Chris Major is 41 and lives in Stoke On Trent. He has a degree in chemistry, which is really handy in his job as a Support Worker with people who have learning difficulties. His poetry has been widely placed in the UK print small press and online at over 60 e-zines (see below for links to respective magazines.) He has never won a decent poetry competition, and wants one poem accepted by 'Poetry Review' before he dies. As we speak a poetry book manuscript is ready to be sent out and to receive its first rejection.

CHRIS'S WORK HAS BEEN FEATURED IN THE FOLLOWING LITERARY MAGAZINES...
Outposts, Poetry Nottingham, Poetry Bradford, Weyfarers, Sepia, The James River Poetry Review, Breakfast All Day etc

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...AND THE FOLLOWING E.ZINES

Poetrykit, Snakeskin, Psychopoetica, Tryst, Limestone, Word Riot, Remark, Wired Arts from Wired Hearts, Poetry Magazine, Stirrings etc

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SELECTED POEMS
by Chris Major

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'SOMEHOW SULLIED'
by Chris Major

Harold Shipman,
the UK's most notorious
and vile serial killer,
hung himself in his prison cell
on the same day that you passed peacefully away.

Now I don't know
what pisses me off more;
being reminded of you
because I've thought of him;
or being reminded of him
because I've thought of you?

� Chris Major

Reproduced with permission

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'SHADE'
by Chris Major

Daylight floods
your garden,
climbs your wall
and warms your
window-box;
flowers blink open,
their colour exposed;
sunlight spills over
the sill, on to that
faded patch of carpet;
onwards,
ascending the bed,
washing the sheet
drawn considerately
over your face;
a barrier,
incase the sun,
like a midwife,
smacks your eyes.


� Chris Major
Reproduced with permission

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'STREET ARTIST'
by Chris Major

We saw them in York
entertaining to scrape
a living, each with
their own patch
( The Minster,
The Shambles ),
the pavement as a canvas.

On returning home
they were there,
by street-lamp,
tears visible when
it was wet,
when the colour ran.


� Chris Major
Reproduced with permission

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'MOAN'
by Chris Major

For God's sake stop filling your
poems with birds and flowers,
there's no great call for them
around here.
Want to know the last time
I saw a 'brown-burnt valley
or patchwork field' ?
No. Well then , grow up.
Look, don't write about snowflakes
and carol-singers,
a tin of salmon makes my Christmas.

Oh, one more thing,
I wouldn't know a curlew if
it bit me on the arse!




� Chris Major
Reproduced with permission

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LINKS TO MORE OF CHRIS'S WORK ONLINE

�The Re-entry� on the Electric Acorn site here

�Manners� on the Half Drunk Muse site here

�Surface Tension� on the Shampoo Poetry site here

�Shade� on the Comrades e-zine site here

Read two poems by Chris on the Another Sun website here

Read haiku by Chris on the Smokebox Poetry site here

�Stroke� on the Tryst Poetry site here

Read two poems by Chris on the �Wired Arts for Wired Hearts� site here

Read two poems by Chris on the Sentinel Poetry site here

�Nessie � Loch Ness� on the Snakeskin site here

�Crushed� on the Poetic Therapy site here

Read three poems by Chris on the Poetic Inhalation site here

�The Bottom Line� on the Ultimate Hallucination sitehere

�Just Typical� on the Poetry Journal website here

�Snow Hope� on the Drunken Poets site here

�The Dust Settles� on the Bonfire site here

Read more experimental poetry by Chris on the Bonfire site here

�Weekends� on the Remark Poetry site here

Visit one of Chris�s favourite websites, Smokebox here

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