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
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
