Finding a Foothold

Feeling the gnarl under my fingers,
an open wound, knotted,
sap and the faint scent of earth
rise, seasons surface:

grubby handfuls of may-blossom confetti,
conkers and pussy-willow,
hushed with a watery lick of snow;
the shuffling and illicit scuffing of new shoes
in musky leaf-drifts.

Trees there for the climbing -
blazer-sleeve slimed, where have you been?
tousled twigs, knees grazed, couldn't care,
held in the crook of branches.

(Finalist in the Mirehouse Competition 2005)


Excommunicado

Graffiti carved in choir stalls
tells tales that polish can't disguise
of younger singers here by chance -
like me, not truly bent on praise;
we sing our part, the sound takes wing;
a comfy silence. Let us pray:

"Our Father..." but the words are wrong,
all thee's and thou's are done away,
that childhood template warped and spoilt -
the shockwave blows my candle out,
a door clangs shut inside my head
and I am banished at a jolt.

Outside the church it's shivering dark,
the prayer-key stutters in the lock;
pound as I will on studded oak,
smug gargoyles mock at my distress:
cast out, I am condemned to traipse
the stumbled graveyard wilderness.

(Highly Commended in The Bedford Open Poetry Competition 2007 and published in The Interpreter's House as a result)


To My Muse
in response to the dubious praise of "strong writing"

Give me strength to make my poems weaker.
Cut the heavy-handed adjectives
and adverbs (apparently taboo). Curse
this aggressive, all-pervasive consonance,
the albatross of over-alliteration,
the distraction of an inappropriate image
filched red-handed from a dead poet's pocket.
Let me not punch the reader in the face.
No, I must be meek, monosyllabic,
sparse as the guest list at a poor man's wake.
Keep me as far as possible from my own funeral;
make me frugal in the use of rhyme
and don't forget to tell me when it's time
to put an end to it.