Friday, 18 June 2021



I am late posting today, this week has been kind of crazy, we've had many visitors and no time for blogging ahead, as I usually do.

After writing the poem below I spent some time trying to divine how you spell washateria. I always think it sounds far superior to laundrette.  When we were in London recently I thought the place we had rented didn't have a washing machine [it did behind a cupboard door, but that was too sophisticated for me] and it led me to think about how boring it must be watching your clothes wash in a washateria. This thought in turn prompted the poem.

washateria blues

he envied his clothes

in the laundrette's tumbling drum

happier without him inside

suddenly alive

free to tangle  to have fun

to throw impossible shapes

that would break a limb

the next morning he sensed

their longing for something

beyond his predictable moves

their reproach apparent in each casual crease

I was rather taken with the idea of my clothes having more fun without me in them than when worn. I liked the thought that they could be bored by my actions, having seen them so many times before.

I think the poem is just about there and for once I have a title as well.

Here are Sweeney's Men with Willy O'Winsbury, one of my favourite traditional songs, though the king is somewhat dubious, but the tune is lovely. Apparently it is not the correct tune but it works.

Until next time.

Friday, 11 June 2021


 Can any poem ever be said to be an accurate account of an event? I do not think so. Poets take their experiences and transform them into something universal, rather than offer reportage.

So it is with this poem.


half recognised

stopped in the street

asked my name

by friends become strangers

the gulf grown

a quarter century wide

so we swap major events

the achievements of children

obliquely they assess my status

we exchange numbers  emails

say we must catch up

properly get together

then break off  walk away

How much of me is in the poem? You know I am not sure. It is a specific event altered to, hopefully, appeal to all.

This poem wrote itself this morning out of a piece of stream of consciousness prose I had written late last night.

then you wake up

the morning after the divorce

the lost years

the redundancy

whatever particular defeat claimed you

and the physical laws are just the same

sunlight pinballs round the system

planets spin

ecosystems work  more or less

and you must decide what it is you do

yes we know what you have been

that is past

receding by the second

what will you be now?

You could argue that I have experienced some of the events mentioned, but who hasn't?

I have been listening to Pollyanna a lot recently and here's a live song.

Until next time.

Friday, 4 June 2021



I have a beach hut and I've been spending the weekends there just looking at the sea. I am also a confirmed watcher of people and this is how the poem below came about. It happened pretty much as described. 

from the blue sack she produces her phone

they selfie against a backdrop of incoming tide

they turn to document the six yellow roses

they had just cast into the sea

but the blooms are lost in the swell

which constantly baptises the rocks

no seventh wave today

the water is relentless

after they turn and go

I search for the flowers

and spot one

small amid the diamond surface

I do not know what the two people were commemorating, but it seemed to me to warrant a poem. 

Here is Annabelle Chvostek, rumour has it she is touring the UK next year, I can't wait.

Until next time.