There is a solitary witch in every wishing well
filling bucket after bucket with life’s blood.
Read MoreGods&Radicals—A Site of Beautiful Resistance.
There is a solitary witch in every wishing well
filling bucket after bucket with life’s blood.
Read MoreThis sequence of poems is based on the meditative practices centred around a journey my spiritual mentor, Jayne Johnson, undertook for me. In this journey, I was taken to an island and instructed to meditate within a ruined clochán.
Read MoreThe snake you mistake
For evil’s the same one
Who led us from Egypt
And freed us from Eden
expand our experience with this transient light
in our eyes, undisturbed in an infinite way
feeling safe in the dark,
knowing the intimacy of each night:
black feather to the cheek.
Read MoreThe silver coin in my cup
is the Moon cast small.
The slight blade in my hand
is learning to plough the clay,
sowing prayer and memory.
Read MoreThe first snowdrops pushing their heads up in my garden, emerging in the space of the few hours I'd been away. The evenings are growing lighter, the days lengthening steadily. Even amid despair, there is hope.
Read Moreyou were a spider busy with
consuming the prey, only to suddenly realize that the prey is a part of yourself.
Read MoreThe perpetual uncertainty of life in this world is given meaning through poems, and for that we want to venerate our poets.
Read MoreThis ended up functioning like a lucid dreaming technique, in which I would sometimes be awake and sometimes in REM sleep, and sometimes in-between the two. This poem is a record of the things I saw and heard on that long drive through the desert.
Read More“I couldn’t help but feel that an epic character like my father deserved to be remembered in an epic way, so I composed this elegy for him about a year after he died.”
Read MoreMountain panic appears to be an experience of the numinous, what Rudolf Otto calls ‘the terrible and fascinating mystery,’which he saw as the origin of all religion.
Read More“In every word we breathe we bring the Void- the utter zero of its depths unseen, the sum of worlds it swallowed and destroyed: dead myths and fables, fallen gods and dreams.”
Read More“He met me somewhere on a dark beach and told me the secrets of the land of the dead before he was called away…”
Read More“This poem is a variation on the story of True Thomas or Thomas the Rhymer, a Scottish poet who was said to have been given the gift of prophecy after a tryst with the Queen of Elphame. In this updated version of the story, Thomas is not a medieval Scottish poet but a modern man, lying in bed unable to sleep as he broods about the past.”
Read MoreWith this lack of names, of tradition, of relationship, how can we speak of moss?
Read MoreThis mossland will conquer its bounds / growing millimetre by millimetre a year…
Read MoreThe cycle cannot be escaped;
All there is to do is coax out words and coat
The atavistic sorrow
Read More