Sunday, 11 March 2012

Rude Awakenings

As promised, the second of the two poems released in Pulp Magazine this month! This poem was written in a literal sense, not long after watching a group of highly talented Slovenian poets. Another taste of my experimental poetry lies ahead, enjoy if you dare:

Rude Awakenings


Rude awakenings. The morning

Resembles the night. Each day filled

With the gust of bitter winds. Every

Morning, and night, like one of early

November. Less cheerful than December.

Rude mornings. The awakening of gusts

That seems like the winds at night. Morning

Which is still really night, as you sip your tea

Waiting for the light. Open fingers. From

Preparing dinner before a breakfast has been made.

Rude winds. Cold mornings, like those of December

Only less cheerful. Bleeding fingers, while

Breakfast waits. Wind whipping away the night.

Rude fingers, dinner away. Rude awakenings.

Friday, 2 March 2012


It's a new month, and with it comes news! This month I'm very pleased and proud to announce that I've made it into Bangor University's own Pulp Magazine, with two of my poems including 'Rude awakenings' and 'Short Night'. This is the first step to getting where I want to be, and I'd like to thank all of my loyal readers who keep coming back and giving me that push I need to create something worth reading.
As a treat, I'll put the two poems that Pulp are using on here also, (but shhh, don't tell them) along with my usual assortment of poetry antics, such as my first solo ride on a train and much more. Expect news of my Novel's progress, as it nears its final manuscript form and preparations for the dreaded agent search.
So without further ado I present, Short night, Inspired my my best friend in the world Douglas Crawford, a man with a good taste in friends and an unusually spectacular taste in Ales and Ciders.

Short Night


No stars. Breath of wind. Far off voices.

It’s only just turned dark. Voices. Lots

Of them. They clamour around, not

Staggering yet. Side lane. Trees overhead.

Cutting silhouettes into the sky. Church.

Stale piss. The smell burns my senses.

Clamour. People. The cake. Oh look

It’s a celebration. Food. Orange drinks.

Lime fingers. The centrepiece went down well.

Swan. Apple. Melon with boiled strawberries.

Girl. Darkened room. Lights. The party can

Begin now. Shudder of shutters. Click, click. Click, Click.

Man with a camera, hope I get to see them later.

Fuzzy hours. Lazy games. Memories. These

Are what I’d dreamed of. The coat. The bag.

The empty room. Trees. The night is still black.

No stars. Dead wind. Far off slurs. They don’t

Walk, they stagger. I know the night is ending.

Room. Bed. Clock. The slurred voices never lie.

It’s late.