Alan Britt ABC Radio National (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) in July, 2007 broadcasted a straight read, plus live stream on their Web site of Alan Britt’s poem, "After Spending All Day at the National Museum of Art," as part of their Poets on Painters series.  ABC credited New Letters as original publisher…..The Poetry Library (www.poetrymagazines.org.uk) providing free access digital library of 20th & 21st century English poetry magazines with the aim of reaching new audiences and preserving the magazines for the future included Alan Britt’s work published in Fire (UK) in their project. The Poetry Project’s sole patronage by Her Majesty The Queen, Elizabeth II…..PCA/ACA Conference 2007 (Boston) Panel Chair for Poetry Studies & Creative Poetry. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2008.

Three Poems (August 20, 2009. Issue 8.)

The Day Alice Came By

Alice invited herself
for tea;
she’s like that.

The eight of clubs,
tired of being
drowned
alongside
wildebeest, lioness, and zebra
in the crocodile’s river of knowledge,
politely doffed his felt fedora
then scurried off to lunch.

That left me alone with Alice.

We talked about Goya,
then pondered how certain thoughts
often resemble sculpture
and architecture,
a la Calder,
until suddenly stray bullets
began streaking like rays of sunlight
through loose wallboards in the afterworld.

These bullets
of sunlight
were heading straight for us!

Alice took another pill.

I dissolved in moonlight
somewhere around Glyndon Drive.

Holiday From Teaching

Green castanets
spill over the sunken backs
of the horses of instruction.

So, today, these horses
reject their loads of bureaucratic hay,
reject their chrome blinders
riveted to harnesses of conventional wisdom.

Today, these sad horses,
almost as heavy as their precious enigmatic
tornadoes of jealousy,
arise
on weightless hooves
to look at the world
through the wild, clear eyes of joy!

My Companion and I Listen to Paco de Lucia
Play Solo Quiero Caminar

The guitar note
bends
with ease
like a green thorn
beneath my bare foot.

Seeking my fatal flaw,
another guitar note
a brittle thorn
dives
through our entwined sensibilities.

A sinew
or a rusted
spring in your backbone
pulls away
from muscle.

I watch you
windblown
creak to and fro
like a whitewashed screen door
on a Georgia farmhouse porch.