John Darwin thought he was a poet from birth but was kicked into action by his Dad's terminal illness and a desire to do something more than shifting papers and supping pints. He was the host of Write Out Loud Sale poetry night for two years, a member of the acclaimed national touring troupe A Firm of Poets for a couple more, and is co-host at Spoken Weird, Halifax. He lives, drinks, loves and laughs in Prestwich, North Manchester.

I Meet Myself Returning by John Darwin
I Meet Myself Returning
adult poetry
ISBN 978-1-9996707-5-7 | 54pp | 2019
rrp £7.50 | ebook £5.49

Flapjack Press
Central Books

"Whichever way I take
I meet myself returning."

A poetic journey from the mills and moors of the industrial north to the meals and mosques of the Byzantine middle-east and back again.
I Meet Myself Returning is about finding your feet in our convoluted world and letting them take you to a place to call your own.
And, occasionally, stopping off for a pint.

"John Darwin's poems are when one pint with an old friend turns into six. When you spend five minutes walking around a city that you've never visited before, but somehow feel at home. His words are visceral, delicate, vulnerable and utterly engrossing." - Matt Abbott, poet, educator & activist

"For those of us who struggle with the concept of permanence, who gulp when we're asked where we're from and shiver when we're asked who we are, this is a collection that is sorely needed. It's the antidote to the straight-edge, consumer-driven Grand Designs poison of 21st Century life and it should be prescribed to everybody." - Geneviève L. Walsh, spoken word artist

Dawn in Galata
from I Meet Myself Returning © John Darwin, 2019

Seagulls squawk as if to mock us
trudging up bleak hills to work,
for the drudgery we suffer
that they don't find on the wing.

The Ezan cry at 5 o'clock
fleetingly drowns out their cries;
they don't answer calls to prayer,
they've no conscience or regret.

There is no love or jealousy,
no pitied poor or wealthy,
no avian symposia
to dictate what's right and wrong.

We barely notice darkness fall
as hands turn from lathe to glass
and drink to life's futility
with our old meyhane songs.

Cover by by Brink.

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