Chris Brownsward in the embodiment of Sheffield Langpo. I last saw him disappearing on a misty night after a reading at a local pub a couple years back, the light from his smile (reflection from the streetlamp/door light) diffused by the falling drops. I called farewell farewell after him thinking, there goes one whose name is writ, but am happy to report that I’ve been treated to several sets of Mr. Brownsward’s meditations on l=a=n=g=u=a=ge ever since, and they’re all rather similar to this:

Reek more pallid burn shot outwise into sky are
level stream fraught..low enough, the..often
trace of jasmine deep on breeze; held only for ex
-haustion’s touch. Blot if atrophied, pecks cloud

(from “(ecdysis)”)

Good for reading out loud over a pint of Old Speckled Hen (”watch it don’t scratch yer”), or at the Cambridge Festival for poetry, which is where Chris is likely to end up with his investigations. This booklet’s rather roughly put together and without price, but get a copy by writing to Chris at:

cbrownsword[at]hotmail.com Jess