Ben Blench
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benblench.bsky.social
Ben Blench
@benblench.bsky.social
160 followers 160 following 160 posts
Magical person. Actual published poet. Freelance copywriter.
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Reposted by Ben Blench
regretteruane.bsky.social
Celebrate Ivor Cutler’s birthday by watching one of the most divine pieces of television ever made.
Dave Allen *and* Ivor Cutler, how could you possibly resist?
youtu.be/6RX1fMWkims?...
January 15, 2026 at 9:47 AM
benblench.bsky.social
Found poem in an English language transcript of a Dutch voicemail
Garbled English transcript of a Dutch voicemail. The text reads: The heaven is a belt in for bumpness..,...•. 111 "...... Still to it, nit tango, price of the fear, telephone contact, if you can, Duncan Jahir, achheif, not that you need me, telephone is more..... 111• So, it's ain un feder to hand.. The heaven is a belt inf Garbled English transcript of a Dutch language voicemail. The text reads: hand.. The heaven is a belt in for abundance, you'll be talking about. Some a meton, spray for a muyer virodna, and it's spray for name, incident, yo, contact, and of maniram, from stone, and onsimisi.. Spelt to it, need long ago, priced of a fear, telephone contact message, you can..! going here you need me telephone
January 12, 2026 at 9:16 PM
Reposted by Ben Blench
atriumpoetry.bsky.social
Thank you for reading and sharing today's poem - My Sister Went to Live on the Moon by @suefinch.bsky.social
January 9, 2026 at 10:22 PM
benblench.bsky.social
Is there a more perfect last line than this?
#books #writing #gatsby #fitzgerald #lastline
Image of the last line of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. The text reads: "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
January 7, 2026 at 4:10 PM
benblench.bsky.social
Now playing: Alienbaby Collective - Breakage

open.spotify.com/track/0eLwro...
Breakage
open.spotify.com
January 7, 2026 at 9:48 AM
benblench.bsky.social
No reason, just LOL.

Prints of this @daveyjones.bsky.social banger are available from philiplarkin.com/product/lark...

#poetry #philiplarkin #viz #space #doom
A cartoon by Davey Jones for Viz Comic. The title is "The Collected Poems of Philip Larkin in Space" We see a starship pilot warning: "Captain Larkin, our ship is caught in the gravitational pull of Doom Planet... moment by moment, we are inching inexorably towards oblivion!" Larking replies: "Tell me about it."
January 5, 2026 at 1:28 PM
Reposted by Ben Blench
longbarrowpress.bsky.social
No Xmas For John Quays in the style of a Zohran Mamdani campaign poster
December 12, 2025 at 10:38 AM
benblench.bsky.social
"A hedgehog in a thicket" 🦔
Really lovely poem, this.
From Jo Matthews' debut chapbook, Sunlight Later: www.cathexisnorthwestpress.com/product-page...
Text of a poem by Jo Matthews, entitled "Birds": The branches above are breaking into the sky — as birds like ink on air swirl from trees to flight great black lungfuls of them freewheeling across the white winter sky, humming the secret rhythm of fragment to solid, then loosening into dance. Look up. I wonder what it is in me that still fears my light turning instead to the sharp inhale of darkness — and I keep thinking: don’t let me mess this up me, with my gaze skewed down to tangled ground missing this quiet kindness, this wild mess, this show. Be still. The sky is still mine if I want it the ground doesn’t care if I’m a poet or a mother the birds don’t care if the words fly out of me or fester on vein branches in my mind waiting for the perfect moment to be set free. Let go. Fear comes when you have something to lose. Once, I was a puffin on a cliff-face, a hedgehog in a thicket, a terrapin watching shadows blur on faces in the morning sun. Once, I was the white on the wave and the notes on a piano playing until the dark in my heart became a song taking flight. Under the light of a single star, I waited blindly for the call, for the hair-breath moment of arriving looking at the light for the first time shining — and a mother not sure if her child had survived. Once, I squeezed through a star-hole to be here, once, I hopscotched across the dark glass sky to claim my name, once I was the wind and the light riding hidden eddies to a freedom I didn’t know was mine. Once, I counted tears until they became stars in the sky — or poems: blossoming, or birds: laughing. Take flight.
December 6, 2025 at 9:52 AM
benblench.bsky.social
New side quest unlocked: keep the numbers in sync FOREVER
Screenshot of Ben Blench’s Bluesky profile page showing 144 followers, 144 following, and 144 posts
December 3, 2025 at 9:11 PM
benblench.bsky.social
A masterpiece.
markantonyowen.com 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕜 𝔸𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕟𝕪 𝕆𝕨𝕖𝕟 @markantonyowen.com · Dec 2
On the 40th anniversary of his passing, here's one of Philip Larkin's greatest poems – 'The Whitsun Weddings'.

#riplarkin #poetry
Black and white photo of 20th century English poet Philip Larkin, sat at a desk and looking pensive, surrounded by volumes of books. The Whitsun Weddings By Philip Larkin That Whitsun, I was late getting away: Not till about One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out, All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense Of being in a hurry gone. We ran Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence The river’s level drifting breadth began, Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet. All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept For miles inland, A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept. Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and Canals with floatings of industrial froth; A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped And rose: and now and then a smell of grass Displaced the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth Until the next town, new and nondescript, Approached with acres of dismantled cars. At first, I didn’t notice what a noise The weddings made Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys The interest of what’s happening in the shade, And down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls I took for porters larking with the mails, And went on reading. Once we started, though, We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls In parodies of fashion, heels and veils, All posed irresolutely, watching us go, As if out on the end of an event Waving goodbye To something that survived it. Struck, I leant More promptly out next time, more curiously, And saw it all again in different terms: The fathers with broad belts under their suits And seamy foreheads; mothers loud and fat; An uncle shouting smut; and then the perms, The nylon gloves and jewellery-substitutes, The lemons, mauves, and olive-ochres that Marked off the girls unreally from the rest. Yes, from cafés And banquet-halls up yards, and bunting-dressed Coach-party annexes, the wedding-days Were coming to an end. All down the line Fresh couples climbed aboard: the rest stood round; The last confetti and advice were thrown, And, as we moved, each face seemed to define Just what it saw departing: children frowned At something dull; fathers had never known Success so huge and wholly farcical; The women shared The secret like a happy funeral; While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared At a religious wounding. Free at last, And loaded with the sum of all they saw, We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam. Now fields were building-plots, and poplars cast Long shadows over major roads, and for Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem Just long enough to settle hats and say I nearly died, A dozen marriages got under way. They watched the landscape, sitting side by side —An Odeon went past, a cooling tower, And someone running up to bowl—and none Thought of the others they would never meet Or how their lives would all contain this hour. I thought of London spread out in the sun, Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat: There we were aimed. And as we raced across Bright knots of rail Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail Travelling coincidence; and what it held Stood ready to be loosed with all the power That being changed can give. We slowed again, And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain.
December 2, 2025 at 9:11 AM
Reposted by Ben Blench
radiophrenia.bsky.social
Radiophrenia 2026 Open Call – now open for submissions.
We are pleased to announce that Radiophrenia will be returning to the airwaves in September 2026. You can find details of our new open call for radio works and how to submit in the link below.
submissions.radiophrenia.scot
November 30, 2025 at 3:17 PM
benblench.bsky.social
Happy birthday to me! I just heard I got a poem accepted by a cute poetry site. Gonna be published next year :)

No it's not the one about frangipane (bsky.app/profile/benb...)
benblench.bsky.social Ben Blench @benblench.bsky.social · Jun 7
New Saturday afternoon murder poem by me:

Behold my fucking frangipane
I got the recipe from my friend Diane
Gonna bake it in my Bakewell tart
And feed it to Donald, he’s got heart
DISEASE
November 21, 2025 at 2:57 PM
benblench.bsky.social
Now playing: The Velvet Underground - Beginning To See The Light

open.spotify.com/track/7nDdOt...
Beginning To See The Light
open.spotify.com
November 14, 2025 at 10:15 PM
Reposted by Ben Blench
suchmayer.bsky.social
I do this all the time, no AI or even computer needed. It's called mind-mapping, or marginal comments, or Talmud, or Tumblr, or Post-its, or scholia, or Emily Dickinson's writing practice, or drafts, or revises, or amends, or "expand this," or highlighting, or developing an idea, or ...
November 4, 2025 at 6:47 PM
Reposted by Ben Blench
regretteruane.bsky.social
Philip Larkin’s this be the verse mangled into Ozymandias, the text reads They Oz you up, your mandyias. They may not mean to, but they do. They give you vast and trunkless legs A sunken shattered visage too. But they were Ozzed up in their turn By Mandyias upon the sand Who half the time had wrinkled lips And half in sneering cold command. Oz hands on mandyias to man. Like mighty works atop a shelf Look on them early as you can Ye mighty and despair yourself
October 30, 2025 at 3:49 PM
benblench.bsky.social
All-time banger, this one
themothmagazine.bsky.social The Moth Magazine @themothmagazine.bsky.social · Oct 19
❛ What. / The fuck. / Is this leaf. / Doing. In my–– / And this. / And fucking this.

A poem for your Sunday reset – by Dawn Watson, from Issue 25. 🍂
October 19, 2025 at 8:45 PM
Reposted by Ben Blench
leguinbot.bsky.social
We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art, the art of words.
October 18, 2025 at 7:45 AM
benblench.bsky.social
Sharing this little beauty by Jo Matthews from her debut poetry collection "Sunlight Later" on Cathexis Northwest Press: www.cathexisnorthwestpress.com/product-page... - ten years of love and loneliness, birth and motherhood, grief and grace, and the search for the sacred in the natural world
Text of a poem by Jo Matthews, entitled "Sometimes, who I am" Sometimes, I smoke one cigarette in the park, hiding behind the Indian restaurant, listening to poems spoken in a soft Irish voice. Sometimes, I wish those words were mine, watch daisies vibrate in the wind write down the words ‘feather’ and ‘crossable’ and ‘raven’, just in case. Sometimes, I silent-shout into my pillow at night pleading to the shining god I half-remember just to send me back to sleep, just sleep – that’s all. Sometimes, I ride my bike fast into wind as trees lean into a tunnel – a great green Mexican wave for my arrival, my heart fast and on fire as the who I was then and the who I will be race to catch up with me. What I would say to the who I was then is this: Tell the truth. Tell the truth to that gleaming cluster of wanting you lugged around: That the world will tilt and burn and smash your heart But afterwards come feather cracks that leave room for light, such light that clusters and rages in uncatchable pools. Sometimes, the heron seems to know who I am, lone hunter his blinking eye scorching forests for secret forage, knowing sometimes I wish for a freedom that will never be mine that once crossable river now a white wash of love and tethering to raven hair and wild newness, soft-cell aliveness inching with such light into the shadows that kept me safe for so long. What I would say to the who I will be who races me through the trees is this: the world tips, scorches, shatters, but anyway - now it’s too late to let go.
October 15, 2025 at 7:16 PM
benblench.bsky.social
Now playing: Alienbaby Collective - Waves II
open.spotify.com/track/26IQM9...
Waves II
open.spotify.com
October 12, 2025 at 3:26 PM
Reposted by Ben Blench
rough-diamond1.bsky.social
And YES! Another submission opportunity!
We've opened up for our new anthology - Poetry for Protest.
Check out the website for submission details...
roughdiamondpoetry.com/submissions/
Submissions
We are open for submissions for Poems for Protest and The Rough Diamond Poetry Prize We are open for poetry submissions for our next poetry anthology “Poems for Protest” Send us 1-5 poe…
roughdiamondpoetry.com
October 5, 2025 at 3:23 PM
Reposted by Ben Blench
rough-diamond1.bsky.social
We have opened for our very first poetry prize!
Check out our website for full submission details
roughdiamondpoetry.com/the-rough-di...
October 5, 2025 at 3:20 PM
benblench.bsky.social
Now playing: Can x MF DOOM

Incredible track from the Tom Caruana Inner Space remix album.

tomcaruanamashups.bandcamp.com/track/mf-doo...
MF DOOM, by Tom Caruana
from the album Inner Space
tomcaruanamashups.bandcamp.com
October 3, 2025 at 5:42 PM
benblench.bsky.social
On #NationalPoetryDay I’m super happy to share that my poem “Wasting time on the internet again” has been included in the latest anthology from @rough-diamond1.bsky.social :)

Wanna read the poem? Go buy the book! It's called “100 poems for the 21st century”. and you can get it on Amazon.
100 Poems for the 21st Century
Buy 100 Poems for the 21st Century by Cosgrove, Miss Charlotte (ISBN: 9798267508162) from Amazon's Book Store. Everyday low prices and free delivery on eligible orders.
www.amazon.co.uk
October 2, 2025 at 8:53 AM
Reposted by Ben Blench
rough-diamond1.bsky.social
EXCITING NEWS!
Our newest print anthology - 100 poems for the 21st Century - will be available from Amazon within the next 72 hours!

Thank you so much to our amazing poets who have really brought this book to life😍💎😍
September 28, 2025 at 3:09 PM
Reposted by Ben Blench
citymystic.bsky.social
open.substack.com/pub/houseofm...

Wrote about the radical act of returning to one's body in a digital age designed to detach us from them.
You Don't Need to Log off, You Need to Become Sensual
The digital world the wealthy are creating is designed to detach us from our bodies
open.substack.com
September 22, 2025 at 2:37 PM