Siegfried Sassoon: Alone

I’ve listened: and all the sounds I heard
Were music,—wind, and stream, and bird.
With youth who sang from hill to hill
I’ve listened: my heart is hungry still.

I’ve looked: the morning world was green;
Bright roofs and towers of town I’ve seen;
And stars, wheeling through wingless night.
I’ve looked: and my soul yet longs for light.

I’ve thought: but in my sense survives
Only the impulse of those lives
That were my making. Hear me say
‘I’ve thought!’—and darkness hides my day.

Rhiannon Dance: Type II

swimming-pool-photo-by-bomobob

 

Everyone at the hotel
has Diabetes.
The men are turgid pate,
women floppy fleshed and flapping.

The Diabetes may not
have been diagnosed,
but lurks in sugary
crimson slides.

Blood struggles to extremities,
clotting and clarty in tubes
destroyed by years of
beige abuse.

Everyone at the hotel
has Diabetes.
Waxen grey happiness,
sweet fate.

Rhiannon Dance: Save the Bees Anthology

412xPthn0zL._

 

I’m excited to announce that my first collection of poetry is now available to purchase through Amazon. I spent a few days going through my notebooks, which dated back to 2001 and picking out some of my favourite poems. The common theme that ran through them was the environment and how it shapes our feeling and perspective on the world.

Growing up in Wales was all druids, enchanted forests, coasts, fields, horses, birds, worms and stone. London is a feisty gargoyle, coughing up her cancerous, sooty lung. These were all themes I had unconsciously focused on throughout my fourteen years of poetry writing.

I hope if you decide to buy a copy that you’ll find as much excitement in reading them as I did in exploring their language and writing.

Link to buy: http://amzn.to/TlbXBe

Sylvia Plath: Cut

One of my all time favourites:

Image 

For Susan O’Neill Roe

What a thrill —
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of a hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian’s axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.

A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man —

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when

The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump —
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.