Novels, Poetry & Creativism
about my poetry books and life as a poet
A Ritual To Read To Each Other If you don’t know the kind of person I am and I don’t … Read more
I wish we could flow as oceans tide,
swelling with joy at our urge to unfurl.
I feel we should roll as planets turn,
dark days and seasons held level with light.
I sense we can grow as mountains rise
from stresses rock setting, solid and free.
I intend to go as children run,
arms wide, smile plunging, into full stop.
—
#writerwednesday.
I'm excited to be speaking about the Alliance next Friday at NOT The Oxford Literary Festival (NTOLF). 
This event was started two years ago by writer/performers who were frustrated by the high admission prices at the … yes…Oxford Literary Festival.
Frustrated too by the lack of representation at the festival of Oxford's brilliant underground and spoken-word scene.
As self-publishing's potential to bring underground and grassroots voices to their readers is one of my
One of the many interesting people I've met at The Red Vic, the B&B I'm staying in here in San Francisco, is Laurie Marshall, writer, educator, peace activist and artist. Laurie is instigator of The Singing Tree Art Project, aiming to unite divided young people through having them work on a shared mural, based around the concept of planet earth as the ‘singing tree' of the cosmos.
Her most
They don't publish
the good news.
The good news is published
by us.
We have a special edition every moment,
and we need you to read it.
The good news is that you are alive,
and the linden tree is still there,
standing firm in the harsh winter.
The good news is that you have
I. Ocean Pulse
Rising, curling, foam unfurling,
waves of cold Atlantic sea,
next one coming, meet it running,
plunge into the safe beneath.
Avoid crashing, hard sand-smashing
that could knock me to my knees.
Out here holding. Look I’m floating!
Blood-beat drumming in my ears.
Waves keep surging, endless burgeon
sent up from the darkest deeps,
surface playing, breath delaying,
I dive into your mystery,
always saying all to me.
II. Here is Where
I've been here
before but
now I’m here
for healing.
Twice times ill
with cancer
and its cure
here is where
I’ve come. Numb
beneath – or
should I say
beyond? – these,
my extremities.
I've been here
before but
now I’m here
for healing.
III. Seeing Eye
I’m rocked in salt arms: the ocean,
waves pillowing under my head.
The sky’s eye seems to wink open
to glint all I seek to reflect.
For one glittering, infinite instant
I can’t tell the fall from the swell.
Become a patron today and please accept my endless appreciation for your support and encouragement … and for your love of poetry.
More poetry HERE
The Writer's Call:
“…I work for you kind reader, dear,/who walks my words across the page,/who seeks clear ground in paths I’ve made…”
Speechless:
“…Kings will do/what kings do. Soldiers too./And if you don't want to know, I won’t keep you…”
A Reply & An Answer:
“…Soon, birds won’t be able to sing./Listen. Hear me. Our time is for turning…
The Writer’s Call: A Poem Your words must clear the ground for love, I heard it all declare. I kissed my … Read more
By Lucille Clifton. why is what i ask myself maybe it is the afrikan in me still trying to get … Read more
“How shall I be a poet?
How shall I write in rhyme?
You told me once ‘the very wish
Partook of the sublime.'
Then tell me how! Don't put me off
With your ‘another time'!”
—
“And would you be a poet
Her name? Her name is Generose, here is how her story flows: 
through the latest news of war
our ruler coming out to say
‘Bombs Again!' Though his minions'
mincing words, force-feeding what
‘we' need to do, and why, (with regret)
some evil people (and some others)
must die;
through the soldiers jumping to,
while I, and my kind, are left gasping
behind, holding a small stand somewhere
like this, appealing to someone
like you.
So…
Can you come with me
to a place far from here, where
four or five m– No. Let
me begin again. Let me start
with myself, with yesterday when I
Here is a small poem about a big subject:
Listen, my parents,
the grasses are crawling,
the trees are all thrumming.
Soon, birds won’t be able to sing.
Listen. Hear me. Our time
One major inspiration of art and writing is… art and writing. I'm reading a brilliant anthology, 
edited by Carol Ann Duffy, called Answering Back, with a simple, delightful concept: a living poet chooses a poem from the past that has touched them and writes a new poem in response.
It's a beautiful collection of calls and replies, echos and illuminations across centuries — and gives a vivid sense of how, through writing, language and human connection transcend time and place.
Here's a poem about art by WH Auden, chosen by Billy Collins and,
Down by the river bank I see a life-ring on a line, and think of how we used to swim in talk, … Read more
