Below is a selection of poems from my books. Click here for poems and readings published online.
Larga
Technically, a square
but sometimes, especially in the villages – where roads leave off their making-strait,
rest awhile, swill outwards, t
s a
r
on an anyhows slope. Rainwater run-off, possibly a view
And a monument. Slender pillar, more or less centred. A globe, a cross
weather-eaten, on a pedestal
stony focus against
which
(first published in Poetry Wales, included in Line to Curve, 2018)
Hanging down
– Why does it matter?
– That they’re hanging? It’s the sound –
– When they break?
– When they knock against each other, as the wearer moves through the room. Or when they’re strung on a wooden frame, tapped with ivory, say, to make music. Graduated, all in strict order
etiquette of tinkling chimes Stones
obstructing flowing plucked ripples, scale
silken strings
– What if they fall? If the thread snaps? Or someone cuts it? Or it rots away?
rungs rules
– They’ll be silent a while. Laid out in a tray on a stall of curios; hidden
away in a drawer; in a glass box, with labels; numbers inked on their
sides
Or left underground. Disarticulated, flat, in scattered piles
(from The Jade Album sequence, first published in Long Poem Magazine, included in Line to Curve, 2018)
Pieces
right on cue
the magpie,
broken white
I don't want to pick up
and the weather, of course,
so when sunshine joins the damp
I'm turning round & around
looking for indigo-violet stripes,
a different pattern
stronger than re-assembly, the tug
and pull of resemblance
much, much later, the rain
(from Three Reds, 2011)
Larga
Technically, a square
but sometimes, especially in the villages – where roads leave off their making-strait,
rest awhile, swill outwards, t
s a
r
on an anyhows slope. Rainwater run-off, possibly a view
And a monument. Slender pillar, more or less centred. A globe, a cross
weather-eaten, on a pedestal
stony focus against
which
(first published in Poetry Wales, included in Line to Curve, 2018)
Hanging down
– Why does it matter?
– That they’re hanging? It’s the sound –
– When they break?
– When they knock against each other, as the wearer moves through the room. Or when they’re strung on a wooden frame, tapped with ivory, say, to make music. Graduated, all in strict order
etiquette of tinkling chimes Stones
obstructing flowing plucked ripples, scale
silken strings
– What if they fall? If the thread snaps? Or someone cuts it? Or it rots away?
rungs rules
– They’ll be silent a while. Laid out in a tray on a stall of curios; hidden
away in a drawer; in a glass box, with labels; numbers inked on their
sides
Or left underground. Disarticulated, flat, in scattered piles
(from The Jade Album sequence, first published in Long Poem Magazine, included in Line to Curve, 2018)
Pieces
right on cue
the magpie,
broken white
I don't want to pick up
and the weather, of course,
so when sunshine joins the damp
I'm turning round & around
looking for indigo-violet stripes,
a different pattern
stronger than re-assembly, the tug
and pull of resemblance
much, much later, the rain
(from Three Reds, 2011)
Chypres
I
oak-moss, bergamot, rock-rose sweet
patchouli, musk
Close harmony so tight
it squeals
hesperides the rasp of viols
II
[rose-madder, old rose, damascone inlay]
table-carpet, with the stove underneath; coal in the brazier.
Leaves, petals, stems compressed : exhale
close- [soft ess]
held a room
(from the Compositions sequence, published in Three Reds, 2011)
Photograph: leeks and onions (Edith Summerhayes, 2012)
