poem

On empty

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On empty

I have poured out
every
little
scrap of
myself,

have been witty,
have been wry,
have been honest,
have discrete,

have exercised my brain,
loved,
flung arms wide,
waited still in silence,
laughed from the heart,
and from the will,

have done chit-chat,
asked searching questions,
empathised, sympathised and dramatised,

remembered formulae,
offered a chocolate Father Christmas and reindeer,
written stories in the margins,
made air time for experts,

and now I gaze into space,
and wait for myself,
to return.

found poem, London, winter 2014

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I like my town

Art is a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.

Back to basics.
Douceur d’enfance.

Today is a good day.
Live what you love.

She acts like summer
and walks like rain.

Art for all.
Discovery.

Let’s fill this town with artists.
Art is nothing without the gift

‘I love William Morris
as I love most artists who manage
to make their lives and work
completely part of each other.’

When William Morris lay dying in 1896,
one of his doctors diagnosed his fatal illness
as ‘simply being William Morris,
and having done more work than most ten men’.

Love is enough.

Own a masterpiece.

Welcome.

No peeking.

Skate.

He is like a tree planted beside the streams of water,
which yields its fruit in season,
whose leaves do not fade,
in all that he does he prospers.

‘Dying is as natural
as being born’.

The secret is out.

You are here.

Step into the adventure.

Thou God seest me.

A little patience won’t hurt you.

Notes on locations:  sign in Loft store, shirt in Loft, product in Loft, candle in Loft, art in Loft, art in Loft, Duke St Emporium, DSE, Landrover showroom, name of shop, sign in same shop, Anarchy and Beauty, National Portrait Gallery, cushion in NPG shop, sign in NPG, Jigsaw store window, Somerset House sign, engraving of Proverbs 1 in Somerset House monument, quotation attributed to Cecily Saunders, Kings College London, wording on a van, street map, advert on bus, wording above St Clements Danes church, sign on Tube.

Ode to a ‘passion fish’

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The passion fish knows our secrets.
It curls up in each palm,
head, tail, sides, writhes
squirms in mute alarm.

The passion fish knows our secrets,
reveals we are in love,
or passionate or jealous
or only just alive.

The passion fish knows our secrets.
It teases out ahs and oohs,
‘I knew it!’ and ‘who is it?’
It even helps us choose:

The passion fish tells us secrets;
who scorns to play the game,
who will not take a turn of fun –
the ‘cold fish’ is his name.

Note:  If you have never won a ‘passion fish’ (also known as ‘fortune teller fish’) in a cracker, you are missing out, but perhaps you will find one this Christmas…

Letter to the forty-six

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Perhaps you had no idea
when you tinged your wand
on a ‘like’ button,
to ‘follow’,
when you clicked a link,
that you held my dream in your hand.

I’ve been here twenty-four days precisely
and my life has turned
upside down.
Maybe we none of us
know the meaning
of what we have
unleashed.

Creatures hidden unseen
for a hundred years
have opened their eyes,
blinking,
to the new light of day,

and breathed in
reality, and discovered
welcome,
have coughed up the old
poison apple,
started dancing.

I crept in here
away from the glare,
under the radar of a stasi
I never knew were there.
How did they come to rule
even a corner of my
universe?

Perhaps you had no idea
when you tinged your wand
on a ‘like’ button,
to ‘follow’,
when you clicked a link,
that your hand launched a dream.

[untitled]

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Our hearts are dying,
crushed under the
weight of all our
pain.

Buried
by a thousand
homicides.

Starved
by all our
compromise.

Crying frozen tears.

Forbidden to complain.

Forever claimed by clamour,
we are slowly
wasting
away
to
O

***

Our hearts are living.
Crushed, they
bear the weight of
all our pain.

Weeping
for a thousand
homicides.

Feeding
on all our
compromise.

Warming frozen tears.

Daring to complain.

Never claimed by clamour,
we are slowly
gathering an
everlasting
radiance.