Nick is a poet and occasional prose writer who has been a member of Bridgnorth Writers for over twenty years.
His work has been widely published in magazines and anthologies and he often performs it at regional live literature events and festivals.
He finds his inspiration in many different places, but has been particularly interested in the culture and rituals of work, visual media, rural and urban environments, and personal landscapes of disconnection.
Nick's books are published by Offa’s Press.
Click here for their on-line shop.
'Nick Pearson is at his best when he catches moments, causes and effects, meditations, off their guard. In a number of pieces he explores these richly, balancing detachment and compassion in a way which, sadly, eludes so many poets.'
Michael W. Thomas, reviewing Nick’s book Made in Captivity in Under the Radar #10, Autumn 2012
Nick's latest book – launched in September 2020 – is Barista, and is available now from Offa's Press.
We've heard Nick read extracts from Barista in recent meetings, and it's highly recommended.
HERON BY THE ENGLISH BRIDGE,
It is unclear why this bird
sometimes stands perfectly still
with its wings outstretched,
but this late January afternoon,
iron insignia against coming dusk,
Reichsadler defying the swell,
it is to face down our stares,
to say come and have a go
if you think you’re hard enough.
From The Cannon’s Mouth, March, 2020
I’m waiting in the queue, though it wasn’t really a queue,
it was one of those ragged lines amongst other ragged lines
that only somebody schooled in the most sophisticated word search quizzes
would be able to discern as something intelligibly linear,
the sort with people poking about in waist high plastic bins,
the ones that look like fonts or the upturned half of a flying saucer,
and this woman comes up to her partner behind me
and says to him “Are you alright darling?”
except that it sounded more like “All white with the darning?”
and was louder than it should have been
for what I imagine to be the standard decibel decorum
of a flagship Selfridges store three days before Christmas.
“I’m just standing here contemplating the concept of people pushing in,”
he says, even louder than her annoying little greeting,
probably believing himself shielded in his brazen audibility
by the mistaken belief that, one, I couldn’t understand English
and, two, that if I did the use of ‘concept’ and ‘contemplate,’
being complex words used in an alliterative way,
would cleverly encrypt his remarks for receipt only
by those with brains less feeble than my own,
specifically that of his woman,
one with a look of the managerial type in her first year of promotion,
a merlot-sipping back story of gap year poverty tourism
super-charging and exonerating her rich soaking of smug,
and I turned to them both,
a Joe Pesci in ‘Casino’ agitation tightening my palm around a Paperchase pen,
sweat prickling beneath a fleece unsuited to the day,
and enquired whether they were referring to me.
And she jumped in, oh, she took her turn,
a bonding sense of shopper fair play surging through her in a crimson tide,
and tells me, yes actually, for your information the queue is back there, way back there,
a distance the magnitude of which she non-verbally expressed
with a loose, exasperated sweep of her arm,
while he stood there, a tower of coupledom power,
probably thinking that his stropping posh bird-half was doing OK,
and so that’s where I went, way back there, to her haughty arm’s horizon,
to make my purchase promptly at a newly opened till,
only to return minutes later, carrier bag in hand,
to strafe them with my stare, my special moment, this, their losers’ story.
From The Rialto (issue 73)