i write poems.

Yup. I’ve been writing poetry for a long time, and just yesterday I finished a big project that I’ve been working towards for about six months, and wanted to share. I’ve edited and collected all the best poems I’ve written (about 60 of them) into a collection titled The Night and the Moth which I’m going to attempt to shop around to some publishers. The collection is split into three chapters – The Night and the Moth, Secret Names and Waveforms – and comprises probably about six years of writing all together.

I’m well aware that poetry is pretty much a dead medium in 2017 and is mostly read by other poets, but I did this because it was important to me and because it brought me pleasure, solace and sometimes power in the process of creation. It would mean a lot to me if anyone else got some kind of pleasure from reading, so I’m posting a few selections here for people to read. Can post more in the future if people enjoy them 🙂

 

Being Ill is Comforting

Being ill is comforting
Like stillness after a bell.
Mind retires, murmuring
– Go tend to body’s shell.

Lost inside a game of chess
Against the evening air
You’ve all the time to convalesce
Into another’s care.

Sickness holds its honey sway
And empties out the port
Making space to put away
Ecologies of thought.

While wet beneath a sweat-stained sheet
Body’s ships are whispering
That there is pleasure in that heat
And being ill is comforting.

 

Ravens

Do ravens see
Eyes gleam blue?
Shrine a hipbone
Tomb it in with me:
Each curve to carve
Swooping through
A spear inside the tree.
I nest my own
And reap when sparrows starve
Harp the neck and hush:
When it sleeps
It sleeps in me.
When it speaks
Open throat to thrush
Claim and call my name
Nothing, nothing, nothing
But the sound and smell of rain
And when it
Comes down on the concrete
All the bony vermin scatter
Softly through the storm and sleet
Kissing a firecracker
Whipped up in a gripping mist
Slowly this tsunami
Everything in negative
And ravens all around me

 

Empathy

Empathy is a forked fox-quick that stalks
With padded paws                   down to pace upon
Thought and snout, stumbling
There upon truths:
A panoply of golden garbage cubes.
Empathy makes a hoard-tail flick and
Flash of red rubied
Eyes in darkness:
Hunger of a stomach rumbling.
Carcasses lead nose, lips and sweet smells
Outside the self                        down towards
Shelter, and a fox-fast savannah where the
Heaving ground swells.
And all across that desert of dry clay
A pantomine of paw tracks softly play.

 

Pear

Happiness is a pear
With a cold, inviting skin
If left too long in the air
It shrivels and grows thin.

But if you sip too soon
At a cup of unripe joy
Your mouth becomes immune
To the sweetness you destroy.

 

I Know the Reason

I know the reason why the heron
Sleeps inside its neck
And orange flowers camouflage
The cricket’s singing-speck

I know the reason why the river
Murmurs in the night
And shimmering birds make silhouettes
In beams of purple light

I know the freedom of the forests
Secret habitats
And hidden among their leaves I find
One hundred hanging bats

And I know the reason why the rain
Still falls on the silver sea
But to tell the reason why would stain
Elemental privacy.

 

A Feline Flame

There is a feline flame
That moves in me some nights
A fox upon the snow
Which feasts upon the sights
Of memory’s half-painted gallery.

There is a frozen stag
Which paws among the roots
Of gnarled and crooked trees
With gnarled and crooked fruits
For anything to salvage.

There is a quiet thought
That wrestles with the locks
My fox becomes a stag
My stag becomes a fox:
There are two kinds of love.

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