Category: Poetry


Nights like these,
they are the worst.
I know where I should be.
But I’m not.
I’m here.

Two weeks,
four days,
eighteen hours
and seventeen minutes,
give or take.
Who’s counting?

I wait for the release,
even though I know it’s not coming.
When will it end,
this illness?
Another day,
still no sign.

Understand the diagnosis
and accept there’s no cure.
Raise a glass
to heal the pain,
but it’s too strong.
So I sit alone
and listen to the walls talk.


© Antony N Britt 2010

Successful Parenting – Chapter One

The rule book.
Template for those yet to come.
Trial, maybe,
mostly error.
My first-born son.

Hoping to get it right
by the third or fourth
but for now,
you need my guidance,
and I need you as my guidebook.

We’ll help one another,
learning – getting it wrong,
trying all the same.
Writing the instructions for parenthood.

© Antony N Britt


This was written a couple of years back and included in a book together with poems by other fathers. Unfortunately, out of print now which is a shame as the contents were far better than most of the arty farty crap you see put out in poetry circles.



Adjust the Tracking

In your own world,
People look at you
very strange.
What goes on inside that head
which appears confused to us?
Perhaps it is we, the unusual
and you, correct.
We can only gape in awe,
wondering how you cope.
You glance at us,
see madness,
frustrate at our disabilities.
What’s the matter with our world
that everything seems so weird?
There is nothing amiss.
You are a vinyl record
playing at the wrong speed.
Tracking needing adjustment
so we can understand a happy soul
content in his own universe.

© Antony N Britt

Autism Awareness Day 2 April 2012


Take a sharp knife.
Slice down the middle.
Pour salt in-between.
Let the floodgates open.
No amount of analgesic
will mask the pain inside.
The loss,
the wound,
the overwhelming sense of grief.
Desperate to live,
but it’s hard with a chunk of flesh
nowhere to be seen.
Ripped clean,
leaving a gaping, blooded hole.
Stem the flow
and stitch the cut,
the torture chamber, empty.
Not today.
No painkillers,
just pain.
Feel the hurt
and continue to mourn
the passing.

© Antony N Britt

Hiding in the Pub to Cutting the Cord

Hiding in the Pub to Cutting the Cord, was a research project looking at ways men have been involved in childbirth and I was delighted to take part in an aspect of this a while back. My poem, Successful Parenting – Chapter One was published in the poetry pamphlet below.

This pamphlet sold out very quick but can still be found as a free download from researcher, Laura King’s excellent site if you wish to read it. I’m on page 8.

As part of the project, I took part in an appearance at the Coventry Mysteries Festival in June and a full audio podcast of the poetry event can be found at the same link. I start at 2min45sec but you have to ignore the drumming in the background by another event who totally gatecrashed the moment.

Because of that drumming, my piece only got an extract once it had stopped in the short film produced for the project. You get about ten seconds but I am there at about 7min7secs into the film and this film can also be viewed by clicking the link below.

It was a great project to take part in and I am grateful to have had the opportunity. I only wish the publishers had printed more copies so people could still buy one. Oh well.

Link to Hiding in the Pub to Cutting the Cord – Pamphlet download, film and podcast.



The Green Plastic Brain on the Bed

Small, green,
rubber in texture,
lying in wait.
Tubes of potions
and other worrying liquids
fester away
in the corners of doom.
two sharpened stakes and a wooden hammer
rest concealed
within a brown holdall under the bed.
And then
the worst horror of all.
Congealed milk,
left for three days
beside a pink fluffy cat
and a scrapyard of toy cars.
Vacuum bag too small to repel these grimy hordes
advancing at speed.
I sit and sigh.
‘Don’t you just love having kids.’


© Antony N Britt


Summer of ’85.
A home meant for people in poor mental health.
I called it an institution,
somewhere to put the unwanted.
Hide the embarrassment.
“There is no place in polite company
for people such as these,”
so spoke the message of the day.

Spelled dead to society
along with unmarried mothers,
labelled insane,
then shut away,
their children
torn from the breast.
Unruly youngsters,
removed from circulation.

I remember one such a man,
Albert, we’ll call him,
because after all this time
I’m not even sure of his name.
Incarcerated at twelve,
too difficult to handle.
Then, seventy five,
a gentle old soul.
He spoke about cricket
and the big wartime bands.
Always a cheery smile,
a precursor to the request.
Could I check if there was a letter?
One from his mum and dad.
“It’s been such a long time,” he sighed.
There was never any mail.

An uncaring world, back then;
maybe it is now.
I’m ashamed I do not remember his name
and I always wonder
if his family ever did.


© Antony N Britt

Read Me

Read me,
read me,
don’t turn the page and leave me.
I desperately crave
your undying attention.
Welcome gratification,
too good to even mention.
Daubing my soul
across an empty wall.
Many inane, unread words
in semi-literate scrawl.
with frustration,
always wanting so much more.
Another daily offering
from a mad poetic whore.
So please come along
and join in with the party.
Plain speaking,
bullshit free
and nothing too damn arty.
Release on me some feedback
and comments full of cheer.
Or if it’s just not good enough,
a sign to say you’re here.
Kudos to all the poets then
and words with a such a bite.
I trust I always entertain,
for that is why I write.

© Antony N Britt

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