2 Poems by Glenn Hubbard

for Glen Jeffery

The door is shut, the drawbridge up

and the world told to wait at the outer

gate. You grab a bottle from the fridge 

and chill, an act of will. Soon you will 

drizzle oil over anchovies, grate 

parmesan onto fresh pasta. 

You eat on the sofa. As the wine kicks in, 

you float and zap, eyes fixed on the screen.

You’re not not exactly in control. Remote.

Know what I mean?

Long Loughborough Junction evenings 

of Ramrod and Special at The Wickwood.

Friday night meetings around wooden 

tables drinking dark Winter Warmer. 

That matchless sensation. The rounds 

and the crisps. The long walk back 

from bar to chair, eyes on the beer 

you try not to spill. The present you do

not give a thought to is a past you will 

remember. The word: together.


The metronomic ding dong song of Phylloscopus collybita 

– lacking somewhat in definition – might just put a

body’s head away on a day after a night 

of oaky Rioja or Asturian cider. The bird goes on a bit.

The call is an upwardly inflected hooeet.

Weep notes are of diagnostic value in the song

of Colly’s Iberian cousin. But Ibericus knows the

value of restraint, being less likely to elicit complaint

from those of a circumstantially nervous condition,

its plaintive peeoo suggestive of an empathetic disposition.

About the contributor

Glenn Hubbard lives in Madrid, where he teaches rather ugly English. Since 2013 he has tried to atone for his linguistic sins by writing poetry.  He has had work published in many magazines, including The Blue Nib. The poet he has learnt most from is R. F. Langley.

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