The first of a series of ‘postcards’ – tiny, unconnected stories. The edge of the table cloth moves under the breeze. Worn, white jacquard, soft on my hands, creases easily as my fingers undo its neatness. Folds meet pattern; describing possibility. Dressing a table pleases me; a naked table’s as sad as a bare mattress. […]
So, Generation X, are you sitting comfortably? You at the back? Yes, you. Don’t slouch. Well then, I shall begin. Once upon a time there was a writer. No, no, not that one. There was that one teacher in school, probably older than your mum, who constantly reminded you that you’d not be carrying a […]
gate you draw rust where heat’s been; some passage of time; life’s clouded outcomes; weather or not we care. you’re iron to me; blood strength. took years to find you; all: frame, hinge, key, arch; allowing passage back.
“Unbridled creativity is a bit nuts” Why do we go on conferences? Because my boss said? But I’m self employed. Because my professional body says I must do some form of ongoing education? As a copywriter I have no professional body as such. Because it’s good for me? Well, now you come to mention it. […]
a poem from my walking … Dandelion Our moon fell hard to earth, soaked through night to soil. The shivering ground waited; swallowed silver gilded dust. For winter a formless heart; ice and rain raise no pity. The world holds on … for something better. An imperfect star orbits; reluctant saviour, pulling close. Warmth and […]
Random reflection. What’s punk, what’s culture, what do we want, where are we now. Where’s my tea?
A poem, and it’s not about singing … All There Is I wasn’t old. But enough; enough about years. They pass to silence. To sing. I knew; pitch, phrase, breath. All of it. That day. No more or less. A series of disasters. I was too small. So many other singers; loud, laughing. Ready. Better. […]
So here’s a thing, a draft thing. I’m not sure who the characters are; I can probably guess their ages, but not genders as yet, but I know they’re close to each other. It’s been a long time since I’ve written any long prose; it’s a bit like being drunk or lost; easy to fall […]
A poem because my cat died. My cat that saw me into an empty house of an evening for ten years of workdays and sat with me on afternoon for eight years of children. I smashed some old teacups and it didn’t work, suspect you have to use the best ones. Middle of Nowhere […]
So. I underwrite. Not a wasted word or overstated sentiment. Which is grand, except that sometimes it renders what I write incomprehensibly abstract, obscure, evasive. So here are two poems that centre round the same idea of emotional return. The shorter one I wrote first. And then a friend remarked upon the abstract nature of […]