This is the sales-page for Philip Burton; an exciting and original new erbacce-poet; it is currently under construction so please bookmark it and we'll have it up-and-running in a few days

BUT for now; read more about Phil HERE and if you wish to contact the author then click on the cover at the bottom of this page to open an email link to him; he's very friendly, doesn't bite (well not often) and you can arrange, should you so wish, to have him send you a signed copy... the 'BUY NOW' button opens a PayPal link and for those customers in the UK a £3.00 surcharge for p/p will be added. IF however you live outside the UK please email Phil and give him your address; he'll then advise on postage and also if there are any likely problems with customs following brexit.

Phil's poetry road had a number of potholes which, as you will imagine, shook his words about a bit. A life-long experience of dyslexia meant he scribed nothing aged eleven, nor did books convey meanings to him... though pictures… well that was another story (for another time perhaps). Joined-up, cursive, handwriting bumped him into first gear. He discovered he could read by the shape of words. By university he was mentally exhausted, he had fallen in love with Chemistry (He says; 'O is easier to read than 'Oxygen'' and you can't argue with that). But Phil also needed the oxygen of physical work which meant that he bumped into exploitation, wage slavery and such which converted him to a radical but powerless civil servant who temporarily gave up the fight and took to the hippie trail. Then followed all that business of becoming a head teacher... again; a story for another time...

So how to explain his poetry, which has been described as 'different' sometimes even 'ethical'? Well, the quick answer which Phil states unequivocally is, 'Kids taught me'. When he writes for adults he sneak rhymes and rhythms in. Phil himself states it clearly again; 'I can’t help it. Blame the kids.' What’s radical about Phil's poetry are the subjects he chooses, or perhaps they choose him...

SO; enter into Phil's poetic allotment but heed this warning from the poet himself; 'Tread carefully for you tread on my greens!' Now where have we heard something like that before?

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