Muse

Another life ago, I wrote here regularly.

Another life ago, I was coming to terms with divorce and waking alone every morning waiting for the call that would send me scudding across the Yorkshire dales to strange schools to teach English, Science or Philosophy to students I'd never see again, awkwardly sharing staff rooms at break with teachers who didn't even see me then.

I was pretty melancholy to say the least. But in that solitude, in the wake of the novel and the poetry award, I was creative and unafraid to bare my soul to the world.

But then I met my muse.

And everything changed.

I sent her the Seamus Heaney poem, 'Twice Shy'. She replied and, so chary and excited, as a thrush linked on a hawk, we thrilled to the March twilight and began to talk, and talk and talk.

And then Covid hit, and everything changed again.

Finding a soulmate in that chaos was scary and blissful and exciting and consumed me completely. Amid support bubbles and Boris parties, the raucous evensong of peeling pans, daily death figures and the hope we held out for a return to normality, I slowly withdrew from the keyboard and stopped sharing my soul with the ether, because now my soul was bonded to someone else's.

My poetry was our poetry.

We became obsessed with each other; it was us against the world.

Five years later, we share a ferocious, tender love that our monochrome former selves could barely have imagined existed - and in that time, I wrote a lot of poetry.

I wrote about love, obsession, fragility and hope.

I never shared it, as it was ours.

A couple of weeks ago, my muse took me to listen to Simon Armitage perform in York. He recited poetry, shared anecdotes and screenplayed an epic soundscape, high on Jakeman's lozenges. It was a fabulous night. I even wrote a short poem which I Instagramed to the poet laureate about his performance - he didn't reply.

But it made me think that it's selfish to hoard poetry.

Poetry, by its very nature exists to be shared.

If only one person smiles, sheds a tear or nods wistfully after hearing words that you've penned, then it was worth sharing.

So, I am happy to share four poems here.

The first was written after a springtime walk along the River Wharfe with my muse; the West Yorkshire sun lighting up her face as I held it in my hands.

The second is a poem about the emptiness of York during Covid when the only living souls on the streets were Uber Eats cyclists in masks.

The third is about loss and making the best of things when you find yourself miles away from where or what you thought you'd be.

And, finally, for what it's worth, I'll share my short ode to Simon Armitage and his performance in York in January.

This year, I am planning on performing some of these poems live; so, if you like them, let me know - I have lots and lots to share. Hopefully, see you soon. ❤️

Sunkissed

When I look upon your face,

I see the night sky

in all its heavenly beauty,

yet sun-kissed instead:

darkness turned daylight.

I see constellations

of tiny diamonds

shimmer on your cheeks.

Twin nebulae

of aquamarine

pull me in and

drown me.

Galaxy filaments

of finest gold

weave backwards

through time;

You've always known me.

And if I slide inside

your shell-pink lips,

I'll find that time

does not exist.

I hold an entire universe

between my palms;

God-blessed,

sun-kissed,

eternally.

The lonely ghost

Four hundred years

I've stalked these streets.

Slipped down snickleways

and alighted on unsuspecting travellers

from the New World

with their guileless wonder

or those of the Orient

with their sticks and picture boxes.

Of course they didn't see me,

but I savoured their excitement as

I lingered by the coach house

where first I supped port.

I spirited through tobacco smoke,

hot breath of yeast and hops

and passed through throngs

who shivered at

the cold mist of me.

Four hundred years

I've wandered amongst you;

tasted your life,

loved you from another plane.

But now you are gone:

The coach house is dark.

The streets are dead.

The market empty.

The only sign of you

are the masked men on two wheels

who have the highways to themselves.

After half a millennia,

I fear I've finally

found myself

haunting a ghost town..

After four hundred years,

I fear I've finally

become a ghost.

When we land

In the familiar gloom of my

grandmother's living room,

I trace the contours of porcelain figurines

with also aging fingertips

and notice the dust that she'd never have let settle.

Outside the sky is little lighter than in.

Chalk grey, charred horizon.

The window frames suck and heave

as the wind bows leaveless trees.

I watch as a solitary crow,

soot black and huge, twists and arcs against the gale.

Its massive wings an impediment to flight.

Blown back across the field,

it swoops, makes some ground

only to be caught in the flurry,

blasted back up

and further away from where it meant to be.

I watch as again and again,

the bird wheels and curls in the wind

forced further and further away from me.

I think that lots of us end up in places we never imagined.

Sent tumbling far and wide by arbitrary, malevolent squalls.

It's what we do when we land that matters.

It's what we do when we land that matters.

Catching his frog

He had a frog in his throat,

the poet laureate.

Buzzing on menthol crystals

and aniseed,

he cracked jokes

and croaked poetry.

At the merch stand,

I mused whether by

licking his ink

and catching his frog,

I too

could ever croak poetry

like a laureate.