Biography

I don't know why I write poetry. I just do. As a child I used to bring home found objects. My poems are the found objects of my adulthood. Writers I admire include Sharon Olds (seen above at the 2006 Manchester Lit Festival) and my ex tutor Julia Copus who is a real genius as a poet and tutor. I work with children with special needs and this has informed my recent work.

Samples

Dad's Ladders

I have dad's ladders now.
Though they are not used much
they are indispensable.
Any time I like I can run
a finger over the past.
I can feel the Braille characters of a knobbly
moment when the paint splashed
a step.
Memories of rooms we painted
together are condensed
into elegant white gloss pennies
strewn on the footholds.
Fingerprints of frosted lilaces
flower over the hand rail.
My mistake the red
a lonely puddle
on the top tread.
Today I slip my foot into yours
as I ascend the ladder,
to add a new memory.
Terracotta and green.
The colour of my new kitchen.




Swim Day

You right angle your way into the classroom
pinballing against bodies that stiffen and push.
From your arm a plastic bag bearing your name twirls in its own orbit
I tread the air around me as
You breaststroke the last few yards to me
We made smile contact and my inhale
Blots my words dry so I sign yes, swimming today
My fingertips meet yours in the air between us
As we become synchronized swimmers in the dry classroom
We voluntary return to our element.
A quick change and we are in
No time to feel the temperature
Sandwiched between heaven and earth
You cause cosmic chaos splashing with both hands
I move away from you to give me room
I bless my tall body as
I begin long lazy strokes through the water
The rounded belly dissolves in the soft ripples
Fleshy thighs are lapped smooth of their cellulite
I feel a renewal the buoyancy of youth
Restored my stroke swaggers to the deep end
Where the whistle and fizz of children is pleasantly extinguished
I turn in my slipstream
Content to have had a little time to myself
I concentrate on you
I visit your country
Already knowing your language, I do what you do
I splash, grimace, sigh loudly
I copy body language
Angle legs and arms like a swastika
Heart to eye we chatter loudly
Time leans towards 11.15
I heave my body out of the water
And have to bribe you to do the same
I swing a bottle of shower gel
Entice you with the promise of a flower garden
Wet limbed and shinning you join me poolside
Earth beings again we tiptoe into the shower
You wash three times
Towel yourself dry
Dress with care
Giving great attention to your socks
The toes must enter perfectly
I feel calm as I watch you so contained
A round peg, in a round hole
And regret that school will soon blunt our edges sharp again




The Commitment

I am no easy choice
I who demand
Conversations and smiles
Compliments on
Hair, clothes
The clasp of your hand in the street
Greetings cards with love before your name
I am no easy choice
I who expect
A thank you after a good dinner
To be missed and told so
A phone call when you are away
A text with three X’s

I am no easy choice
But chosen, am entirely true

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.