As a writer (I still shy away from the title poet at times) I often find myself in a dilemma, one to which the vagaries of my mind tutor the torment. The unravelling of meaning of poems – is it meant to be a test that makes you feel inadequate at the best of times?

I have often sat and read something and then wondered “what the hell have I just read? It makes no sense at all. Why must poets do ...

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White marble windowless womb

Seals inspiration inward, like a skull

Fenced by a colonnade and oaken doors,

A maze of steps and echoes.

White marble magic walls keep back the night,

Exclude the loud cheap town - its angry sirens,

Stumbling traffic, its cut-price ugly crowds

With inbred voices raised - our culture cuts away

These vicious tumours.

This purer place...

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