Poetry

I am drawn to this briefest form of writing: the slipping in of an image, an oblique truth eliciting a smile, touches raw feelings, or maybe even challenges preconceptions. Much of my poetry is memoir.

I have written poetry since I was a teenager, but more recently, I’ve focused on writing this short form – finding it very satisfying to complete a writing project in an efficient time frame and then move on.

Meanwhile, I continue working on my first novel which I am finding very challenging, often getting lost in the difficult subject matter – so poetry is a nice balance.

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Read two of my published poems below

The Daughter of a Yorkshire Man renamed – (Missing Yorkshire)

I miss Yorkshire things.
Like Eccles cakes or fly pie with a cup of tea.
Yorkshire puds with roast beef, and mashed spuds with gravy.
Parkin at guy fawkes.
Cheese with Christmas cake.
And the way we'd say ee bah gum, which meant anything and everything.
And I miss the stories of the Dales, childhoods, family.

So many stories.
I miss the aroma of pubs: old beer, mixed with furniture polish.
I miss the stories held in stones of old buildings and the ruins.
I miss the nattering about everything and anything.
And the word games.
I miss the sound of words spoken: the soft, short, northern vowels.
The resilient observational comedy arising from simply watching the world.
I miss that blood was thicker than water.
And being their only daughter knowing it was up to me.
To be there.

I miss the songs we'd sing.
like Yellow Bird and Ilkley moor bah tat.

And that I could make someone's day.
Just by popping in and that.
I miss my greatest fans on all the earth.
My Yorkshire mum and dad.
Now that he's gone too, I miss them both.

And I miss home.
Sometimes, I say just the word home.
Then I say it again.
Just to listen to its lovely sound.
Home.
Letting it go deep; it conjures something in me.
It is the purest, most hopeful, comforting word I know.

Not long ago, one frail day, she looked up at me and spoke.
It's funny, I want to go home – yet I'm already home.
And she laughed.
Soon after she left.
For home, I suppose.

The photo on the windowsill

The girl and her mother look out
through an open window.
Its newly painted frame is set
in mint green weatherboards.
Angled sunlight throws gentle shadows
across the contours of their faces.
Over the sill peers a curious tortoiseshell cat.
Who goes there?
A world awaits.
It means stepping out from the one they know,
both warm and safe.
Anything could happen yet
in this moment they still have everything.

I jump into the photo and feel the warmth
of the sun on my face,
and that of my mother's presence
behind me.
I'm held there, as I am held here.
'Everything is going to be fine'
– even if it’s not, we'll be ok.
They turn to go back inside,
the girl and her mother.

Only the cat has spied something,
and she leaps like a wind gust
from the window into the garden.
And I follow her