18 Jul 2019 / News
Itis and the Labyrinth
(Labyrinthitis: a self-limiting disorder of the inner ear)
Hitchcock angles start the pinwheel.
My room strobes past
like fast train windows on a loop.
Your intricate architecture
is haunted by hiss and murmur
around the curve
of semi-circular canals and otoliths,
cavities hollowed out,
lodged in the temporal bone, time out of mind.
So much of me is blobs of meat
but you are delicate as bird bones,
alien as sea-shells.
A labyrinth’s call is to be mysterious,
consumed by its own convolutions.
Mine is to cling to walls and wait.
15 Jul 2020 / The Stories We Tell
Disappearances and Encounters
As the daughter and granddaughter of antique dealers, I grew up handling wonderful old things. They…
11 Jun 2020 / The Stories We Tell
My appreciation of the power of stories happened in 1974. I was a pupil at a boys’…
18 May 2020 / The Stories We Tell
My instinct to become a poet emerged from a desire to tell stories. Perhaps I should have…