by Poetry

hills & rivers by Loch Lomond
curling stones surmounting God
& gentle shores teasing infinity are
               but they are not you

I think some part of you
resents that the idea
that I can unearth beauty

               after so long
as a filter – telling me what is
beautiful & what is not –
I still know my own beauties
when I see them

               every rolling wave
& subtle crash of birds slipping
beneath the waters & the distant hiss
of wheels on wet earth
I am becoming aware that beauty
is not your concern

Over the years, I have learned how incredibly easy it is to be inspired, stimulated and set on fire by the unfamiliar. Even just a few hours, or days, in a different environment, with different concerns and different pleasures too, is like a shock to the system. It is easy to create beautiful things, and even easier to admire, the beauty of the unfamiliar. It is considerably more difficult, and perhaps more worthwhile, to unveil the beauties in the everyday things. To admire, perhaps, how the condensation on your car window shapes different patterns depending on whether you leave for work at 7:47 or 8:02. To be stimulated by the hiss of the same tyres on the same road, but the shifting nature of the world around you turns each layered day into a crescendo across the year. To close your eyes and feel the sun on your face with the same pleasure as the rain.

Easy to say; easy to romanticise. Almost impossible to do. But that, I think, is the goal. I think that’s how we survive. Learn to love our shells and our cages. Learn to smile at the cracking whips and the wheeling of hospital gurneys too.

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modern poetry


there are those, I discovered late, who were not born
loathing their bodies
whose faces grew from their souls, & were not stamped
upon a skull with little care

Titan Titanesses (Dream 2)

Titan Titanesses lay to sleep on the breast of their mother; foreign heat burns and melts stony flesh to river run and freeze in slopes like highland homes mounted on the hips of not-dead things, but trapped beneath their own grass stone moss tree skin. Burst, no,...

Upon the Poet, in His 25th Year

Let it be no calmer in your hands; time enough
for the calm, the warmth and the cold in the grove…


The mirror haunts me and turns my words to air, my love to grey light that starves, burns, screams beneath red-hot fluorescence. Madonna; can I pretend to love and know these love poems in my rotten pancreas? Can I pretend that this sudden obsession has the merest...