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C.P. Stewart (Charlie) lived with his family in North Yorkshire. Formerly singer/songwriter with the cult band Laughing Gravy, his poetry has been widely published in Canada, Australia, Ireland, England and the United States.
For two years he was the Poetry Editor of Sotto Voce Arts and Literary magazine (U.S.).
A chapbook of his poetry, Taking it In was published by Koo Poetry Press in 2009.

Charlie died suddenly in February 2017. He left home in the morning to walk with the dog down one of his favourite lanes. He never returned.

Considering the Lilies
Poems by CP Stewart
RRP  €12-00 ISBN 9781907017070

“... in that tradition of writing verse which functions as either (or both) songs and poems. The poems themselves tend to be snappy, enigmatic and dark.” – Books Ireland
“ Following the noble tradition of Cohen and Dylan, C. P. Stewart translates the simplicity and depth of song-writing  from the voice to the page.  The result is beautiful. Poem after poem of spare writing, sometimes dark, follows to the letter Keith Douglas’s dictum that every word must earn its place.” ─ Gerard Rochford, poet.
“These poems are the goods.” ─ John Whitworth, poet.
Praise for C. P. Stewart’s previous book Taking it In
“ ... short, taut snapshots.” ─ Paul Sutherland, poet,

 Editor of Dream Catcher magazine.
“ C. P. Stewart’s rich collection of poems seizes life’s most feral moments and holds them captive on the page. His writing reminds us that life is to be savored. What is ironic is that his poems, so concise in nature, cannot be quickly ingested. They are simply too rich to be swallowed whole.

Vinnie Kinsella, Publisher, Four and Twenty.

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Notes for the Underground

Remember well

each lovely thing

for darkness is coming.

Take no pictures.

Record no sound.

Write nothing down.


But first,

take one small, inviolable truth,

and keep it, close, in a mouthful of bread ─

for darkness, even now, is approaching your door.

And then remember love; remember hard.


I am fifty-six years old

and have awakened

from many a beautiful dream.

Have cursed the breaking days

and dressed myself, weeping.

Know this, as I twist

your sleeping hair around my fist.