Grand Mastery

  I’ve always wished to be expert at chess, but I overthink every move and lose my pawns and queen in the oldest, quickest thrashing in the book. — I have a knack for completely overthinking things. The reference in this short verse reminds me of a line from “Escucha.” During the dance, the poet/narrator

The mask of nonsense

“It’s complicated” posted this time last year proposed a point-blank assessment of The Relationship Drama, especially as recounted by heterosexual women (as this encompasses most of my experience). It’s the “He loves me, he loves me not, why doesn’t he love me?” tune. The poet/narrator declares, none of this is complicated. Either it moves forward,

Making soup again

These days I refuse to sigh for cooked up futures. Potatoes from a friend and a bag of mixed root veg for £1 assure companionship. This bounty grated, cooked with stock and bay leaves, will be ladled out for half-a-dozen bowls dressed up with haricot beans. The appraising birds perch in the top bare branches,

A bicycle made for two (or, The Pitch)

While it’s going for a song, let’s play this dalliance. It’ll knock wind from our sails. That’s the hazard of entanglements. — Over the weekend I watched a movie about a song-writer. Many of the songs featured dreadful clichés. This prompted some fiddling of my own with clichés. The poem’s title is thanks to an

She takes to heart her ship

My use of maritime imagery predates the well received poem of August, “Tall Ship“. For example, there is also this poem posted last year, “Preceding seafaring that was not to transpire“. — Twitter: @BeadedQuill Facebook: BeadedQuill Books

Dear diary, these people are tiresome and interesting all at once

“Leo’s Entries” is one of two poems written last year in the format of journal entries by respected (male) authors. The other was “Philip’s Log“. Both poems were part of a year long project which culminated in a book, In the Ocean: a year of poetry.

The Visit, or The Arrival of the Thing

There is a well-known Afrikaans short story Die Gog (The Thing) about an unidentified creature nursed and doted upon by a couple. The thing (die gog) is kept in a box, feed and protected. Eventually the couple’s mutual obsession destroys their relationship. This serves as an imagined prelude to the un-dramatic domestic tragedy of Die

Without a word

Interestinggg, my muse of the nimble-feet that you decided to delete the last cord of our communication: a cue of ‘moving on’ or sullen irritation? Interestinggg, my fascination locus, that whatever swung your focus – “in some shit” you did mention – erased your previous courteous attention. You didn’t say good-bye; you neglected an adieu.

Such is clinging mind

There’s that thing, that topic that gnaws away in an alleyway of your mind. Perhaps it’s the last acrimonious discussion you had with a lover or the overdraft on your bank account, or maybe it’s a work project that didn’t unfold as planned or your child’s school report. “In an alleyway of thought” considers such matters that the clinging

Exalted thus, we left

An old favourite revisited, because artists are allowed to have their obsessions. “Exalted thus, we left” is a reworking of a poem from 2011: I love the Dorothea Tanning painting that spurred the original “Jacob’s Dream for crinolined girls”. When I’m in Tate Modern, I’ll usually try to pop into the Surrealism gallery to gaze