Her fingers press the keys With skilful muscle memory Of adolescent compositions.
But now, her fingers are clothed In the jewels of promise And the band of union. Her fingers press the keys With skilful memory. A would be forgotten melody Is slowly remembered, Quickly played. But her fingers have changed. They have reassembled the shards of me, They have studied my skin, They are now clothed With the jewels of our promises, And the engraved band Of our union.
I wrote this poem in 2014 for my wife Silje soon after we were married as she played something she’d written years before. I was watching her, and struck by the simple image of her playing a piece she’d written with fingers that are now clothed with our wedding and engagement rings.
When it snowed in Montpellier in February 2018 she was playing Prelude in C Major by J.S Bach. I thought the image of her playing with the snow outside would go well with this poem, so I recorded her without telling her. She can be very shy about her music. But don’t w…
I’m really excited to announce that my poetry has been included in a collaborative anthology ‘Please Hear What I’m Not Saying’ being published to support the charity ‘Mind’... and it goes on sale TODAY! My copy arrived yesterday and it’s a beautiful book with lots of amazing poems from 116 poets around the world.
The book explores different aspects of mental health, and is designed to grow with positivity throughout its sections. My poem, which is about how recovery and redemption can beautify the scars and stains of our suffering, is therefore towards the end of the book. For me it’s really exciting to see my work published in a book (on real paper with an ISBN and everything!) but more so, to be part of such a wonderfully constructive project that will help people who struggle with their mental health. I had the privilege of working alongside ‘Mind’ during my years working for the Watford homeless charity ‘New Hope’ and can testify to their wonderful work.
There was a world, displaced from its axis by repeated tragedies of its own making, as the inhabitants attempt to grasp the credit for it's own creating.
An entire macrocosm misaligned by
embezzling clutches and throning lusts.
Who's history is marked by a needless taking,
and just in case, a pious faking
to appease a possible divinity
as either a patsy or a machine. There was a world, decomposing in it's own folly. Spinning itself dizzy flailing after impervious redemption. And inside that world there was a
people displaced from its milk and
honey by a ruling superpower. As the globalising tar of Rome spread to paint the Empire one
culture, this people had been waiting. Listening in silence for the reason of their plight, Waiting for the sword of a
rallying leader to severe their shackles, and the throats of the
chain-bearers, alike. Waiting with the same attitude that inspired the
silence, a misunderstanding of what it
is to be chosen. For the planned restitution
exceeds one people. They…