Category Archives: Words

Poems, ideas, descriptions…

Ophelia 

Ophelia We wake to find her Fingerprints, Saharan dust On window sills, on Rooftops, Schoolyards, Graves, On driveways and motorways, On pylons and leaves, On our fingertips, Faint as ash. As if to say: See, there is a land Out … Continue reading

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Pantomimes 

It was an illusion, walking home afterwards, eyes wild wet. The moon was large and Hollywood yellow and beneath this, in a bus shelter, two teens kiss, lit by the shelter light but from this angle, from Sorrow Hill, I … Continue reading

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Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

The ghost of William Shakespeare to a pupil who accidentally conjures him whilst frantically writing an essay at 3 o’clock in the morning: “Don’t wrap me up in the chains of your poxy writing frames or pick at my remains … Continue reading

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Syrian Snow

Syrian snow lands on homes, roofless bones of brick. It lands on barbed wire fences, photographed in yesterday’s news. Syrian snow falls on the boats of those whose only chance is to go. It lands in Greece, in Munich, in … Continue reading

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Butterfly Stitch

Manchester, 1987. It’s December, last day of term. We’re in the bathroom. My mother has me in a loving headlock and is brushing my teeth ferociously. I am seven. My older brother sits on the edge of the bath, awaiting … Continue reading

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Lampedusa

     Lampedusa And if I slip beneath the water, would the sun still  paint the surface, and would the tide still carry us out to Lampedusa? And if my hand loses yours beneath the waves, would I ever find you … Continue reading

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Fantastico: In Praise of Longfella and Project-Based Learning

Poetry, as I explained to the class, was never a real thing for me, as a schoolkid. For us, poets didn’t exist. They lived only in dusty books on that shelf of the library that nobody could reach. So, to … Continue reading

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Calcium 

Today is Manchester Day. This is a poem I wrote about the way the city stays with you, even (as in this case) as you leave it, it will draw you back.    

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A Wave

     A Wave I look down at the line that the tide has left, darkening the pebbles as it retreats back into its unlocked line of defence. The dry stones are almost white, salt bleached, amnesiac. The wet ones … Continue reading

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Generator

Completely forgot about this poem until out and about walking today. The poem was published in Other Poetry way back in 2003. It’s a bit pretentious but I still like the imagery and feel of it.       

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