It’s UK publication day for ‘Let Sleeping Cats Lie’, my collection of poems about pets.
I wrote the for book children, aged between 7 and 95, and it’s available through all the usual bookshop places. You can find some of the online retailers here: https://linktr.ee/brianbilston
There are a few signed copies knocking about, too. Here’s a small list of some of the independent bookshops who have signed copies: https://linktr.ee/letsleepingcatslie
Anyway, that’s about all I have to say on the matter so I shall finish writing this post now.
Some news! I have a new book of poems for children coming out in a couple of months – Let Sleeping Cats Lie.
It’s a collection of poems about pets (dogs, cats, goldfish, chinchilla, guinea pigs, snakes, budgies, rabbits, blue whales etc). I say it’s for children but it’s also suitable for grandchildren and, who knows, some grown-ups might enjoy it, too; I don’t like to be too prescriptive.
Is this year going to be THE year in which you get all your shopping sorted way ahead of time?
Probably not, no.
Is there a book publishing today which could solve many of your Christmas shopping headaches?
No idea, tbh.
Regardless, I thought I should probably let you know that I have a new book coming out today. It’s a collection of Christmas poems called And So This is Christmas.
Poems cover most of the festive basics, such as: the likelihood of snow; secret Santa shopping; family tensions; the voting habits of turkeys; the difficulty of getting hold of some myrrh; disruptions to the regular bin schedule; bloody robins.
Oh, and the commercialization of Christmas, of course.
If it wasn’t too early to be thinking about Christmas, I would tell you that the book is available through all bookshops – online stores and proper ones. I’d probably also share this link, which provides links to some of the bookshops through which you can order it online:
I might also mention that the paperback of Days Like These will be publishing in just under a month and that also might serve as a Christmas gift for someone for whom you don’t want to go to much effort.
But given it’s only 12th October, I probably shouldn’t. In fact, best just to disregard all of the above; I wish I hadn’t mentioned it now.
It’s December so I suppose I should mention these books in case you might want to incorporate any of them into your Christmas shopping.
‘50 Ways to Score a Goal’ is a collection of poems, perfect for the football obsessive in your life, whether they’re aged eight or eighty (but not thirty-four for some reason).
‘Alexa, what is there to know about love?’ published earlier this year in a splendid-looking hardcover edition. It’s a collection of poems about love (plus a few other things like Brexit and pasta), making it the ideal gift for Sagittarians, vegetarians and Presbyterians.
‘Diary of a Somebody’ is a novel, in the form of a diary, about a complete loser called Brian Bilston (no relation). It also contains over 100 poems and for shortlisted for the Costa First Novel Award. Goes well with a tomato and basil sauce.
‘You Took the Last Bus Home’ is, at heart, a book with some words in it. Many of these have been arranged into poems along with punctuation marks and the occasional line break. Appropriate for mums, uncles, nephews and sister-in-laws.
And ‘Refugees’ is my forwardy-backwardy poem in picture book format for children. The poem is accompanied by the beautiful artwork of José Sanabria.
They’re available from a bookshop near you. Unless you’re in North America, where generally you can only get hold of You Took the Last Bus Home and Refugees.
It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything on here. Sorry about that. Or maybe it’s a good thing. Opinions may vary.
Anyhow, I have managed to publish a couple of new books since my last post. Quite how this happened, I don’t know.
In January, my new collection ‘Alexa, what is there to know about love? published. It’s my first proper collection since ‘You Took the Last Bus Home’. It contains a sequence of poems about love in its different varieties, as well as other, more mundane preoccupations. It looks like this …
And then a few weeks ago, I had a book of football poems for children published. It’s called ‘50 Ways to Score a Goal’. It’s bright green and looks like this …
Both are available through a bookshop near you – or indeed any of those online bookshops that you get nowadays.
I’d buy everything from a bookshop if I could.
All my food would come from there.
Atwooden tables I would sit, eating Dahl,
Kipling Tartts or chocolate Baudelaires.
There’d be flat tortillas, focaccia and the rye:
it would be a literary-luncheoned life of pie,
all washed down with a glass of Carver
or a Swift half, if I’d rather.
I would make myself an Eco-friendly home:
go Greene and buy recycled tomes.
It Wodehouse a Self-portrait in the attic,
where no-one else could look at it,
and a looking-glass, of course, for the hall,
(amazing how I’ve not changed at all).
My house would Spark delighted looks;
I’d build a coffee table out of coffee table books.
I would also buy my clothes from there:
ragged trousers, experimental novel underwear,
dust jackets and striped pyjamas.
Boyd by the comments that I would Garner,
my days would pass quite Harper Lee,
this bookshop life, these books and me.
There’s a supermarket where the library once stood.
I sometimes forget that it’s now gone for good.
Last week I asked if they had any Flaubert.
A shrug in response. ‘The cheese counter’s there.’
There’s a supermarket where the library had been.
I’ve been reading some Dhal in ‘Indian cuisine’.
No golden tickets, witches or giants, of course;
just chickpeas and lentils in a creamy spiced sauce.
There’s a supermarket where the library once was.
I had tried to hand back an old Grapes of Wrath.
Sorry, they told me, but it’s really too late,
they’ll be shrivelled and well past their best-before-date.
There’s a supermarket where the library once stood.
A Sainsbury’s Local has bulldozed my childhood.
The library had been starved of state funding, I guess.
Take books off the menu and live well for less.
I had forgotten that —
for a long time — I went to bed early,
seduced by Proust,
who so often had le mot juste
about affairs of the heart
and the nature of art,
and all that stuff.
But life and things passed,
gave way to armchaired collapse
in front of a screen,
scrolling through memes,
watching videos of cats.
Until one evening,
when retrieving the remote,
I found you again, on the shelf,
as if stumbling upon a swan’s nest
amongst the reeds, hidden,
your pages like fresh linen.
Written to commemorate the death of Marcel Proust, 18th November 1922.
