Poem: Untitled Feb ’12

Frigid trees drip cold
As we look for low tide
To make an escape.


Poem: Untitled Jan ’12

How something so short, sharp
Can turn to slow spreading ink,
Ripples in silk.

Moments prolong, dilate
eyes widen
mouths open
legs fail

Poem: October is;


Curling and unfurling
On alternate weekends.

Cutting my own hair, and
Holding my tongue, tight.

Exchanging our affections,
Amongst endless racing.
Signing in, and signing you out.
We collected apples, and I
Remembered not to count.

I want a month of fire.
Passion, desire.

Take me here,
this wall
My backbone.

I’ll make myself heard.

My lyrical voice abrupt
with logical defeat.

“It’ll end in tears,” we joke.
Yes. “Yours.”


Gah, formatting. This is much prettier on the page that I have 😦

Poem: Why You Don’t Love Me

Why You Don’t Love Me

Sudden dizziness caused by the quiet revelation
Makes me queasy,
and I feign sleep to hide my face.

The questioning glance draws it out of me
And it’s admitted to the air
As we stare not at each other,
But our reflections
In the window.


A poem I remember writing at university. And one which always needs the claification:

…And why that’s a good thing.

Poem: Romance


I met him by Swift,
Where the potential of words
And the smell of ground beans
Caused the sly glances
Between soft pages
And over covered volumes.

He spoke softly, to himself and even when
We were alone, and I had to lean.
I sank softly into his
Voice. He read to himself,
Drawing me deeper with his

Every Tuesday
At a quarter to half past five
We gathered ourselves between
The shelves and kissed without touching.

One day he finally took
Hold, and I touched his arms
As he kissed my nose.
He was sweet and tough
Like an almond. We clung
To one another and left
The safety of the cash registers behind.


Two poems from the same time that might actually be half decent – how about that?!

Poem: Precious


Writing on the inside cover
Of the novels she’d never enjoyed.
Never venturing out past nine
O’clock; for fear of what she’d find?

Melancholia presented herself
Alone in the attic, bare before a mirror.
He was the window, the panes, the
Sky, the sun. Gazing through the
Aperture of breeze through curtains.

They danced poetic, courted
Each other’s muses and stripped
Their ideas down. With never less
Than her petticoat, she told
With her body the story he’d read

In the covers of those volumes.


There’s a big gap between the writing of this poem and the one that came before – that’s not to say I didn’t write anything. Just that looking back now I didn’t like any of them!

Poem: Heart-Shaped


Worn like a pendant,
Hands clasped about the neck,
And. Still. Beating.

She smiles, warmly as a cat,
Caresses it gently, patting the
Lifeblood away with the pads of her hands.

“Not my fault, really,” she purrs.
“(I didn’t know it would bleed.)
I only liked the colours,” she pouts.
“The spanglesparkled red and purple,”
And the thudub             of life.

But. There he lies,
Love’s victim. As she
Preens and strokes,
He gasps.
Gaping chest where the
Dreams once sat.


My only poetic success to date! This poem won me a £100 prize from the University of Newport, with a presentation ceremony and an impromptu reading. It was a national competition and as part of the event I got to talk to real creative writing students at the University. I think that was when I decided I wanted to study creative writing. /backstory

Poem: We Have Lain With Orange Blossoms

English: Orange blossom and oranges. Taken by ...

Image via Wikipedia

We Have Lain With Orange Blossoms

Her body whispers
“This is me.

“Here on a platter.
My heart and soul spread out
Across the pillow.”

His hands, warm and soft,
tremble as he gathers her up:
Her red and beating heart,
Her cool and yellow soul.


I read somewhere that orange blossoms were a sign of purity. But I never want to tell anyone that incase it spoils the poem!