I nearly caught a fish, Mum, I nearly won the race, I nearly beat the bully 'till he hit me in the face. I nearly passed exams and almost got the job but they gave the work to Sam - that overachieving nob! I nearly paid the loan off but then the car broke down so I nearly got a second job - but I couldn't get to town. We nearly went to Cornwall for a week beside the beach but the cost of renting caravans is far beyond our reach. I nearly gave up smoking but with all the stress at work I needed it to calm me down from dealing with those jerks... I nearly had it licked but I went along this week for another routine check up and the scan looked pretty bleak. It's ok though, I'm reconciled: I've been finalising plans. I'm going to have my headstone say "Here lies the Nearly Man! He lived an 'almost' kind of life - he never had his day, he spent his time just fishing for the one that got away." ![]() Although born in New York, poet and musician Marc Woodward has spent most of his life in the rural English West Country. His work reflects those surroundings and often has a bleakness tempered by dark humour and musicality. Widely published, he has appeared in the Poetry Society and Guardian web pages, Ink Sweat & Tears, Prole, Page & Spine, Avis, The Broadsheet, The Clearing - and in anthologies from Forward, Sentinel and OWF presses. His chapbook 'A Fright Of Jays' is available from Maquette Press. A collection co-written with well known poet Andy Brown is due for publication in 2017.
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