Books and Writing

Books and Writing

I've been writing one thing or another for as long as I can remember, and most that remains is packed in old box files, or on my computer. I have however published a book of poems and a novel.

 

The novel, TIME TELLS, is a psychological mystery set in North Norfolk.

 

It's available from Amazon in paperback and e-book editions.

 

Counting Frogs and Catching Stars is a selection of poems written from the mid-1960s to 2006, when the book was published.

 

Available from Amazon.

 

I say in my introduction:

I write primarily to communicate, and I believe my poems work best when my heart, head and guts are equally engaged. It is always good to have positive feedback from other writers, but I am particularly delighted when people who don't normally read or listen to poetry tell me they've been touched by one or other of my poems.

 

 

 

 

 

Sample poem:

A Norfolk Station on a Winter Evening

 

 

It’s a matter of absences.

No staff. No ticket machine. No

coffee vendor. No loo. She’ll pee

herself in a minute. Come on,

train! No glass in the sides of the

shelter. Must have got smashed. They should

have thought of that. Should have made it

from something more durable. She’ll

write a letter to someone. If

she remembers. Tomorrow. My

god, though, doesn’t the wind cut to

the bone! No mercy. And what if

the train never comes? What if that

screen that says on-time-on-time-on-

time refers to yesterday? Or

the day before. Or no day in

particular. What if it’s stuck,

like a needle in the groove of

an old cracked record? What if the

scattered people are just drifters?

Chanced upon this platform like lost

swallows, waiting for time and stars

to re-align. What if that young

woman in the skimpy dress and

strappy sandals has just blown in

from some city street, some hot dry

day? The coat she gathers round her,

a gift from a stranger. The bump

she cradles with her palms, just fruit

of an accidental union

in some half-remembered bed. And

what if the old man, bent and stained,

is dreaming of the smell of roast

chestnuts on a brazier? How he

held his sweetheart’s hand. And how the

moment glowed. Warm and forever.

 

 

What if the train roars by, breathing

steam? Blind to this dereliction

and the figures of its landscape.