sonata - poem

She plays here every Saturday
in this cliff top café -
Beethoven, Mozart,
depending on the weather –

while he sits by the window
watching the sea
and feeling
the sweep of the notes

as her fingers glide,
fluid as the waves,
as clean as the gulls’ sheer flight
to the horizon.

He trails in her wake –
displaced
a little more
each time,

dying with the last
resonance –
falling in a way
he doesn’t yet know the name for

and all the while
her fingers place the notes
there
then,

closer,
as the waves flatten whitely
against the shore
white against black

to the brink of him
and beyond.

'listening to the earth as it curves
down and down to the waves �
tight-roping between the fields'

'the edge of the world'

published sort of stuff

I try to write - some things have been published but most haven't. Short stories and poems have so far appeared in: QWF, Decanto and Gold Dust Magazines. I have also been long listed for the Bridport International Poetry Competition 2005,the Cinnamon Press First Collection Award, 2005 and Cadenza Short Story Competition. Two of my poems have been reviewed for the Guardian Poetry Workshop and are published on the Guardian's website. And that's the gen to date. More if and when...

Traces - a poem

Hauled from a blank-sided sleep
by the splash on your face
of an early spring morning –

and a bird you don’t recognise
sings in the tree in the applelight –
each note playing across
your drink-roughened thoughts like

a breath

recollected.

I slide around the edges of this moment –
glide along the margins of your life,
disturbing the planes of your senses –
a sudden taste familiar
as my mouth stops yours

my scent decorates the air
gratefully tracing a route –
your way of escape –
if you could only decipher it.

I’ll wait, though, till you do
and cradle the weight of your grief
in my hands;

ease between this skin of death
and dark. Insinuate a way
through to your dreams –
mark the way more clearly.

the end of it - poem

You’re insistent
and remain so,
as the wet suds of beer slide
down the sides of the glass

and, lingering like a thought
above our heads,
someone else’s cigarette smoke

hangs

till I can taste
the black-tar lining of their lungs.

I know, you say, but it’s
for the best –
and I can’t disagree.
I never do.

Which is why we’re here
at the end of it –
a shared life pooling
at our feet

and the death
breath of other people
blossoming in our lungs.

there the lines cross - poem

There the lines cross and some form of horizon
balances,
but the distance ebbs and flows
as physics surely did not intend

this room swells and spins
with a blown-glass sharpness layered
over everything – focusing the detail
briefly as it whirls

will it ring if I strike it?
one crystal note of clarity?
or will it shatter into eye-reflecting fragments?

dazed on white Egyptian cotton –
or not – I can but wish –
as planes and virtues of what they say
reality is, meld with a flattened
one dimensional moment

some lag of time, in vision
from here to here – a dragging,
colours stretched in supple streaks
and objects now unleashed
from their moorings are free to exist
wherever they choose

the rules for everything
for words for thought for movement
have slipped a little
beyond the edge of memory
I can feel them pressing in
but can’t yet prize them out

leave them there then
furring up

nothing matters and neither do I
so I knock
with my thoughts upon the glass clear edge
and listen to it sing

He is Conflict - a poem

He is conflict,
confusion stings his mouth,
angry words bruise and graze his skin
just as, all those years ago, R’s fists
did on Brighton beach. Seagulls,
a brass band and Punch and Judy.
The ice cream burning as it carved
a slow, smooth path down his arm;
Because you’ve not licked it fast enough,
R said, though your mouth’s
big enough to stop a bus.

Not a fist, though.

Blood pink on the vanilla,
the distant summer of buckets and spades
where the days pinched him in
and he couldn’t help
flying those thoughts like a kite
streaming behind him

where they flap still,
slapping the face of anyone
who tries to get close,
slowing him
pulling him
dragging him
back to the time

where the lies are and sharp fingers
dig and scratch, and he no longer
remembers specifics of who is to blame

only the blood from his mouth,
salt against sweet,

the taste of his childhood
punched out,
red against white,
and the sun’s hard light on the sea
stings.

Confessions - a poem

Your lies mesh,
cat-cradled tongue caught up
and almost stilled

but wearied words,
nothinged with weight,
fall at our feet

to be kicked aside
or gathered into piles
as ammunition.

Ticks of time peel off
and crumble into bright white
flakes – marking our pathway

here.

The fast relay of tightening
pain that pulses in a heart beat
fills your thoughts,
and mine,

till all attempts
to block it out
are lost.

Your fingers grasping,
clutching,
the outward

over-riding effort
to reclaim
when sin calls out;

confessions barely noted,
mislaid, as through the walls
the voices leak
and footsteps echo,

cornered visions fragment
in the full-on glare of focus,
as if all knowledge could be
questioned in these few words.

The talismans,
stored and hoarded
later to be
dragged out – an evidence of deeds,
our crimes

whose surfaces vibrate -
ripples circle
circle out to missing edges,
shimmer in some presence yet to be

recorded.

These bitter tokens, strewn about,
are scuffed by pairs and pairs
of trampling feet whose
echo spreads – a widening stain
of sound
that aches.

Copper-mouthed
the hasty tang
tongues familiar teeth explored

a warmth, degrees unknown as yet
but measured,
understood and stored
a sigh within a sigh.

Bold frustrations
wrestled
knocked about – tied up

broken in with fantasies
remarked upon
pulse between us
sounded out and later mocked.

All paths
lead here;

we cannot turn away.

a blackbird singing - a poem

To my untutored traffic-tuned ear

silence swims in the trees and all sounds cease.

The ripe void wraps itself around me

and I stand listening, silent, as the stained air

unfolds, filling emptiness with a floating

melody. A blackbird’s melancholy

liquid notes pour falling like a luxury.

Its voice, a vibrant instrument of virtue,

spills simply into the soft summer evening,

offering its honesty as a gift.

A coward's silence - poem

Assuming another interrogation
I keep a coward’s silence.
He can’t wish to form
an affectionate bond,
to walk in its mountains as a free man.

Isolated in individual cells
an unreliable witness waits.
This hankering,
her laughter at his clumsy gifts –
the daughter’s crying out
for help – the rhythms always central

enough to realise
that every object will outlive
me.

Traces uncovered,
a deal done.
I kept it for a week but he said no
no, it is not important now.

The last time I saw him,
some months before the end,
he told me we would lose.

He was not accusing.
He expected.

This knowledge he traded
for his life.

when the days fray - poem

When the days fray,
and unravel into shapeless billowing things
that bloat and shrink as they will

when hours slip off their tracks,
un-cog a little,
run askew, gather minutes here,
discard them there

when clock-sharp boundaries,
previously marked with regimented beats,
now haze and fade

when actions, once habitual, ordered, fitting
into well-timed schedules,
now distend to vague expansions,
indefinitely infinite

when momentum is misplaced,
and focus loosened,
and you are drifting unremembered;

then anchor in, claw back that shape
but not until this fluctuating
fluid sense of time
imprints itself within you,


some echo of the infinite retained
as antidote
to future’s possible restraints.

The light beneath the bedroom door - poem

The blade of light that
stabbed beneath your bedroom door
the last few nights is there again. Let it slice
across your vision
a moment longer, then close your eyes
against it. Turn your back.
Curl into the empty space
beside you, the second pillow
blank, full. Turn your back,
let sleep come, your darkness.
But the light
beneath the door remains;
reminder of your daylight differences.

butterflies don't live in here - poem

this is my bicycle
red and shiny
I got it when I was six.
this is my swing
under the big cool tree in our garden
daddy hung it on the branch there last summer.
this is my dolly
she sits on my bed in my room
in my room
my own room
there are too many here
I have to share
I've forgotten for how long now
they don’t tell us
don’t tell us when we’ll leave
my teacher doesn’t say
only asks us to draw pictures
always pictures
of home and now

but I don’t draw about now
the walls out there are too big
and I can’t imagine them enough
and the sick people too sick
maybe smell worse than the farm
and when the dead dog was under the hedge
there are the men who hit you
if you cry on the street when you’re hungry
and mummy and daddy…

no, I don’t want to draw about now
so I’m drawing a butterfly in our garden
our home garden
on the flowers that are there
with my swing and my bicycle and my dolly
who is happy but alone.
just my garden and the big smiling sun and the sky
wide wide blue
and my yellow butterfly
all outside the big walls
all safe because butterflies
don’t live in here
only us
with yellow stars
on our dirty clothes

when you first heard - poem

and the room folds the air
into too-small pieces
dry, gasped on insubstantial moments
impossible to breathe
lungs fight
mind tilts and spins
on an axis unfamiliar
hands clutch the edges of things
holding them together

failing

flailing

falling

feelings spray out
colouring the too-thin air
with red and sound
the weighted drops splash down
congealing into rusted
staining pools
seeping shock to corners
pain permeating fabric
all the air sucked out
by grief

Hotel Room Tuesday - poem

January, steeled to dark, presses on the glass
immense and outside.
Curtains wilt against it,
damp fingers in,
its grey touch on her face his lips their
exhaled breath mists a sheen that surfaces
the flowered walls,
peels them back
and clings where skin meets skin,
the borrowed bedclothes rucked
uneasily
winding round their limbs,
binding, with a permanence unmatched outside these walls,
this room,
this every Tuesday afternoon
routine that slides them on its rusted tracks
to what?

Unspoken thoughts mock
locked in separate same-thinking minds
makes them cling
with fingers
printing flesh and this last memory of touch
to heart - mementoes for those mundane moments
stretched between the days of being
together,
the days of not
and others there.

And January presses in

reminds them.

Valentine's Dinner In - poem

she lays the knife and fork
exactly
where he’d want them
the tablecloth his mother gave them as a wedding gift
the best plates.

the wine is chilling
a good one – a few quid off,
she forgets the name
she’d like a glass, a sip or two, to steady her
and concentrate her thoughts on making this
a special night.

she’s made his favourite
all afternoon yesterday planning it
all morning today preparing for it
preparing to leave the house
the shops only down the road
make-up knowledgeably applied
so no one can tell.

she’d like a glass of wine
ages since she’s had any
delicate against her tongue
softening in and blurring
edges
hard edges
instead the vodka’s doing that
the alcoholic burning numbs her tongue against
the lemon, grapefruit zesty notes the label promises
wine isn’t enough now

the rose
the only one remaining of the six
takes centre place
he bought them
for her
a gesture of something
the day after, the day after
Sunday dinner
this time the gravy was too thick
he’d said
the stain of it, still dark
ingrained into the kitchen wall
despite the bleach
the bruises, yellow
hidden
this time

the door slams and he is home
the vodka downed and glass thrown in the sink
she waits
he stands there gently smiling
chocolates, a teddy bear
held out like rare things prized gifts
despite the fact they both know
they were on special at the garage

he tells her she is beautiful
and then
his fingers vice her throat
the fingerprints –
the individual lines and whorls –
incriminate
themselves onto her skin
she feels them, ridged and grazing
his mouth bruises onto hers
I want you
the words rough, serrated
pierce
her ear
she nods

has to
and glances at the clock on the wall behind his head
there’s time enough; the dinner won’t be spoiled
this time
and if she does this
now
maybe they’ll taste the wine
together
the lemon tang of it
filling her mouth and
he’ll say he loves her
if she lets him do this – enjoys it.
but she has to.
better this –
his hands penetrating and unbuttoning –
than punching.

he loves her
the words tangle in her hair
sighed out
as he holds her
pressing her against the wall
he loves her
she knows that, doesn’t she?
yes, she says,
she does

sand and tide - poem

And it creeps up like a wave in a tide when watched from the shore,
there and back
and there
and back
unseen
till it's at your feet and you're
sinking. Sand. Can't lift, toes
caught,
the feeling's soft; invites you
in, accepts you
but it's not to be accepted;
don't. Too late, you've been
pulled in and held
by the grip of it
the yield,
edged in and cooled
till it's all you can do to remember
the being free,
the air.
And you're in
sucked down
and down
and ankle
knee, whole
in
It has you.
You're trapped
and it's much too late.
You
can't.

periphery - poem

Peopled with the ghosts of the living,

his days take on a shape he cannot own.

He cannot print himself upon them,

is drifting on the currents stirred by others.

His heart is not the centre,

his words float on peripheries,

his will; moulded by unseen hands

whose fingers deftly tune those thoughts

to frequencies he cannot pitch. He wears

his disengagement

raw

beneath his skin,

behind his eyes,

flattened deep,

within his skull;

a single membrane permanently stitched,

fixed, blood-fuelled, beating.

Pays for it with glass-clear gestures,

a camouflage that emptily refracts

those lives he doesn't understand.

Prisming

the nothing

he no longer feels

to even less

into sleep - poem

Fall away into sleep
Fall away down the steep-sided ease of it,
Leave and retreat this
Too bright glare of things said,
Things felt.
Silent and seamlessly slip beneath
The comforting weight,
The pressured relief,
Let it close in and hold you,
Let all the lies and jagged thoughts
That barb and tear the brain
Fall
Away
Release them
Slide into the dark space between days,
The silent void
And rest.
Rest where the dreams can’t touch you
And the light fades
And the moments pause suspended.
Fall away into the deepest part of it
And heal.