make it like a memory
For me, poetry has never belonged entirely on the page.
I love the spoken word—the rhythm of a voice, the weight of a pause, and the moment a room becomes completely silent because everyone is listening.
A poem changes when it is spoken aloud. Words acquire movement. Emotion becomes immediate. Lines that appear quiet on the page can become funny, tender, unsettling or powerful when given a human voice.
My writing often begins with an observation, a memory, an overheard conversation or an ordinary moment that refuses to remain ordinary. Through poetry and spoken-word performance, I try to give those moments a voice.
Poems
Below is a selection of my work. I am currently working on my first poetry book.
Love
Love is more than a feeling.
You feel it, sure.
But it has much more meaning.
Love creates a bond.
That goes far beyond..
anything we understand.
Can quantify or demand.
Love comes.
And love goes.
Who’s in charge.
Nobody knows.
Love is a friend in the darkest hour.
And a foe.
With tremendous power.
It can terrorise.
Harmonise.
Demonise.
And cajole.
but…without love
What are we now?
A grand stretch in the evening
There’s a grand stretch in the evening.
The trees sway in summer breeze.
A queen bee is surveying the honey crop
Nearby children chalk out some fun.
The adults cooking and drinking some.
The city park is a beating heart with games a foot.
A motorcycle exhaust echoes against the dry buildings.
A distinctive hollow to the traffic in the simmer of sunset
Chatter of some girls passing by – “hello” one said to me – I unprepared!
Looking back at me with a twinkle in her eye.
A nearby pub is serving streetside.
Heineken gazebo shades them all in green.
While they surf and turf by the roadside.
They laugh at almost everything.
When was your first summer holiday?
He said to her – a cold pint in his hand.
“I’m not sure” – as a passing bus breaks her memory
“Corfu in ‘82 – oh wait ..no! it was Malaga before that with my mother”
He smiles at her – mentally dusting down some old photos
Shading her eyes with a cupped hand she looks up at him
“Do you fancy another?”– “I” “yes, make it a gin!”
“A double? “I.. yes… Why not!”
“There’s a grand stretch in the evening”
Clothes Peg
You are my clothes peg
You hold me to the line
And every wind that blows
I feel your hand on mine
You are my clothes peg
Sometimes in colour
Sometimes in wood
Holding me closely
So that I feel your love
My dearest Clothes Peg
Hold onto me tonight
They forgot to take the clothes in
And Im afraid without the light
Don’t worry is what you told me
I won’t ever let you fall
Be it night
Or be it day
I’ll hold you
through it all.
Blue is the Warmest Colour
As the Dervish Dance.
Beyond the Sycamore trees.
Incandescent chanting of the birds
and the bees.
Summer is calling.
Answer please.
Feathered wild gorse between the rock.
A shimmering haze over the farmer’s flock.
The rapeseed Valley.
Wearing her yellow frock.
There’s a dance tonight.
She is dancing stock.
Wheat waving to let sunlight through.
Evening Primrose with morning dew.
Decanted Barley and hops for brew.
Summer mornings.
On this planet blue.
Crimson painting on the evening sky.
Lark or Dove, you can hear them cry.
The dance is on at the Harvest Moon.
Yellow dresses steel the room.
When the season is older.
and the palette becomes duller.
We embrace the cast of winter
For, Blue
is the warmest colour