Tuesday, 28 March 2017

Website

Henceforth, I'll be posting on here only very occasionally if at all, and will instead be posting at my new website.

Monday, 20 March 2017

Red Lane

Leaves of comfrey loll like dogs’ tongues. 
A woodpigeon catching the sun with its breast 
hunkers down; on and in a terracotta chimney-pot, 
rather like a freshly-boiled egg sitting in an egg-cup. 
Two blackbirds take turns to nip at an apple-core. 
And everyone out feels a stirring of the juices,
with a large and impractical wooden spoon.

Sunday, 19 March 2017

Best New British and Irish Poets 2017

Two weeks today the launch of the above anthology, edited by Luke Kennard, will take place at the Windmill, Brixton. I'll be reading my poem, 'Duckwalking in West Berlin', with a big nod to Chuck Berry in its title, which is in the book.

Friday, 10 March 2017

Poetry Business Writing School 2017/2018

I'm really pleased to have been accepted onto Ann and Peter Sansom's Writing School for poets working towards their second collection. I can't wait for it to start.

Monday, 6 March 2017

Winter's End

Esses of daffodils snake across
the green. Dips and holes
of the station platform
fill up with rain.

A cornering bus brakes sharply
to wait for a cortege, led
by a plumed horse
pulling the bier.

Each mourner withholds
the passengers’ stares
by resolutely looking
only forwards.

Sunday, 26 February 2017

mauve crocuses . . .
yer man necks in one
his energy drink

Saturday, 4 February 2017

Falconry

I double-take my double take, adjust the view-
finder over fields diagonally furrowed.

Latching onto a falcon’s dive is purely
a matter of point-the-bins-and-see.

I can’t see the aftermath of its swoop
on an idle dabbler, but somehow I trap

the peregrine’s flight across the lagoon,
packed with avocets, teal and widgeon,

which freak into the air, as if a match has
been lit in a room full of flammable gas.
 

Wednesday, 1 February 2017

riverside benches:
the dedication plates
buffed up by rain

Sunday, 22 January 2017

The Minerva Platen Press

passes for the offspring of the first Mercedes–Benz
and Leonard’s mother’s inherited Singer.

They work it by pedalling the treadle
—or sometimes by treadling the pedal—
which thereby provides daily exercise.

Thus, from Zeppelin-terrorised Paradise Road,
fly pamphlets, typographical errors and all.

By and by, their agricultural zeal
overlays the drawing-room carpet
with Virginia’s own, dizzying yield.

Wednesday, 11 January 2017

the only light
blinks from a bicycle
on the far bank

Sunday, 1 January 2017

New Year's beer 
the prominent chins 
of other patrons

for John Barlow

Friday, 30 December 2016

The Skate

To celebrate the end of days
I paste strips of papier maché
across my face and soon have
a mould-cum-mask which after
an hour I peel off and leave to dry
beside the skate on the table
before painting it pasty pink
then adding hair even greyer
than actuality as a parody
of my own accursèd selfie
and then I prop up the skate
with its nervous smile and tail
in its lap like it’s wringing
its hands but I find no evidence
of a mermaid’s purse to which
my mask was really an offering.

Saturday, 17 December 2016

a day lost to mist
outside the cemetery
the florist's pots

Wednesday, 14 December 2016

singing as he cycles downhill the man in the moon