My third collection, the award-winning Remembering / Disease, is now available for pre-order with Broken Sleep Books
The poetry entries for the Northern Writers’ Award were judged by the poet Vahni Capildeo. They selected my manuscript, along four others, and praised the ‘beautiful minimalism’ and ‘intriguing poise’.
Here is the poem Secrets which is a prologue:
Secrets
This secret is always circling. Certain seasons and times of day are its allies. That much I am allowed to reveal.
This secret can seep through concrete. A dark liquid is left that even the sun cannot dry. The spot cleaning burns your hands.
This secret has its own language. Each secret needs an interpreter. Few are willing.
This secret is always looking, the one in the secret always on the lookout.
These secrets yearn to Rest in Peace. Bring them flowers, bring ferns, bring them feathers so they can fly away.
One of the most enjoyable things I did recently was read the manuscript of FEET. Elsa Fischer had asked if I would write a ‘blurb’ for her collection coming out a few weeks from now. Elsa’s poems from her two pamphlets (Palmistry in Karachi, Hourglass) have featured here in May 2020.
erbacce press in Liverpool run an annual poetry competition. In 2012 I was a runner-up and had 12 poems in the quarterly magazine, along with an interview. There were around 6,000 other entries. This year over 15,000 poets worldwide sent a selection of their work. Elsa’s submission was one of three to achieve publication.
Elsa was a young child in The Netherlands during WW2 and her collection includes some poems about that experience. Here is Hunger Winter about the winter 1944/45, followed by the poem Remembrance Sunday.
Veteranendag, Den Haag
Since 2005, the last Saturday in June has become ‘Veteranendag’, a day to honour the more than 100,000 Dutch veterans. There is a flypast and a parade of over 3,500 serving soldiers, several forces’ orchestras, old and new equipment. On the Malieveld, the large green area near The Hague central station, are marquees and vehicles. A good PR opportunity: the army, navy and air force all need recruits …
Hunger winter
To blunt the pangs of hunger my mother would copy recipes. In her wartime diary, between salmon mousse and boeuf bourguignon I find the birthdays of uncles and aunts, lists of friends, their ‘phone numbers in four digits. Crossed out the names of those who perished. Lines of French poetry: how dawn had chased the night the poet would have wanted to last longer. A list of socks, hats, underwear and who she knitted for. A monthly record of her bleeding. Exclamation marks around my name on a page in September.
Remembrance Sunday
One hundred years old. And two months, he adds and in my regiment the last man standing. Holding a globe he points at El Alamein. That was a good one, he says. Grins.
It was a lovely surprise to get this anthology ahead of schedule, so I could read it before leaving for the Netherlands. Dempsey & Windle organise an annual competition, with options to enter single poems as well as a batch of 10 to win publication of a pamphlet. The anthology has poems by the winners of both categories, as well as the highly commended and longlisted poems. I was glad to have my tribute to a poet friend included. On Thursday 10 June in the evening there will be a reading on Zoom with a number of poets reading. Contact Dempsey & Windle for the link.
This poem by fellow poet Rod Whitworth has it first publication in the same anthology. Rod and I met several years ago on writing workshops. I admire its economy and delicacy. It’s not surprising it gained a 2nd prize.
Demobbed
Go on. Hold his hand. You’ll be all right. I looked at the man in the new suit they’d told me was my dad and I walked at his side, hands in my pockets.
We stepped into the street, his right hand steering Megan’s pram with ease and command past Cropper’s with the pigeons, and I walked at his side, hands in my pockets.
Down Platting Brew, round the curve over the culverted brook and a hard shove to the road to Daisy Nook, me walking at his side, hands in my pockets.
Past the milk farm – Whitehead’s – and the field with the pond and reeds, the greying April snow. I walked, my right hand warm in his left hand.
The day we switched off the machine, I told him they’d arrested Pinochet, though he was past cheering, and he lay, his right hand cold in my left hand.
Acacia Publications 