Here you can find links to poems I’ve published in online mags or mags with online archives, plus a selection of full text poems previously published in print mags.

Choices & A rose, by any other @ B O D Y: http://bodyliterature.com/2012/07/16/annie-brechin/

The Spider @ The Wolf: http://www.wolfmagazine.co.uk/aw-spider.php

We Live In Water @ Hinterland: http://www.hinterlandpoetry.com/annie-brechin/

Comment faire l’amour @ B O D Y: http://bodyliterature.com/2014/11/03/annie-brechin-2/

The Ghost Hotel @ ink sweat and tears: https://inksweatandtears.co.uk/archive/annie-brechin/

You Don’t Rise

You don’t rise anymore at the smell of perfume about my wrists
Or lift your head when I speak, or turn down the sheets impatient for the night

You don’t lift your pen from the sheet, let the ink spill and smudge
When I speak, or watch the kink in my knee when my dress twists

As I bend down to get the milk from the fridge.  You don’t see me anymore.
It is not that you are looking at someone else, you have simply turned away

And I don’t know what to give you to make you turn back – or is it
A natural progression, nothing can be given – do you always turn away?

Should I even be trying to bring your eyes back to me?  Is it selfish?
Is it unnecessary?  You don’t fold my clothes in the drawers with lavender any longer

You don’t rise anymore at the smell of perfume about my wrists
Or lift your head when I speak, or turn down the sheets impatient for the night

Published in Magma issue 45, Nov 2009

Angels of London

the pigeons, the angels of London

unlooked-for, uncared-for


skittering across the chess board floors of tube stations
the Escher-chequed boards
in convex mirrors

under Victorian arches
grilled and netted from the rafters

stump-legged from the spikes on every
hanging direction


in dirty waistcoats
cigarette burns on their lapels
begging for a roll-up

angels on crutches
purple toes poking through bandages

angels with blue plastic bags for shoes
& empty cans of cider
shuffling behind stuffed shopping trolleys

chewing gum lodged in their feathers

angels of London

zombie angels

angels of exhaust and engine
angels of girder and pavement

angels of chipped shopfronts
who sell you half-price Polish tobacco
under scrawls of greyed-out neon

peddlers of fish oil and lychee

henna-footed angels
surmounted by their homework and iPod

angels of hairwax and Primark
blinging angels

angels in pink sweatsuits and peroxide
feed their children gas bills and clown food

angels in burkas
gathering in the parks all summer
flocking night monoliths
looming over pushprams

militant angels
of bomb and purpose
or just damn hooligan violence

pissed on the terraces

angels with shotglasses

angels all suited and booted
angels with loose ties and chardonnay

bullish or devastated

brunching at Carluccio’s

on angelfood

angels with Astons

glittering angels, shiny bastards

bubble-full with champagne, liquid
assets, diamond-drop Rolex


stumbling out of nightclubs to the furred
spinning cool of five am
mauve and lilac

checking the car for pigeonshit

angels shitting on angels
a whole city of it



Published in Rising, 2008

I write of burning on Christmas Eve

Who is that,
that burning person,
that person who burns?

They are in flames.

Are they man or woman,
or androgen?

The flames cover them past discovery.

Maybe there are just some people
who walk around on fire:

When they touch wood, it chars;
stone blackens,
soot flows backwards from them
a cinder shadow.

Fireworks spark in their wake.

Ordinary people turn away from the blaze,
but you go running up to them – touch them –

and you blister,

then you scar.

Published in Stand volume 8 (4), 2008

Translation in Glucose & Fructose

Some acts can’t be undertaken accidentally,
like making love in a snowdrift
or stringing your sugarcane bow with honey-bees.

Kamadeva sets his sting into each couple,
smelling the night-flowering jasmine.
How they swell to open. Colour

mauve particularly, is an irregular verb.
Not less so honey, the only grave-trinket
to exit the pyramids perfectly preserved

and inimical to synthesis. Like love
it has ungraspable essence. Like consciousness,
honey is a schiz, a cut or death.

It will fracture with ceaseless dynamism.
The god shoulders his bow,
leaves the air satisfied by fragrant convulsion.

Published in Rakish Angel volume 2, 2010


One thought on “Poems

  1. Pingback: Vespers 22: Twelve Days of Christmas – vesperspoetry

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