Not sure if I blogged it but I had something published over on Goblin Fruit – which is a pretty wicked and beautiful to look at quarterly journal of fantastical poetry.

The piece was Chicken Ship and they also asked for a recording of it, which I was happy to supply. Anyway, the issue got reviewed by Mike Allen, the editor of Mythic Delirium, another pretty exciting looking SF, fantasy and horror poetry journal, which I’ve heard of and been meaning to check out for a while. My piece was specially mentioned, so I’m now feeling glowy:)

Here’s the link to Mike’s blog, The Plasteel Spider Factory, where you can, if you like, read the review.

Lovely man:)

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The next day, I opened up my window – which looks out onto a back street in central Leicester – only to find a sea of foliage, stretching all the way up from Lower Oxford Street and off out into, well – the hills – where previously, there had been only a 24 hour Tescos and a football themed boozer. As I was in the process of drawing the curtain, a branch, had been in the process of attempting to knock on the glass. The branch had a piece of A4 white paper skewered on it’s point. The paper had my job advert written across it’s lines in sap green pen. By the time I had opened the window, the tree had switched to wafting the sap scrawled advert in what can only be described as a comely fashion – something for which the Sycamore specious are not naturally famed for, supporting as they do only a handful of UK invertebrates, and so generally being disparaged by the ecological community. Such prejudice is often liable to adversely affect one’s character, leading to bitterness and alienation. The Sycamore before me however, seemed perfectly personable. In fact, in it’s wafting of paper I detected a kind of deliberate and good natured fanning, a nod to the paintings of pre-Raphaelite mythology I was known to like and in general a clear sign of dedication. Behind the Sycamore, two Oaks were waiting it out patiently. It was hard to tell whether they were with the Sycamore, or candidates in their own right – and I didn’t like to ask for fear of offending. Instead, I quietly closed the window and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea – the doing of which I have found in most circumstance, to be of use. Outside, the trees rustled.

Forest, Wanted…

August 21, 2008

The next day, I opened up my window – which looks out onto a back street in central Leicester – only to find a sea of foliage, stretching all the way up from Lower Oxford Street and into, well – the hills – where previously, there had been only a 24 hour Tescos and a football themed, cut price boozer. As I was in the process of opening the window, a branch, was apparently also in the process of attempting to knock on the glass. The branch had a piece of A4 white paper skewered on it’s point. The paper had my job advert written across it’s lines in sap green pen. The tree was simutaneously attempting to waft the sap scrawled advert in what can only be described as a comely fashion – something for which the Sycamore specious are not naturally famed for, supporting as they do only a handful of UK invertibrates, and so generally disparaged by the ecological community. Such predjudice is often liable to adversely affect one’s character, leading to bitterness and alienation. The Sycamore before me however, seemed perfectly personable. In fact, in it’s wafting of paper I detected a kind of deliberate and good natured fanning, a nod to the paintings of pre-Raphaelite mythology I was known to like and in general a clear sign of dedication. Behind the Sycamore, two Oaks were waiting it out patiently. It was hard to tell whether they were with the Sycamore, or candidates in their own right – and I didn’t like to ask for fear of offending. Instead, I quietly closed the window and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea – the doing of which I have found, in most circumstance, to be of use. Outside, the trees rustled.

Forest Wanted

August 16, 2008

to run away to.

Must have:

enough trees
to burn a city;

enough leaves
to carpet the moon.

The successful applicant:

must rustle in the dark
like a fairy tale;

Will be at home
in the story book,

be experienced in the fields

of wait lying, comforting the lost,
must know how

to lay a line
of small white pebbles.

Previous experience is desirable but not essential

as are:
TV, Radio and Internet connections.

The successful forest
must not be shocked by hysteria,

must be in possession of palms

to lay on shoulders, over eyes,
to stroke and mend the broken spine with.

The forest must have a clearing at it’s heart
or be prepared to make one.

It must have room.

Forest, wanted

August 15, 2008

to run away to.

Must have:

enough trees
to burn a city;

enough leaves
to carpet the moon.

a dense border
like the concertinaed layering of a
black ball gown;

The successful applicant:

must rustle in the dark
will be at home

in the fairytale story book,
be experienced in the fields

of wait lying,
comforting the lost,

must know
how to lay a line
of small white pebbles.

The forest must have a clearing at it’s heart,
large enough to house a single occupant.

Or be prepared to make one;

must be prepared
to hold it like a pearl
through it’s longest nights.

Parks and gardens
need not apply.

Forest, wanted

August 14, 2008

to run away to.
Must have:

a dense border
like the concertinaed layering of a
black ball gown,

or a wedding dress
pulled through undergrowth,

alternatively, like the night-time
underneath a bed.

The successful applicant

will have enough trees
to burn down a large city,

will have enough leaves
to carpet the moon,

will be equally at home
in both the practical reality

and the fairytale story book
The successful applicant

must rustle in the dark,
be experienced in the fields

of wait lying, comforting the lost,
dappling light to look like hope,

The forest

must have a clearing
at it’s heart, large enough
to house a single women

and all of her not insignificant possessions.

Or be prepared to accommodate one.

New Draft

August 14, 2008

Love Swordfish Artichoke.

Sometimes, I read poetry and I think
why don’t I read poetry more often?
I should read it everyday, wake up
five or six, Google random words, like –
wing, cusp, love,
swordfish, artichoke –

This approach,
may not be the most direct
but I might find-

the interlocking panels of a silver bream –
a swordfish like a sharp rail.
There may be fields,
unfurled flags of lit loam,
fresh soil – tulip bulbs
like hand grenades.

Love
would be something on the cusp
of something else,
a line of light, a door held.

something escaping slowly.

Would it burn circles in the screen?
Reach out, graze skin?
After seeing it –

would I still be able to go to work?

The other day I found some poetry
pressed inside the pages of a
pulped book – poetry
like a coiled whip,
like a small snake.

It trapped my breath and buried it
beneath a cherry tree, in a garden
on the outskirts of a different city
I had to walk for miles
to recover it.

But when I got there it had changed.

It was caught
in the dark glass
of a thick jar.
It was night time
but even with the moon,
you could see the fire
and when I sucked it back,
it burnt my lips
it burnt my lungs
and I couldn’t sleep,
it made me fall in love
and I don’t even know what with-
or who, maybe love –

swordfish, artichokes-
or something on the cusp
of something else.

Pet Hate:

August 13, 2008

People who cannot
remember my name.
It’s not difficult
Just five syllables
Why can’t you do it?

The tide was a roll of feathers
and the beach was a sea of coins
and the sea was a plate of dark blue silk
and the sky was an orange robe.

The moon was the glow of a lighthouse
the rocks were singing girls
the tower was a rod of lightening
the lightening was an undone pearl

The pearl was stone in a scallop
and the scallop was a spade in the sand
and the sand was a wish for the water
and the water was planned.

The plan was for waves full of dreaming
the dreaming was bronze like a tan
the tan was sprayed onto bodies
the bodies were sculptures on towels.

Take me to the beach in the winter
Take me to the beach in the spring
Pull me through the sea in the summer
Let me rest in it.

Sea Shanty

August 1, 2008

The tide was a roll of feathers
and the beach was a sea of coins
and the sea was a plate of dark blue silk
and the sky was an orange robe.

The moon was the glow of a lighthouse
the rocks were singing girls
the tower was a rod of lightening
the lightening was an undone pearl

and the rain was the etching on a bottle
and the bottle was a boat made of glass
and the glass was lense full of poetry
and the poetry swam.

The swimmers were limbs of water
the water was colder than hair
the hair was a net full of plankton,
and cod and plaice and tern.

The sea was a cave full of dreaming
and the dreamers were everyone near
the houses were glittering pastels
the pastels were shining words.

Take me to the beach in the winter
Take me to the beach in the spring
Pull me through the sea in the summer
Let me rest in it.