Thingless

I am not at a thing. The things have dried up (or I have stopped going). I am thingless. I … More

How to disappear

The review isn’t exactly vicious as such, merely purely personal and savage. It stops short of questioning your parentage, but … More

You think it will be about your childhood. It turns out to be about an onion. Or a night in … More

For now, at least, it has gone. The notebooks with promising phrases, the backs of envelopes with doodles: they are … More

I have finished the thing. People come up to me to say things. It seems to have gone well. While … More

Seven years ago I published The Year of Drinking Water, a pamphlet of poems, about my experience of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma (Exeter … More

A scan, with different initials. The train journey to it, biting nails; the one back pretending not to be radioactive. … More

The ward is a void without him. Football blares in the corner, the monotonous roar of the crowd unleavened by … More

The book is not in love with me. I shower it with love and promises of more stationery, but all … More

Jörn Cann wasn’t my friend. He was my doctor. He was famous before we even met him as the doctor … More

The way it starts. With an ending. Just before our love got lost. We have all been here: the wit … More

The room is small, the size of a student bedsit. An enormous grey sofa takes up most of the space. … More

Middle Ages (Translated by Paul Vincent) Folk from the past jostled for a place in the wall with distant … More

We are driving to a thing. We are lost. It is a lunch thing, so the children are in tow. … More

‘We are at a party that doesn’t love us‘ – Tomas Tranströmer We are at a thing. Not a poetry … More

Or this one. You arrive at the venue early but there is no one there to greet you. You pace … More

I am completely torn apart -Rupert Loydell When I first read Raymond Carver’s Fires I loved and understood all of it, … More

Yesterday I published a new poem on Rebecca Goss’ website, in aid of Children’s Heart Week. You can find … More