My sixth poetry collection, Go Sprout The Grain!, is out now!
This collection is a varied mix of old and new poetry. From corn dollies, the migrant plight, dinosaurs, Janet Frame, school assemblies, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, to Ladybird book artist Charles Tunnicliffe.
Cover design and pen and ink illustrations by Mark Sheeky.
Sunna Geolu
Peasant hearts of Heathendom beat to the corn maiden’s pirouettes across scythed magic
Her neck found in the last of the sheafs that bathed in sunna geolu and supped rain flaggons of yore Cut in her prime before wattle time
Peasants’ gnarly fingers craft knots to tree sonatas Crack the spines for a chestnut heart Her corn blood incarnate bleeds through mankind’s vaults who ate many an ear
Shake the pershores, goos and blegs Gatterberries, skaldberries bumblekites Plait the pastry, lick with yolk Kindle the tinder for hungry folk
In pewter moonlight she lies with the new crop
Stiff little fingers splayed ready to hold the first grene’s hand
My fifth poetry collection, I Slip into French like Tolstoy, is now published.
This varied collection explores the themes of death and philosophy in Tolstoy’s War and Peace, the reality and horror of mental health issues, nature, and the catering industry.
Cover design and pen and ink illustrations by Mark Sheeky.
2023 is the year that I finally got round to reading War and Peace by Count Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy after having a dusty copy for over 10 years that cost 30p from a charity shop. (A lifetime achievement! I have his image as a screensaver on my desktop, anyway..). So I wrote my first six poems inspired by it. The title of this collection, and the first piece, refers to the way the Russian aristocracy slip into French when they lose their Russian values, a bit like an aside, or slipping into another character. The first line refers to Pierre Bezukhov who joined the Freemasons and vowed to love death. Tall order? Then we witness the musings of the character Andrei Bolkonsky as he lies next to his enemy in a war tent. Crikey. Does he forgive him? And…pourquoi avons-nous peur de la mort? Why are we afraid of death?
I Slip into French like Tolstoy
At last he wears the Freemason badge that says he loves death Oh, death… while his enemy groans beside him feeling blood pump into his absent leg
A rip in the war tent reveals a cloud plump full of petty vanities floating over black fields
He went to war just to feel something To lift himself out of the animal experience instead of nourishing contempt at la vie Yielding to sloth potatoes Raging over fluffy conversations at parties and his enemy groans beside him nostrils eating low notes of butcher’s slab
Pourquoi avons-nous peur de la mort? I slip into French like Tolstoy
Why do we fear death? Have we not, then, lived? Have we only lived for ourselves? Tut Tut… His regret winces before the Russian Grandmaster Reaper unsheathes his scythe I love death I love and forgive my enemy Pourquoi avons-nous peur de la mort? I slip into French like Tolstoy
Slave mined diamonds from our pestled earth are not enough Those jagged reflections of want It is not our earth We are mere serfs in frigid winters We don’t own rakes We eat fallen rye crumbs from golden plates
Sky robes of Celeste sparkle in winter’s breath Studded with polished buttons of silver stars Swish of indigo silk cyclorama the smile of a golden crescent the Plough edged with violet lace
Tree roots dormant Oak stasis in weathered rocks The sleeping burrow of tiny worms await yet the cemetery carries whispers of rich veined springs
From emerald to russet the chlorophyll fades as centuries turn yet through frost iced ancestors’ soil beloved snowdrops peep…
Sandalwood curls conjure the labyrinth of memory
We dance with our ancestors to a silent tune We listen to their gift of crimson treasure pulsing their song lit by her moon
Bikini clad dip into giant moving body of blue without flinching yet he flinched Memories of a science lesson where you had to draw the digestive system from memory make a list of pieces then jig-saw them in to the red nosed man in Operation so if you unravelled the gut it would stretch around four houses and all that time she sat in warm blood thinking it was a bit of warm wee and the old school cleaner got her a hammock pad and said it’s your period
Uncle Jonathon strode in like he was in a movie Her dainty breaststroke versus his front crawl head turning to a macho rhythmic gasp to check if each side of the sea was still there thinking of the coffee dribble by the kettle He was thinking of his sums The end of the tax year to take his mind off the bikini Tables, graphs, pi squared, algebraic muddles, leaky pens, computer screens Pens in Star Trek cups Pencils with dirty cracked erasers like his eye wrinkles Formulations, cogitations, lines of logic Timetables, clients, pound signs. That coffee dribble has been there since last week Then he thought of the chimney that he could fix when he got paid. Front crawl
She thought more of guts, liver, heart and spleen Holding hands, the beating heart Memento mori Forcing blood as a blanket of soothe Where was the list of things to jigsaw in?
My poem, Dead Hand, from Solitary Child: Friend of Immortals, translated by Chandra Gurung, is published by Sabdha Sanyohan. Dead Hand is a tribute to Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, about a passionate yet destructive love that transcends death. The poem also is performed by Fall in Green, on our album, Apocalypse of Clowns, with music and visual art by Mark Sheeky.
Dead Hand
Night On the moor Ragged as you were I saw you through the cracked window Where my dead hand touched yours Where my name was etched in three on the wooden desk
Your dark long locks fought the wind like your soul Heathcliff MY Heathcliff You destroyed everything
Yes, I became a lady, yet, I loved Edgar not it was always you
Your face I saw when I tangled in flesh trying to make a hybrid us with the wrong man
You walk this earth without me, yet I walk with you in you
I look into your eyes of pain and I weep until you return to me
In Greenwood, studded with crab and perry, out of tempest mind tumbled Caliban. So say yeomen of sixteenth century, ‘Bring thee where the crabs grow,’ said the madman. Drinking proverbial acidity, Gossip’s Bowl was spice sipped by Bidford folk in restaurants of ancient forestry acid draughts intoxicate shallow jokes. But three crabbed months had soured themselves to death. ‘He’ll never have Miranda,’ they concurred. The Bidford souls muttered under their breath ‘Goddess and a madman?’ with spoon they stirred. ‘Whose apple thou art, gem grown from deep root?’ ‘Yours, but I will never bear sweet fruit.’
Near the gushing Jordansprudel and the high green hair of the ginko is an antique shop set in palatial grounds
Herr Kasperle sits next to the Polyphony turntable on a black wooden box Watches tourists pass by the score of Schubert as cut glass tulips sparkle in the window
Layered Deutsche Mark faces, cheek to cheek shiver with dust rain as the door creaks Kaleidoscope hides the meaning of life in peephole spiral jewels Encyclopedic postcards of People-Proving-Their-Joy with a rushed hand
Woman coughs as she descends the spiral staircase Russian sickle jacket hides behind the door The owner adjusts his pince-nez
Ghosts hear echoes of red hammer taps Carved head tilts, stares Herr Kasperle blinks dreams of his string ancestors Shadow, Tabletop, Glove Finger, Stick, Ventriloquist The entertaining races Curriculum Vitae displays appearances in Faust Street theatre in a frayed patchwork waistcoat Glued beard en pointe Makeshift stages conjure children’s gazes
Herr Kasperle repeats his line: A man sees in the world what he carries in his heart
Desperate clutch of memento to prolong pilgrimage I hold your wooden hand I have to take you home
