Wednesday 3 July 2013


Croeso i Croesor

Green shoulders welcome us
Ancient and rested;
A whole valley in its heart,
Steeped with a steady breath,
The beating of wings,
The slow step of a foot on grass.

I see it in sunshine,
bluebell fields with the
sharp smell of wood sorrel,
and Cnicht in its majesty-
lit up like a statue. 

Quarry carved hills-
scars left protected
(a snag on barbed wire
only scratches the surface)
And in these hills lay rivers,
by these rivers,
moss, and secret dens.

Someone blew magic in the wind,
years ago.
Tying us all up with a reedy thread,
placing a pebble in our palms
and sticking mud between our toes,
gently weaving us all
into the tapestry,
the big picture.

We are tiny specks on an eggshell.
But we will grow from our roots,
like the blossoms and leaves,
and the wind will whisper,
Welcome home.


That Time

Remember that bar
where we went that first time-
in a backward street 
facing the sunset.

Red door and windows, painted to look old-
a fresh lick though-
undeniably so.
Remember the table at which we sat.
The candle burnt
and we thought we were so above it all-
the flame, the street, the part of town
we’d just discovered
in our post-picnic haze.
(It’s the sun! you said)

Above it all- 
discoverers of a new world-
weary with new findings,
desperate for shock,
but eyes never wide enough
to notice the beauty.

We sat for hours 
looking bored.
You mentioned something sweet and final
as if we could never go back,
as if that point was the pinnacle.
Nothing could impress you, could it?
I acted unruffled 
but my heart was beating like a mouse’s 
under my thick layers.
Each time you mentioned the possibility of---
I frowned.
The beer travelled through us in an amber river,
down spirals of tunnels,
in darkness.

When it was time to leave and we were alone again,
in the backwards street,
I glanced.
To my side you were there.
But I could not see your arm.
You had your hand tucked in your pocket
playing with loose change.


Last Day

The water rippled
in the shade
As we used the creases of the riverbank
to spread, unfold.

Bones, we lay,
swapping timely schedules
for a wasted day.
Glad of it,
glad of the earth and moths,
and the smoke,
washing into clean air.

letting ourselves drift
one face to the next.
One voice enough-
twelve voices tickling-
the goosebumps on our arms.

The sun set shyly 
as we put our layers back on. 


In the words of Sylvia Plath...

I long to permeate the matter of this world...
belong to the grass and the stems, the roots
to push up with the daisies
and sing through their leaves
break off in the breeze, petal by petal
undone and hair flowing
feet in the ash, the burning ambers
and my head in the smoke
burning pine fumes up to the moon.
Down in the soil where it echoes heartbeats
and moles twist their noses at each beetroot sense
each twitch of the nostril
beating with its breath and fleeting with a cough.
To live in roots means darkness and warmth.
To live in roots means womb again
means birth on a different day 
and life on a different earth
from it and around it.
Earthy smells and grass stains
and forgotten conkers from summers ago
left there by boys who prance like lambs
from the top of the tree
to the faces in the lawn.
The silence of still- the stillness of silence-
permeates and breathes with long sighs-
tonight’s the night, I say with disguise.
Cat eyes glare from bushes
and question this night invasion-
sees no use in lament or regret-
we’re here now she says,
sandpaper tongue 
scratching to the surface of the words
and turns a blind eye on darkness itself.
As she prowls the roots 
she sniffs and finds me 
curled up like a foetus statue
rigid and stubborn in my ignorance
shut eyed and worn
not yet open to falling leaves
and the breeze they bring.
Whichever winter,
whichever spring,
each time table and life cycle
are contained in one breath,
and forced out,
let go in its return.

Thursday 28 February 2013

Springtime Scribbles

(free writing)

What colour would the moon be if you saw it on a Saturday?
Would its feeble light shine a skimmed milk hue with powder blue, dangling sneezes of moonshine, each handful of moon rocks and moon stones an aftermath of rags and bones
No astronaut could find or discover all the forgotten satellites that roam around the craters and through the gaps that the space buggies made through the cheese fields and the absent gardens
Your mother said you should have found somewhere cheaper to go on your Valentine’s Weekend you stared her right in the face
huge doe-eyed resentment and without blinking you spat on the floor
let it dribble nonchalantly down your chin and oh how your mother screams how it does pierce through the tiles
she says she says what to do with a maniac like you and she leaves and you lick your chin dry
All your friends ask you what was it like
truth be told you can’t remember you slept during most of your trip so you gathered bits of information and fused and moulded them together with a blowtorch, even, and constructed a collage of memories which you remember forever
And now its a Sunday you sit solitarily and sanitized all prim on a patchwork your bum fidgeting and wriggling where is the cat? has she gone to feed?
So you light a gas lamp and turn the TV on to sound only and you pour yourself a drink and you siiiiiigh
were you rich? you can’t remember
The room looks as if it was reserved for you all your favourite snow fur colours and pictures of you and that ghastly woman (a kidnapper you suspect) who seethes and represents all those tensions you embody in yourself and how did you survive in a bland baby bottle
You forget so you sigh and find solace in silence


Oh Time

Oh time- where do you seep?
Where do you drip-moments sleep?
I know you are there but
It’s hard to see your face
When days slip by- so sneaky and quiet

Oh time- you are so flimsy
A butterfly wing caught in the breeze
I stand mid in the garden
As you flutter by my eyelashes
Just for a second
And then
You’re gone

Weeks are put in an hour glass
And I stand in the middle
Of the sand storm avalanche-
Why won’t you slow down?
I am at the pinnacle and yet so far from it already

Here, I sit, I write
The sun shines this chill morning
It could be a double of any day
And I wouldn’t even notice
It’s just how things are, I hear you whisper
Even then,
Ears seem too coarse for such silver-silk words

When I wake up early-
(because that’s what you do to me, time, I’m addicted)
I feel ready for the day
But as it unfolds it’s satin folds
And I slide down it, so slippery and light,
I become less hopeful-
I miss the morning and it’s novelty

Oh time!
I can’t keep up
Slow down or disappear
Slow down



Silk quilts spill on to powder puff armchairs
Resting upon them, 
River flows of ash gilded in mould
And resting bodies too, red-ripe
Blood spat sheets
And soot black eyes
Overflows of wine and whiskey puddles
Vapour smell 
Incensed-ual intent
All the twisted inches and dead cells of yesterday
Hang from the ceiling
Chandeliers- yet no regret
Emanating vibrating and bloated with sleep
Paintings peer on
With vastness agape
Eros’s child no longer awake
She snores-
Over the credit cards and rizlas
To the fireplace and up and out
Until air is now deadened
With the stubborn hours
Morning snarls like a bulldog
Let off the chain
Comes charging through the slits
Through and through
The plum shade night

Tuesday 22 January 2013

Assorted Poems

The Dreamcatcher Garden

In the dreamcatcher garden,
Roots grow from soil swimming with sleep
You must be quiet here- the plants need warmth and blessings of slumber
Do not shine a light, the sun is not needed
The plants moonbathe and feed off the stars
Flowers grow, sometimes with bloody petals and murky odours
These nightmares you must preen
Walk carefully in this garden, tread lightly in your step
Even the deadest of leaves may be dreamt of again
To water the bushes- imagine a stream
Stand above them and let out the puddles of your memory
They will soak them up gladly
Pick the dreamcatcher when it is ripe
And dangles off the tree
Shut the gate before you wake
Re-enter in your dreams


Jealous Girl

A shot of sour gin:
Unfair, unjust
You watch as a curtain falls.

Suck as you swallow
Each drop- you ask-

Something hangs from the willows
Creaking arm cobweb

Jealous fuck
Tears open a mouth and screams something
You would not hear
With innocent ears.

Bathe in once-was
Look further than then
It is now and it’s done

Awash, await.


I can't grasp

A light in the fire or a glimpse
Of concrete nature
Do I have to describe
Or can I just say...

It’s a mixture
A bubble broth
A tongue twisted sibilance
Of sexual sacrifice-
Sibling rivalry-
Did I get what I want?

I overgrow my thoughts in to bushes
branches they gleam with berries

I put them there, mouth open, waiting
I saw not.

I saw not your hand in the mirror
Shunning my grasp

Prematurely, my eyes wet
Oh river
Let me forget.


Train Journey 1

Feeling small amongst large buildings
Their lights glow neon
I grow in

Feeling small and
Back I go 
To small walled prisons
I crave tidy comfort
with cushions and phone calls

I have rivers who demand to crash through
I suck them in with the power of a breath
And all tightness demands submission.

Back I go
To the darker ways
And the round about sneers

I could collapse in my mother’s arms and smell her wool
But that would only backtrack
And help me hide

What I need is air
Alone or not I don’t care

Belittled, I know this feeling
A wet face as the train chugs fierce.