Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...


Steve Rushton: two chap-books and one perfect bound



August passes summer on

But September, September,

Death is in the air.


Summer’s life ceases.

Cold winds bring dread

October old and dry but burning red,

Scattering death,

Bringing new life

Of fire.







O alchemy, you are the test and

Measure for me. You tried but did not

Turn, base metal into gold, but I

Have turned a paper plate of virgin

White, into a rite of fire, far

Richer than your dreams of avarice

Could ever desire.







O paper plate you are transformed, transform

Me too, from base material with fire

To something burning with desire, to be

Beautiful like you.

RushtonSales RushtonSalesPerfectBound





I used to paint with paint,

Now I paint with food,

See infinity

In powdered turmeric

Or a soy sauce stain,

A splash of red wine

Or Linghams 100% chilli sauce,

“A mild piquant relish

And appetizer of delightful flavour”

Though problematic drying time.


I use the mess of life

And make it messier,

Burn to bring out

Individual qualities

Of various dried fluids


But working with these remnants

Am I negotiating

Yet another novel strategy

Or is there a chance

To see beyond artifice,

Before habit

Closes the door






Click on the cover to order direct from the poet; UK price £5.00 inc.

on the idea that the spirit of ovid was there before reading ovid,

a mix of irreverence and lightness of touch


ridiculous. they’ll think you’re a charlatan, and let’s face it,

you’ve almost admitted it. and the older poems, full of

blood and gore and passion, rather than post-contemplation

of ovid attempts at sophistication (more old testament fashion),

pre-enlightenment thinking, pre-ovid’s lines in translation,

a stumbling in the dark pre-visitation, i don’t believe them,

don’t believe they have anything to do with ovid—

i know his metamorphoses do something similar and

your love poems to the moon and old mobile echo, however weakly,

his amores, but please, credit the readers with some intelligence.

as critique


though some might say less a critique

than uninformed and contentious attack,

without due regard to sensitivities

of readers’ memories of great poets,

not to mention the feelings of any

surviving relatives, and the ire of

fawning critics and teachers in relevant

subjects who revere said poets and chastise

poor students for not paying due deference,


and less well known poets who hang on

to coat-tails of so called greats,

proclaiming they are the non plus ultra,

the last word in great poetry,

and anyone who doesn’t understand this

et cetera. (hang on a minute, aren’t you

doing the same with ovid?).

Couple of extracts from 'lines written while considering ovid in translation...'