Wednesday, 6 December 2017

In the open field

Writing poetry need not be a solitary process. Sure, we all need plenty of quiet time to write and develop ideas, but I also find working with other poets a productive and worthwhile experience.
Poets often get together to help each other progress their work.

The first such group I became involved with locally was PENfro Poets, which started in 2012 and grew out of the PENfro Book Festival, held in the inspiring surroundings of Rhosygilwen.

We are still going as a regular group and as well as working on our poems together, members take it in turns to present a workshop topic.

Some of our poetry can now be seen on a new website, together with work from the Art Group, also held regularly at Rhosygilwen.

Below is the latest work I have had posted on the site, and there’s a link at the bottom where you can find poetry from other members of the group.

This haiku sequence was written in response to a workshop run by PENfro Poet Peter George, which examined the second of the Four Quartets and challenged us to take inspiration from the writing of TS Eliot.

Meditations on the open field

early morning
in the open fields –
clear sky forever

in the emptiness
a robin’s loud song
                and silence falls

in this wide space
you can see your enemy
but you cannot hide


listen to silence
be sure to hear the echo
of the buzzard’s call

beyond the boundary
is the empty plain
                a gate swings open

in the middle of
an open field
the only shadow

November sunset
                pink clouds light the field
                as dark rises


fine mist rests low
in morning valley
winter trees shine through
while black birds make silhouettes
like ghosts on a frosty field

*Several of the above were first published as individual haiku in Blithe Spirit: Journal of the British Haiku Society

For more from the PENfro Poets and to see work of some of the talent local artists, check the link:

Sunday, 5 November 2017

There's no time for chocolate

People often ask me where my inspiration for poetry comes from. This is always a difficult question to answer, as inspiration comes from everywhere! However, this poem gives an idea of the sometimes tortuous way that poems can come into being.
It’s a cento, a poem usually made up entirely of lines selected from other poets’ poems. John Ashberry’s ‘The Dong with the Luminous Nose’ is probably one of the best known.  In it he links together lines from famous poems by Blake, Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley, Edward Lear, and others into a surprisingly coherent collage.

My poem below is a self-cento and is made with lines from a variety of my own poems that were started during NaPoWriMo in April 2017 – National Poetry Writing Month, when poets try to write a new poem every day for a month.  Remixing and restyling some of my own lines at the end of the month of writing was an interesting experience and I was able to use a few lines that started life during the project, but didn’t end up in finished poems.
Leonora Carrington’s painting Crookey Hall was part of the initial inspiration for the poem.
This poem was first published in Three Drops from a Cauldron in October 2017.

There’s no time for chocolate
A young woman in a long white dress
runs away from a big grey house
where white water falls in columns
over rocks that shine from
dark corners of her dreams. There’s
talk about a love of the dead, maggots and all,
but she has rescued the black demons
to stop them being lost, or maybe too much alive.

A child is drowning in a pond
but the young woman runs right past.
There’s no time for chocolate, she tells the kid.
If she had taken her hand that day,
if she hadn’t looked away …
but she wasn’t really there at all, of course.

A tall woman stands aside,
points a long arm and giant finger at
grand gothic turrets and gables –
that place of stone and grey customs.
Three ravens guard the entrance
where the woman in the white dress has escaped.
Two naked people stand there,
but they are interested only in themselves.

In one frame of the film of a night
the demon screams, scared –
what if we can’t save the bees?
Does the snow listen as it falls from the sky?
I painted all the walls purple,
waves crash wild on the shore,
banshees cry across the sound.

Someone asks if we want to fly a kite,
but it’s only me here now.
The tempest passes,
the snow hears the natural sand,
a river runs through the slow heat and
the morning meadow weeps under
cherry blossom and fresh green willow.

Monday, 30 October 2017


 My offering for Hallowe'en this year, a slightly-spooky poem about transformation. This was first published alongside some great work from other poets and prose writers in the Three Drops from a Cauldron 'Samhain 2017' anthology. Worth getting a copy! Link below.


A tiny sip of lichen slips

                through skin

                and creeps slow towards her wrist.

Algae emerge

                from the purlicue web,

                epidermis writhes into green

between the index and the next finger.

                Moss extends over the backs of her hands,

                a soft velvet caress

across her desiccated skin.

                Anchored by rhizoids

                this slithering layer

seeps out through pores,

                spreads like verdigris –

                a tight-fitting glove.

Around hair roots

                cerotodon begins, small and tight,

                and soon she is crowned


with a mass of fire –

                red and fertile in spots of light;

                orange embers glow under the forest canopy.

Liverwort breeds in the fossae above her clavicle

                and tracks towards marchantia in the jugular notch.

                Below, cladonia sprout their tiny


umbrella organs across her cleavage.

                Mood moss, wispy while dry

                is verdant and lush when moist

between her legs.

                Spores spread.

                She flourishes.

Her nails gleam

                with gloss from the thorax of bluebottle.

                Her black eyes

glisten, reflect the green sheen

                of a magpie’s nape.

                Wet leaves around her grow cold,

slick in the shade. An odour of rot

                from rank weeds touches the ends

                of her olfactory nerves.

Her mouth waters.

                She ripens                          

                out of the Earth

                as something     else.

                Something        vivid.

*Delighted that Three Drops Press has nominated this poem for a Pushcart Award.