Welcome to the first poetic voice of 2026. February is a special month as I celebrate my birthday AND i get to share work from an incredible poet and man.
I first encountered this Poetic Voice sharing his work on the weekly PoemsAbout prompts supplied Broken Spine on Bluesky, finding his poetry smart and accessible and full of wonderful phrasing and incredible language. Then I heard him read at an Open Mic and I was blown away with his performance, he performs with an vigour and gravitas and if you get the chance to hear him read his work, do take it – he often shares his recordings on social media. I’ve been fortunate enough to strike up a real connection with him.
So with further ado, allow me to introduce the excellent Paul Connolly. Find him on Bluesky at @thepaulconnolly.bsky.social.
Paul Connolly has written verse all his life but turned more serious attention to it about fifteen years ago, having set aside his Orwell Prize-longlisted satirical blog. Since then he has had well over 100 poems published in poetry magazines and online periodicals across the globe. He was third in the Magna Carta Poetry Competition, highly commended in the Sentinel Prize, and has a Charles Causley Prize shortlisting and two for the Bridport Prize (as well as a Bridport longlisting in the novel category). Last year, he was among the finalists for the Walking at Night writing prize and received a Best of the Net nomination. He is now seeking a publisher for his first poetry collection and his two novels.
Across the month I will be showcasing a bumper four poems from Paul, starting with two today that showcase Paul’s range.
This is ‘Late Summer Walk’.
Poem 2 is titled ‘Graduation’.
Remember to bookmark this post and return on Tuesday 10th February to read a further piece from Paul.
Can someone tell me how it is October already. Autumn colours arrived early this year and it seems like the nights are drawing in quicker each day. And with a new month, comes a new Poetic Voice to feature as part of The Book Bag: Poetic Voices.
This feature aims to platform and showcase exemplary work from writers I admire across the poetic landscape and runs concurrently with the regular weekly episodes of The Book Bag where I’ll still be sharing thoughts on pamphlets or collections I’ve read through the week.
This month, I am thrilled to announce that our Poetic Voice this month is the prize-winning, super-talented, Carson Wolfe.
Carson Wolfe is a Mancunian poet and Grand Prize Winner of The Disquiet Literary Program 2024. They will soon graduate with an MFA from The Manchester Writing School, and are currently finishing their first novel. Their poetry has appeared with Poetry Magazine, The Rumpus, The Common, and Rattle. Their new chapbook Coin Laundry at Midnight is forthcoming with Button Poetry in spring 2026.
I first read Carson’s work in The North and Northern Gravy and was blown away by their work, then I read more and more. Fast forward to now and I am so happy that Carson accepted my invitation.
I’ll be sharing a few pieces from Carson over the month. Kicking off with ‘While Wishing She Was Dancing To Kate Bush’ originally published in the Best New Poets Anthology 2024.
A little later than planned, here’s poem 2 from the exceptional Carson Wolfe. First appearing in POETRY Magazine July/August 2025, this is SILICON VALLEY, IN THE BACKSEAT OF A TESLA.
Here is the 3rd poem from Carson. Originally published in The Baltimore Review, this is ‘Strange Baby’.
STRANGE BABY
He locked his doors— the guy who braked
at my outstretched thumb. His name was Froggy. He drove
in the opposite direction to Georgetown,
is the temperature ok? he turned the radio dial,
what music do you like? A white crab
pearled in his headlights, he got out, knelt
on its shell. I could have run at that point,
but his car was air conditioned, I had nowhere
to be. He pulled a rope from his back pocket, turned
its pincers into its own face and bound them there.
I’ll cook you dinner, he said, and lumped the salted moon
onto my lap. It squirmed against my thighs,
this strange baby, looking to me for a mother.
I don’t eat animals, I said. It’s not an animal, he drove
on in the stink of rockpool fizz. The island only has
one road, I told myself we’d loop round eventually.
He pulled into a hotel, abandoned mid-construction.
Bare cement, windows gaping like mouths. I wouldn’t touch
the crab, was grateful when he tossed it
in the back. I stepped out into the evening shrill
of insects. Dizzied by the delicate racket
of wings rubbed together —he took out a knife
and cleared a path for me to reach a secret beach.
The sunset is pretty, like you, he said. Like me? I smiled.
Like you, he said, down on one knee.
To pre-order Carson’s forthcoming chapbook, you can do so here. I can’t wait for its release. An early birthday present to me from me!
Welcome to the first instalment of a new feature as part of The Book Bag. Poetic Voices will feature a different poet every month. This feature aims to platform and showcase exemplary work from writers I admire across the poetic landscape and will run concurrently with the regular weekly episodes of The Book Bag where I’ll still be sharing thoughts on books I’ve read in the week.
So without further ado, our featured Poetic Voice for June 2025 is Matthew M.C. Smith. A man who does so much for poets across the world and an incredible poet in his own right. If you’ve read The Keeper Of Aeons Book Bag article, you’ll know I’m a big fan.
Matthew M. C. Smith is a writer from the east of Swansea, the industrial heartland of the city. He has a PhD on Robert Graves and Celticism. He is widely published and his work can be read in Poetry Wales, Arachne Press, These Pages Sing, The Gower Society Journal, Atrium Poetry and Acropolis Journal. Matthew is writing his own novel of The Odyssey, hoping to complete a final draft in 2025. He is campaigning for the return of the “Welsh Elgin Marbles” – the Red Lady of Paviland – back to Swansea from Oxford.
Matthew loves everything Star Wars, Welsh Rugby, collecting signed poetry books and 60s/ 70s vinyl. He can be found on long time-travelling walks in Gower and the Welsh hills and coastline.
His last poetry collection was The Keeper of Aeons (Broken Spine, 2022). In 2024, he read with Owen Sheers and Matthew Hollis.
Matthew edits Black Bough, the Silver Branch project and TopTweetTuesday. He is on Twitter, Bluesky, Facebook, Insta/ Threads.
Not a Mirror
and its flat, flipped impression, not the containing frame. Not the predictable form of self, presented, out there, thinned in depth.
She wants to hold her hologram, through passages of gold out into the uncaring city: through mindless mountains, the ocean's unthinking, frayed edge, bearing its fierce blue flicker like a bust of Nefertiti, unflipped, uncontained, filling heart-sized height and depth.
She wants to hold its crackle like an offering to be placed at the sanctuary of a future self.
Green Man
Mist drifts through webs, rain-flecked.
From the house, from the ivy way, all paths spiral, shadowed by green ruins, unravelled to the sky and beyond, the forest is ghost.
Walk through the night, walk to your rest, kneel under the beat moon and the pitiless stars and look upon the Green Man, moss-cheeked, ivy-bearded, who stares, deathless, through you.
Today, I’m sharing the following poignant and important piece by Matthew.
Colouring the Birds of Gaza
In a gallery in Swansea children are colouring in paper birds, each one a symbol of a child killed in Gaza.
Crayons are clenched, tiny fists of protest, pencils propped in the pressing triangle of fingers and thumb.
Ask them, the children always know the truth.
It's about power. Violence breeds hatred. No-one can ever win. Everyone should be free. Stop the War.
This is not the poem. This is almost nothing. Look, instead at the paper birds, the children fixing wings on the glass that crinkle in the sunlight.
I am delighted to share another poem from Matthew MC Smith today (30/06/2025).
Your Sundown is Electric
Tonight, I will imagine one sky and your hand reaching up, your fingers touching the shimmer with whatever’s left in you.
You give the remains of your palette’s freedom, watching it trail through the sky, like a comet’s sinking tail.
Your heart is as long as the earth, it could be forever, it cannot go – a shock of joy before the low hum of earth things and the stars’ iron wheel, so distant from the wild streak of your wide eyes, the intake of your breath.
Tonight, I will imagine one sky and that you are that outstretched finger, as you sit on that step, in a hallway flooded by light, looking upwards,
your sundown is electric.
Thanks for reading, keep up with my socials to find out when the next poem goes live. Username is @paulwritespoems on Bluesky, Instagram, Threads, Facebook and X. You can also sign up to receive updates direct to your inbox when a new post goes live. Currently there is a delay in July’s Poetic Voice going live.
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