I have good store of this, having always written. From time to time I have forays into the world of poetry competitions when I’m in the mood, with mixed success. Not enough to give up the day job, anyway. Oh hang on, I have given up the day job. Ah well, that worked out neatly.

I have had various limited editions: "Children"; "Dead and Gone"; "The Lost Art of Astronomy"; "Adverse Camber"; "Odysseus in the Gallery"; "Markyate Requiem"; "Theologies and Angels"; "Moments in the Lens"; "Emmanuel Square"; "An Audit of the Empire"; "Translations from the Slovenian".

It sounds like a lot but it’s still the tip of the poetic iceberg.

From “Four Children”

You know everything.
Your world is as large
As this house, this city,
This crumbling Europe,
This corrupt decaying earth,
This silent galaxy,
This meaningless noise
We call the universe.

Given the choice
I would rather surrender
Myself into your world.

As it is, the closest I can get
Is to hold you near
And sing the songs
I had sung to me,
When my world was large
And I knew everything.

"Four Children" is from "Children", a fund-raising collection whose proceeds go to Watford Mencap. If you’d like a printed copy, send me £4.99 plus £2.50 postage via PayPal.

Buy now via PayPal Buy paper copy of "Children"

If you’re sticking to freebies, try "Translations from the Slovenian" for size.

PDF Download a free copy of "Translations from the Slovenian" (pdf 131kb)


Here is where he searched for his metaphors,
In the quarry, tracing the fault-lines under
His fingers, letting his thoughts petrify until
He was at one with the stone, and the stone
In turn learning how it could speak his words.
Not that he had much to say but looked rather
To the marble to produce his themes.

An endless rain poured down the once-smooth rock
Creating human or angelic faces with eyes closed
And mouths apart as if about to speak or sing.
But this was before music was invented and
He put a finger to all those lips lest some sound
Too close to the heart's quiver might break out
And seek out the lines of weakness within him.

For that was what he was, he sometimes thought
As he chipped away with hammers and drills:
A quarry where he pulled out stones that more often
Than not failed to find the form he half-guessed
Was wrapped within; a face of rock under
The rain which would in turn wear him away
Until his eyes opened and his mouth could speak.