga, shambling mover, ancient hoover,
blithering, dithering, all withering.


Lizard face, mammoth base, body-mace,
Lion claws, bear-scaled paws, plated sores.


Testudo, Greek named, truculent-famed,
Unmatched, unmastered, untamed, unreal.


Steadfast thing, resilient king,
Shuffling, ruffling, tussling boulder.


Ancestry great, dino-fate, Jurassic-late,
Wizened race, egg based, carapaced.




Your Smile


It arrests me today, happiness spun in skin –

landscape sculpted from life’s lightest discursiveness

and a scene that I, breath-batedly, wait to scan.

I’m a fool for your tongue, neck for your laughter’s noose,

and I’d sing, if I could, tributes in Ancient Norse.

Love, I think you’re the grain ground in my labours’ mill.

I could wither and wilt, waiting for you to smile.


It’s the law of my eye always to seek out charm

and I’d follow your smile far as my feet can run.

I could live on your lips, calling their corners home,

and enshrine all the words, slowly in rhyme and rune,

that you spill like the split-seconding sound of rain.

It’s a marvel to me world has a you within,

where the ripples you make meet me at every turn.


When that time is at hand, time to relinquish life,

I’ll remember your smile breaking and burning on

and I’ll twirl into death carelessly like a leaf

that has spread in the fresh force of the Tuscan sun.

Yes, you’re all of the thrill, none of the fall, of sin

and the heat that I feel, looking you eye-to-lip,

is the proof of two selves starting to overlap.


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