David Grubb

David Grubb

David Grubb writes poetry, short stories and novels. He has been published by StrideSalt and Shearsman. He was longlisted in the 2013 National Poetry Competition, and took third place in 2006. His latest novel will appear in the autumn. 

David was a winner in the 2012 Book & Pamphlet Competition, judged by Simon Armitage.


'David Grubb’s poems sing out so lustily and irrepressibly … steady, bright, humane.' — Selima Hill


''David Grubb’s voice gives a distinctive slant to his subjects. It is a poetry that subverts expectations, unsettles and moves you.'  — Mike Barlow

'His poems, often growing out of his work in conflict zones or areas of extreme poverty, are suffused with political accountability. Combine this with a less than conventional syntax and a talent for rendering physical qualities with authenticity and you have something special.'  Tim Liardet


'Wallace Stevens’s poem ‘Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird’ has offered a writing template to many subsequent poets, and David Grubb’s spin on the original is as inventive as any. Imagism and ‘the moment’ lie at the heart of these fragmentary sequences, though narrative always feels possible, even insistent. A reminder that poetry might be extracted from everywhere and anything. And that every poem, no matter how brief, is ‘a small story.’ — Simon Armitage 

'A quietly but utterly distinctive poet' — Matt Merritt, Sphinx





It is raining inside my head again
and somebody has locked up all the fields
and thrown away the keys.


I feel like I’ve been peeled,
inside out and smelling
of apple pulp.


Don’t look now; the man in the tree
is me,sometimes muttering,blubbing,
or running, my mouth fat with berries.


Snow claps its hands slowly,
knows where the dead birds are,
each hedge clutching old nests.


Don’t put me back in that chair,
I beg you. I cannot abide silences
and how ropes nettle my hands.


And all the while moon enters gardens
and barn doors and seesaw songs,
hanging its garlands in the heart.


Sometimes I hide words
in bird nests; owl,swift,dark crow,
the so silent robin.


Other times I hide words
in pools,lakes,rivers,rat runs,
beside sleeping badgers.


When I stole from the pear tree
at dawn it was as if I was again
eating swelling light.


What does the church bell tell Mary,
her hidden days, her lichen dreams
and rain scribbles?

Titles by this author

Tweets from the Poetry Business

poetrybusiness The 2018 New Poets Prize winners will be reading from their newly published collections at The Poetry Cafè on Wedne… https://t.co/pNUdtCYmFQ

about 12 hours ago via Twitter Web Client

Poetry Business mailing list
Your cart is currently empty
Arts Council England - National Portfolio Organisation

Inpress Books