Bones Trilogy



So tired of smiling
Visible skull bones grimace
Dead parts so lively


I see my own bones
Illuminated death dance
Rib cage xylophone


Inside out I was
Before I pruned the dead bits
And new bones appeared

From Ashes (spoken word video)

Here is the video version of my poem ‘From Ashes’, written in Finland exactly a year ago while on residency at Arteles Creative Centre. I found a secret fireplace in my room — filled with artistic treasures — on the last day of the residency and wrote this poem as my offering. 

To read the text of this poem, click here.

To view the captions, turn on auto-captions in the settings menu in YouTube.


in the grass
lies skull of fox
and one of sheep
both climbed high
upon the hill
yet one climbed steep
and each decided
where to stop
and where to lie
upon the grass
and where they chose
they lay to die

it’s good to know
the shape and form
of one’s own skull
where side plates join
the ridge and crop
and where the rocks
stud growing grass
to know its hull
and sense its husk
its blackest holes
and highest peaks
from which to view
the fields below
where river runs
a squiggly line
that splits square fields
inscribes bleached hulls
bisects wild skulls

No April Fool (spoken word version)

This is the spoken word video version of my poem No April Fool. For the text of the poem, switch on captions in the settings on the YouTube video above, or read the text version of this poem in the post immediately below this one. If you’re interested in spoken word and poetry readings in general, check out the hashtag #InternationalPoetryCircle on Twitter. Started by poet Tara Skurtu, the circle encourages poets and poetry lovers to share their own poems, or their favourite poems, through video or print. It’s a way to positively connect through words and creativity during this immensely stressful and trying time of isolation.

No April Fool


To my Granny
Born April one
But no April Fool
The obstetrician
Changed the date to April two
So you’d never get teased
Or bullied at school
And Christ how it is
That I miss you
You held my hand
And tried to reach
Right through my walls
And you did so well but
I’m not sure I ever thanked you
For ensuring my heart
Felt always good and always full
For helping me feel warm and loved
Oh Christ how it is that I miss you
I’ve tried to fill the hole you left
So many times and over again
And I’m just now able to realise
There is no hole
For the love you showed me
Helped me see
Myself through how you saw me
And I am here
And I see me through the lens of you
Which means that you are still here too
And Christ how it is that I love you
I’m so grateful for the gift of you
Born April two
No April Fool
Oh Granny, how I love you

Eggshells (spoken word version)

Have you heard of the International Poetry Circle on Twitter yet? If not, click on the following tag and check it out: #InternationalPoetryCircle. The circle is the brainchild of poet and writer Tara Skurtu. She started the circle as a way for people around the world to connect during quarantine due to COVID-19. Poets from around the world are sending in videos of their work, and written versions/links to poems are encouraged also so that full accessibility and inclusivity is achieved. I’ve contributed a couple of poems that I’ve been meaning to record for a while now, and I’ll continue to record more videos over the coming days and weeks. If you’re a poetry enthusiast, but don’t actually write yourself, you can also participate by taking a video of yourself reading your favourite poems. Enjoy this marvellous poetry circle; it’s such a meaningful and real way for people to connect and a wonderful, positive outcome of the current terrifying and distancing situation. Stay safe, stay healthy, read poetry.

Above is a spoken word poetry reading of my poem Eggshells. If you’d like to read the poem instead or as well, please check out this link.

His Name is David

My rapist’s name is David
Not the one who fought Goliath
My rapist has no courage

Not the everyday Davids
The ones that you might know
I’m sorry he has the same name

I’m sorry if your David is nice
Not all Davids are rapists
But mine was, yes

The David who raped me
Is not my cousin
Who is always friendly
With crinkly eyes
His name is David too

Nor my uncle
Who tells the best stories
And has lived an interesting life

And certainly not my Dad’s best friend
Who I’ve known since birth
He is a sweet and gentle man

There are so many Davids
And only one of them raped me Read More