Hello, followers! Thank you for your support over the years. As you might have realised, I haven’t posted on this blog in very long, and at this rate probably will not do so. I don’t have the heart to delete it (yet), but I will instead redirect you to where you can find me on a more regular basis.

I review books here.

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I’m blogging about my writing here.

Thank you so much xx

Posted in Misc, Poetry

june ii

I dream of a world in which

I. I can turn cartwheels on loose sand,
in front of too-bright, postcard sunsets
legs pin-straight,
mouth cave-open

II. I part rose petals,
gentle, searching, slow

III. Grass stains colour my clothes,
dot my skin, impossibly green,
the print of the crisp yard

IV. There are voices, there is sound,
there is open space

Take me there.

Posted in Misc, Poetry

january ii

It seems that the more you know,
the less you know;

When only vines hold your bones together,
and all you have is dust,

Is there a bark-covered sparking neuron
that remembers?

Posted in Misc, Poetry

visiting the oracle

She can’t tell you what the letter will say, because
“Nothing is definite—”
Smoke-rimmed eyes, smoke-filled crystal,
The future is
Is she reading your future,
Or your mind?

Her gaze is cloudy,
Her grip cold and clammy; she
Captivates, and what can she see that is so
Bright, miraculous, entrancing—
Dark, ominous, damning?

She speaks in hyphens, stuttering ellipses,
Blinded, all-seeing unseeing and tentatively moving forward,
Impatient, you clear your throat.
You need to see, need to know,

A curiosity that takes you through
Daily horoscope and weather forecast,
Thoth and Athena,
But the powers that be do not favour you yet,
Nor Fate, nor Fortune,
It is time to take matters into your own hands.

At last she
Sits back, majestic, triumphant,
Clouded eyes wide, fingers splayed for dramatic effect,
“Nothing is definite,” she begins,
“But in your distant future—or perhaps—
Perhaps nearer,
I see—
A reckoning.”

You leave, pockets emptied,
Doesn’t she know?
Your life is a reckoning.

Posted in Misc, Poetry

december ii

Red-rimmed and paper-thin,
We all shiver in the cold bite.
It’s the last, it’s the end,
and I think to myself,
What have I done?
For twelve long years, what have I done?
I look at cool white plaster, at
chalk powder fine as first snow,
at watery smiles,
and I know that I have donesomethingright.