Welcome to my poetry website. Other pages on this site contain links to poems and reviews I’ve had published online, as well as information about my two poetry pamphlets, The War with Hannibal (Poetry Salzburg, 2019) and The 3-D Clock (Dempsey & Windle, 2020). There are also details of readings and a form you can use to contact me.
My poems have appeared widely in magazines, both in print and online, and have twice been nominated for the Forward Best Single Poem Prize. I review regularly for the online magazine, London Grip, and am a member of Ver Poets, whose social media accounts I manage.
Here are three of my poems.
Winter Road I
after Georgia O’Keeffe
It's not exactly a road, more the idea of one and maybe not even that, a symbol, a cedilla, this mirror-written C that sweeps across the canvas, kinking at the top, where Route 84 mounts the crest of a rise, before bending to the right and heading further on up into the New Mexican hills which, as it's winter now, are blanketed in snow that the ploughed road crookedly parts. There's only the road itself; everything else is implied. I think of her painting it, as a calligrapher might, with a single, practised stroke, the road between Ghost Ranch and Albiquiù so familiar to her now it's become the shorthand for home.
(Published online in “Ink Sweat & Tears”)
You've taken to leaving silent messages on my voicemail at home. When I realised it might be you, I dialled to trace the call, then rang you back myself. "Did you try to phone me, Mum?" "I don't know." There's a pause. "Perhaps I might have done." I recognise them now, your recorded silences. They've a quality all of their own, a subtly different sound from computers cold-calling me or plain wrong numbers. First, there's a puzzled silence, then a silent pause and the clunk as you hang up. You used to leave me tit-bits from "The Times"—tips on things such as etiquette or health. I stopped listening years ago. Only now you've nothing to say do I strain to hear everything.
(From my pamphlet, “The 3-D Clock”)
Going to the Inevitable
Inspiration ran out like the drink at some awful party. He stared at the empty pages, wondering would they be filled. Poems had never been easy, but having one to write cured most things short of death. Now the Muse just blanked him. When even the mower stalled and he found a prickly soulmate jammed up against the blades, it haunted him for days. Predictably, his own death was as grim as he'd always imagined. A nurse sat holding his hand, as he uttered his bleak, last words. They sounded familiar, as if he'd been quoting himself, a line from one of his poems, one he still needed to write.
(From my pamphlet, “The War with Hannibal”)