Silence is oppressive,it sits on me. I heave in my breath,and let it be squeezed out. At least I only have to make half the effort.It’s a relief; I am tired of trying. I like the silence,it holds me still. Holds me like you never will again, or ever did back then.
This week I was lucky enough to spend six days on at Arvon writing course at Lumb Bank, Ted Hughes’s old house. In the words of one of my friends, it was ‘totally amazing’. The scenery of Yorkshire was as beautifully dramatic, the house was comfortable and homely and the isolation inspiring. I loved it. […]
Untitled Push off with a strong stroke, One, two, one, loss of rhythm Loss of me, Bluff, I’m fine, this is my art Here with my wet skin, I carve, Inside I’m cold, cold, The numbness like a flash Inside, I dance Untitled I throw a pebble into the lake And the ripples show me […]
Dust circles, heavy, In the light from the dirty, Unshuttered window pane The web hangs, fragile, Glistening in the dingy, stale air, That smells of hazy memories Its whiteness, so fine, so fine, Ever swaying in the draft, From the always closed door To reach up and break it, Comes into my mind To sweep […]