Green Fields: Martin Malone

This week in the Village we celebrate the very fabulous Green Fields: sorted for poems anthology from Maytree Press.

Compiled from open submissions and invites throughout the final quarter of 2019, the collection is a celebration of music and music festivals.

From an initially flash of inspiration that Glastonbury would be celebrating its fiftieth birthday alongside one of our editors (we’ll let you guess who), who could have imagined that the book would become so much more than a simple celebration of our social activities.

We’ll be sharing a poem from the book each day this week and saying a little more about how it came to be a very lovely physical item. For now, if you’d like a copy then please head over to Maytree’s on-line store where you’ll find first editions for only £10.00 with free UK postage.

For now, enjoy Martin Malone’s Bigmouth Strikes Again


Bigmouth Strikes Again

I’m afraid I’m an open book, I say stuff,
confess too readily in my cups and

mess-up in moments like these: you
with your Roman nose held high in disgust

at my latest faux pas. And, sweetness,
I know you are only half-joking when

you say I should be bludgeoned in my bed
for selling my Smiths ticket so I could

go see The Armoury Show instead
but, at the time, you were only just four

and, having seen them twice before —
like a Beckett play — I felt I’d got the point.

Besides, liking Jobson longer, there was
a seniority of quiff thing to be respected.

Connected was my love for McGeogh’s guitar
which I felt would fade out before Marr’s.

So, don’t give me back those mix tapes, don’t melt
down my old Walkman; consider them my

legacy to this retro age of legacy,
alongside these inconvenient truths,

my scratched vinyl, your Spotify.com.
Because here in old Camden Town,

out drinking with the hung-on-too-long
I sense that I’ve moved on. Lover, please

stop me if you think you’ve heard this one before
and don’t make me know how Joan of Arc felt.





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