Biography

Hobby-poet or in-training so to speak!

MMU graduate, completed my dissertation in creative writing poetry, at Oxford University studying a PGCE in English teaching.

My key influence is Anne Sexton - but I also love Verlaine, Carol Ann Duffy's recent work, Frost and Brian Patten.

Would love any comments or thoughts on my poetry.... x

Samples

Ink Marks

1

There is no mode of language which is clean cut,
-able-
to serrate itself on a knife edge

- plunge into the depths.
Nor,
- (nothing)
involved in writing
which moves the tears to come, from onions.


2

Do to me as is expected and wash away the colours draining from you.
Whisper the words immortal and fortuitous on the wind.

Reassemble the lines and spaces you have left in me
and whichever room this now is.


3

For the subtlety of the novel and the immaterial are forever
Lost
and cannot resolve what has been
split, knifed, or halved.


4

The basin is cold, wet; it lies and loves me too.

5

Between
(Glass)
I can watch the world.

Shout out aloud at nothingness, and the trees waver back, as though they listen or agree.
In spring the words are softer
As the bluebells nod and laugh at the simplicity.


6

Outpourings of rain
open the wilderness
help me to ascertain what is needed for the
Next piece.

7

I am troubled writing.
As troubled, as the bending grass,
or wilting of the leaves from heavy drops.

8
Solace and solidarity the two
Intertwine
But are not the same, like loss and lost.


9

The same way that sunlight refracts
on angles
Performs before the shadows her dance,
Whilst blinding the passerby.


10

Somewhere the intrepid filmmaker
can make his sense;
Love the light and words, as I do, and more so, have done.


11

This time sat, or rather curled and balled, the winters expanse
strides
far ahead and kisses the naked branches,
one more
Or less.

12

I can feel the warmth of indoors and the prickle of licked lips.
Again I am trying so hard
-to think- and feel,
to look beyond and know what I perceive.


13

They watch me and worry where I have travelled,
touching the bitter panes in the

‘me’

sized
space
of the windowsill.

14

So long language has evaded my notes,
long has she flown like swarms of bees frantic and painful.

Instead I watch and wait for the return,

slicing elements of time from the movement of the sun,

until dusk falls, clouds reform –

and the greyness of yesterday is again a friend.

15

How fraught it is to miss something supposedly irrelevant according to your eyes,
...without you, I cry to onions.

Leave trails of the imagination
On the floor

16

(Lower myself into it.)


LOSING MYSELF

Beautiful darkness,
sweeps across desert plains.
Intrepid silence,
whilst dust breezes settle again.

I search for you,
See your voice.

Remember two lay beneath
Ink blue skies
White rippled flecks
Mirrored in eyes.

Dark lashes mix with spiced air,
The taste of apricots lingers there.

OXFORD LOVE AFFAIR

Golden spires and glorious sunshine,
the last dregs of sweet red wine.
An oxford love affair of jazz,
Keats, and special times:
I love you still.

Beyond days meandering cobbled streets,
you swing me and the fatal kiss repeats.
I am yours and long shall be,
for ‘Oxford love’ runs deeply.
I am you still.

Should you return to the forever place,
lay face down on the grass,
whilst bells peel and summer lasts,
look for me, look for snow.
I want you still

Time passes, white flakes fall,
the winter warms you to me.
Your eyes are blue-grey stars
Without you, Oxford is no longer ours,
I miss you still.



LUNA

Eerie ripples sway the moon,
The iridescent waning
Mirrored on water.
A face blurred, marred, starry.

Gossamer light flows,
Time passes, pieces of your face are lost.
Oily blue encases a reflection of you,
Free.

Night moves on and fades.
Melts into ferocious orange,
A silhouette remains.



SELF PORTRAIT

Inside my thoughts
are flies of winter,
Outside are eyes of the inner.
Piano tunes in minor
clog plugholes,
used to cleanse the soul.
Throwing up tastes,
misplaced elements of time,
a bile most acrid yet sublime.
Stained versions replicate,
fragments of a self innate.
The molded eyeless features,
between the bevelled glass
a brutality of beauty,
long surpassed.
A collected nothingness:
this is who I am.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.