MB portraitAbout

Matt Barnard is a poet and short story writer. He has won and been placed in competitions including The Poetry Society’s Hamish Canham Prize, the Bridport Prize, the Ink Tears short story competition and the Bristol Short Story Prize. His debut poetry pamphlet The Bends was published by Eyewear and his first full collection, Anatomy of a Whale, will be published by The Onslaught Press in March. He is currently being mentored by poet, novelist and critic Ian Gregson as part of the Cinnamon Press mentoring scheme.

Matt was born in 1972 in London, where he still lives with his wife and their two sons and two dogs.


Anatomy of a Whale

A wide range of subject material and a knack for ‘telling it slant’ distinguishes this lively and perceptive collection.’ Penelope Shuttle (poet and novelist)

Like the most welcome guests, these restrained and powerful poems announce themselves forcefully, don’t outstay their welcome, and leave our rooms changed.Jonathan Edwards (winner of the Costa Book Award for Poetry)

‘The poems are imaginative and well-crafted, alert to the vagaries of the human predicament, as well as offering often surprising perspectives on the natural world.’ Carole Satyamurti (poet and sociologist)


The Bends

 ‘Matt Barnard is haunted, I somehow suspect, by the sea and its fathomless mysteries, for the wide-ranging, beautifully crafted poems in his pamphlet The Bends have a lingering smell of seaweed and brine about them.’ Poet and critic Malcolm Bradley in Acumen 90

‘Matt Barnard’s debut pamphlet is an excellent collection of eclectic poems that combine musicality with precise language.’ Writer and blogger Ali Thurm




Short Stories

Rooted in the realist tradition but frequently crossing boundaries of time and space, Matt’s stories have won the Ink Tears Short Story Competition and been shortlisted for the Bristol Short Story Prize.

The Last Damn Peach

(Winner of the Ink Tears Short Story Competition)

Ninety-three-year-old Faye Zuckerman, who was a good time girl in the 1940s and 1950s when – hell – it took balls to swing, put on her blue, rhinestone bikini and started to make her way to the garden where the last peach was waiting in the branches of the only tree in the grounds. She opened the door to her room and stepped into the hallway, and heard the door click behind her. That same click she knew from the many hotels she had stayed in, partied in, got high in. Her key! Shit, she’d forgotten it, but it didn’t really matter. She’d ask one of the damn care assistants to open it. Most of the old people in there couldn’t remember when to take a piss, never mind remember their keys… Continue reading




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑