‘A Portrait Artist’, edbarry's second collection of poetry, follows on from the success of his book 'Unfollow' . It's central theme is that of legacy: what do each of us intentionally or unwittingly leave behind. In the maze of mirrors that is social media and AI, what are the true signposts indicating the way to keep on living authentically?

The Universal Theory

The seating was divided into red benches

(for three people) and grey sofas for couples,

spaced out in a series of slight arcs facing

the screen.

He gradually became aware that all the ticket

holders belonged to exactly the same demographic:

White, in their 50s, intelligent looking and

mostly wearing the high-end version of a thin

ribbed jacket that sensible walkers use as a

layer. There was little other diversity apart

from quirks of facial hair, earrings and

whether some of the men could still get away

with a turn-up to their jeans

It was that grey limbo between Christmas and

New Year’s Eve.

Most of the audience knew that the film

struggled to score above 6/10 in any online

review but it whiled away a couple of hours

as the afternoon morphed into true Saturday

evening mode outside.

The only takeaway from the whole day was

just how poignantly similar everyone seemed,

even though they were all complete strangers.

A Complete Unknown

there are only two ways

to walk along a canal

with both there is inevitable

rusting debris or a proud

white mother swan flexing

her wings as warning

yet the water is still there beside us;

flat and still and witness

to our flickering conversations

about legacy; about what to

watch that night. Like

the murk, there is a growing

feeling of recycling to somewhere

bigger than the immediate now

and that, actually, the refracting

reflection of surfaces is

precisely where our coerced

art is always flowing towards

for once

iced up cul-de-sac

willing itself through cold slo-mo

to be absolutely still



The Causeway

dull prickly thuds

ice dropping

from warmed branches

stolen confetti

a too early marriage

slow clapped applause

soaked procession

thorns where once

crystals sparkled

the ground now

suddenly uneven

after all

i have written poems

thousands of them

actually

mainly about vices

and what was going to be

after i had got rid

of these vices

which i have now

and now

now there seems only to be a

a grey morning

which is as finer metaphor

as you will get

but i have composed literature 

of sorts

and now this day

has to get dressed

and moving

and laden

with the prospect

of further poems

with the hope

that just one of them

shines