Originally a painter, trained at the Central School of Art, I have retired from a teaching career and now write and paint, run a poetry performance night once a month in Guildford together with my partner the poet Dónall Dempsey, and publish poetry. I've had poems published in various anthologies and published a collection of my own called "How to Make a Dress out of Silence" which is available through Lulu.com in print and as a Kindle book on amazon.com.
The Sun's Mythology The sun is not a person. The sun does not remember its past, does not mourn its future as a shrunken dwarf; does not care for its planets or their inhabitants though in some sense the sun is probably their parent. The sun does not worry about what other stars may think as it runs a path through the teeming universe. The sun is not a god. The sun does not have obligations or responsibilities or guilt or pain; the sun is not pleased, nor grateful, nor joyful, nor sad, nor puzzled, nor vicious, nor vengeful. The sun is a ball of burning gas. The sun does not put its hat on. The sun does not come out to play. *** Small Things They made tiny books: postage stamps for covers, sewn with cotton thread, pages imprinted with spider writing: fairy tales; rule books; code books for the secret club where they met every day to swear friendship, or amend their rules, or eat chocolate biscuits from the pantry. They made maps: diagrams to show the limits of the little country that they’d found: its furthest corner the orchard harbouring dragons and the neighbour’s pigs; its royal palace the chicken coop where the eldest held her court draped in a velvet curtain its secret ministry the garden shed furnished with boxes and old cushions. They made dams: complex structures of stones and feathers, seaweed, flotsam, sand, diverting the sewage-tainted flow that ran towards the overwhelming sea. They had a little dog who found them, scrambled on laps, snuffled fleas he’d picked up in the grass, scratched at the henhouse door when their council sat. Books, maps, dams, dog: none large enough to change the mortal facts; none small enough ever to be forgotten. ******* This is not a Room (nor a Magritte) "Why 'n'chya come up and see me sometime?" pouted the strawberry sofa. Floods glared on the golden boards and outside the dogs of war barked as always. In the wings Dalí twirled his Victorian villain moustache. "Caramba!" he exclaimed in comic-book Spanish. "Saint Freud was right! The persistence of memory opens the door to the room where Bluebeard stores his bloodied brides!" The sofa sighed. "Why 'n'chya put down that crutch and come'n lie down, baby?"
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Spoken Word Supreme in Guildford (12/12/2012)
The Sun's Mythology (10/11/2012)
Pop Up Poetry - Jamming for Oxfam (09/11/2012)
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