I love poetry, and studied a mixture of Literature and Philosophy because of this.
Writing the stuff is a form of catharsis and an attempt to express what makes little sense in prose.
If you'd like to hear some English poetry by famous poets, I read some of my favourite poems
in a podcast accompanied by my friend's acoustic guitar.
We're Poems in English on iTunes.
Feel free to get in touch with any suggestions about what you'd like to hear next.
Here is a small selection of my poetry; click on the titles to expand and collapse them.
We told the priest of God
And he loved us for it,
We told the priest of Hell
And he cried for us.
Our bodies fractured
And our minds worn out
We knew so much of life
And so little of love
Catchlit pupils, heavy with ambiguity
They are the glare behind gypsy skirts
We want and need, faultless and beautiful
Like pointless waves on a pointless beach
Act confident to become confident
And she struts and fucks and laughs
With her hands trembling on her hips
the memory that's hard to call
but silver has preserved her white teeth
and solid shadow-blacked pupils,
has quelled her open dimensionality and
Behind it all lingers the tracings of terror
Foldered, there is a map of silent focus;
No intervals, and no acting.
The buzzing of bees, and silence of honey
A child waits at a zebra crossing
Dry, wet and again dry, tortoise-shell shelter
A last goodbye, vibrations in a wire
A puddle by a river and beyond, the sea
The interactions of galaxies, an insect moves flowers
Seven tears shed, embraced as laughter
Coins in an upturned hat, elsewhere, starch on shirt collars
Glowing amber streetlights, birdsong, the clock strikes three
when the sun set
as his watch
extended like time
into the small hours
in groups, whispered
names to silence
it all became
a blind and half-drunk
with his sermons
at dinner parties
to faces that swim
like salmon, upstream
he wakes bedded,
naked, his lined face
in last nights
red wine thats
ruined his pillows
his dinner jacket too,
has battle scars
befitting a regimental do
Ship-churned tails cut through the sea
Track back along my wake
I do not tow it though it follows
That it is of my own creation.
You will find bare sea
Only the salty bow give clues
To my origins
And if you happen upon a fish carcass
Left to sink
Do not pick its bones
Today it swims inside me
Tomorrow in my flesh
Look to the horizon
It is the destiny of us all
Behold I am a voyeur
Though I smile a jagged smile
See me peer through my own face
As my train passes yellow squares
Filled with silent lives against the dark
The City is my sanctum and I swear
There's nothing more, but I live as a child
With his burning ear against the wall
And Mouth agape and legs folded
While my past recedes
Falling away like dripped syrup
Into the dreams of eight and eleven
That Still hold nocturnal nostalgia
despite the blurring when calm dusk cools
Your plump hips lay solid
sunken into sodden sheets.
A hairclip on our table.
The clock counts each minute
right through into the morning.
This timeless morning
Rises up out of the night
Like the sun out of the sea.
Arisen, it is toasted lazily
And the day grows bright
This timeless mourning
canal time is a life line
to those that live in boats.
The puttering motor erodes
sodden brickwork; a man
stripped and hatted; poles past
cutting out across the wash.
A paint, like wine, matures;
what once was a proud crimson
is now bled and faded
to a hundred grubby pinks.
Damp, rising from the streets
has made a jigsaw puzzle
above the boat house door,
removing random pieces
to fall and silt the shallow bottom
while all Venice floats past
With ever wandering feet he paces
and takes himself to different places
He's seen so many human faces
and marvelled at the many races
Sometimes I feel like the sun
ashamed, and clad in dust.
So I’ll acquiesce and acquiesce
Until finally there’s nothing left
Of me, and all I was before.
You’ll shout and I’ll leave
And you’ll cry just like Eve
In the beginning
when god called her name.
So go on, ask then
You once asked yourself
‘do i look fat, ugly am I boring?’
Teach me, please,
To lie to you.
Cackle-mouthed and lying open
snaggle-toothed and fighting sharp
shut right off from all sensation
watch me lie here in the dark
enjoy the silence held together
by long drawn pauses held up tight
and now I really don't know whether
God is dead or I've lost sight
Beget or Give Birth
A shell, broken
from the inside,
The lonely crack
amongst the others
the nascent sunset
Burst battle-clad into
disbelief and hypocricy
Wither after death.
Of a thousand cuts,
one is the deepest.
The tap drips:
An ocean parted.
I can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org