by Benjamin Norris
These hands are nothing constant, forever
wrapped in moments, as with old news –
paper soaked deep in iodine for
they’re sallow in the mornings and
whiten up by noon and
I can only read the changes somewhere
between my mound of venus and
a small scar from something huge
Benjamin Norris is a poet and lecturer from Wales who currently resides in Budapest, where he lectures Indian Cultural Studies and Art History at a leading university. His poetry is mainly preoccupied with a sense of longing for distance from familiarity, whilst being unable to escape one’s roots and the trappings which come with culture.
His poetry has been published in collections, newspapers and magazines varying from Exberliner, Artwurst, Magpie Magazine, all three printed journals of the IIAL, The Guardian, Scopophilia, The Love of Looking, Bristol Stories, Tales from the Big Smoke and several more, and he is seeking new venues in which to show his latest work which differs greatly from previous pieces.