Rachel J Bowler's photos with the keyword: Birmingham

Hope lies on the sofa Barely venturing out Into the winter sun, Into the grey skies Of past dreams. In poverty, the Church sits empty. Serenity stirs For a moment Preparing to drift Back into sleep. Sometimes spring Never comes.

I met a traveller from Sutton Coldfield, Who said, "A massive artisan bull Stands in New Street Station, And near it, about to cut some tape, A half-sunk visage waits, Whose wrinkled lip and Gary Oldman glasses Look up towards the lifeless thing, With a half-mocking hand, ready to declare, 'My name is Ozzy, man, King of Birmingham Look on my works ye mighty and despair!' All gathered closer to the colossal wreck Whose nose did steam and eyes did glare. 'Sorry I cor stay long', the man did say 'There's a sunbed waiting for me in Tampa Bay!'"

From point to point, In front and behind, Above and below, The horizon curves, From constant thought To constant thought. Far away Your memory hidden Behind the circle. Although it was expected, Your departure Still surprised. Like mist On a winter's day.

The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too, Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh. Philip Larkin

Elvis Costello A mess of trees and bluebells.

And here are the trees and I know their gnarled surface, water and I feel its taste. These scents of grass, and stars at night, certain evenings when the heart relaxes - how shall I negate this world whose power and strength I feel? Albert Camus

I wait for a tomorrow Filled with summer. I feed my thoughts But this is no sad interim. My eyes are impatient For the frost to melt To be contracted anew, The blunt force allayed. But the sharpness shrinks, When the fullness of winter Is renewed daily, Until the view becomes clear. And dullness reminds me That I escaped. (Inspired by Sonnet 56)

The lights are too Bright To be spectres. Competing with the Moonlight They reveal Every insect That scales The walls of The past. Across floors And under subways Now demolished. Creatures that Crawl towards the Reflected, rather Than face the Cavernous.

The Future never spoke – Nor will he like the Dumb Reveal by sign – a Syllable Of His Profound To Come – Emily Dickinson

I often go to the place Where the trees still whisper Their time travel magic, Releasing memories Frozen in the sun. Is this the trickery Of hope? After all these years, What am I expecting? Perhaps a sign That the year Has not yet ended.

Martin Czerny You explain this world to me with an image. I realise then that you have been reduced to poetry. Albert Camus

In a thousand Different directions, Following many Paths not one, The branches Show us the way, And whisper A kind of freedom We can barely Understand.

Martin Czerny

Morning star, Out of the winter sun You appeared in black With chords of comfort, And all the songs I had ever known. I traded my soul For a lyre For you to play. And when the darkness Came I listened, until A nightmare Set me free.

In the winter I came back, When the mist was down. I could still read the signs That pointed the way Towards solitary benches. So I chose one and sat, And drizzle mingled Between every pore, Until it reached Ethereal peace.

Ludovico Einaudi

Martin Czerny This photo and the previous five were taken at Warley Park and Lightwoods Park near Birmingham. These parks are separated by a main road, but are almost interconnected. They have been a feature of my life since I was born. The bandstand in the photo is in Lightwoods Park. The photo was taken on a heavily foggy day in January. When my parents decided to move house in 1977, they moved from living just around the corner from Lightwoods Park, to a very short walk from Warley Woods. My mum would wheel me around Lightwoods Park in my pram, and I spent most of my free time as a child and teenager in these two parks. Both places have a strong nostalgic hold over me - as places where youthful dreams were conceived, and as places where broken dreams are reflected on as an adult.

Through the house No longer there, She walks. At a distance, Across the open grass. Sitting on a bench In the height of summer. At dusk, she lingers On the outskirts Of the fair. A thousand years Away, Alluded to By lovers On a rainy day. The real story Never told. The winter warning.