My most recent collection The Tempest Prognosticator is published by Salt in the UK and Random Umuzi in South Africa. My earlier collection A Fold in the Map is published by Salt in the UK and Jacana in South Africa. You can read more about these books and other publications (like joint work on the sinking of RMS Titanic, The Debris Field, published by Sidekick Books) here, along with poems, details of forthcoming readings and the odd snippet of news.

I am currently working on a collaboration with Scottish artist Douglas Robertson, inspired by DH Lawrence's poems in Birds, Beasts and Flowers. More detail and images can be found here and in forthcoming journal publications.

 

New Work

 

2 Poems in Prairie Schooner

2 Poems in Magma 59

3 Poems in The Interpreter's House, Issue 56

'Stars, Flowers, Grass & Us' in The Dark Horse

'Nobodies' in The Mimic Octopus

 'Suitcase Heart' in Popshot 11

 Other work forthcoming in:

Verse Junkies

The New Statesman

 

Events 


25 July: 'The Twilight of the Iguana'

Poetry School Summer School Workshop

Friday 15 August, 8pm:

6 Poets at the Fruitmarket Gallery, Edinburgh,

See more on events here.

 

Some Reviews

 

Interview on LitNet, May 2013

Debris in The Island Review

British Council Writers

The Tempest Prognosticator

'Dixon's Strange New World'

'Rich Reward for Readers'

A Fold in the Map:

The Mail & Guardian

The Financial Times

 

 Crossing

Old men with beards remind me of my father:
surplice white, a beard of blessing,
Father Christmas face.

I just can’t help but smile at them,
old rabbi daddies, walking in the street.

My dad will tip his hat at everyone
he meets - old-fashioned courtesy -
now leaning slightly on his stick.

Does he greet dark-haired daughters too,
with just a touch of extra love?

Come to this city then and see me weave
among the crowds that beat
these concrete pavements every day.

(You’ll never have the time to greet them all,
these urgent hurriers.)

But tap-tap slowly to the kerb, hold up your staff
against the iron roar, and when the wood leaps
in your hand, strike at the tar.

There’ll be a stillness as the faultline fissures
deeper than the Underground.  

The engines stop, the hush reminding us
of history and grace.
The clear ‘good morning’ from your smiling face
settling among us like a dove.

 

 

Originally published in A Fold in the Map.