Taking cuttings

I’m born

To be born again

In another form

Half mine half his

But all mine

Am told



Is that the word

For family


And strangers too

They think they know me better

Maybe do

But they must struggle

To believe

They know my mind


Like I do

I can see

The walls

And read the veins

Stretched below the surface

That spell out

So clearly

That I am not interested

In that kind of end


I don’t know what I think

As I don’t know what I thought

Before I was told what to think

Because I didn’t know how to know

Because my brain was still pliable

Taking on whatever shape

I was passing through

So how do I know what I think?

Maybe you’re right after all

Maybe I’ll grow into it

And it’ll grow into me

The Stump

It’s 7 am

And the shallow sun

Makes waves

between the clouds

And wakes me

I go to the place

That rests above the ripples

Below a sudden bolt

Of breeze

It breaks green

And takes a stone

To form something

That once was

And he is here too

Looking out

In his favourite place

And we watch

The kayaks together

Making shapes

In the unfamiliar silence

He holds my hand

My fingers tucked under

And his wrapped around

We have a name for this

All of this

We have a name for all of this

The Surgeon

He is pulling shoe laces through my skin with his celestial fingers to make the thread lift, recoil and tug my already bruising flesh and make a patchwork quilt of my sore body. He practices needlework and upholstery and makes a masterpiece of my wounds. His hands play God at his own game and beat him. And so he rips and grips my shell, pulls stiff wrinkles from ribs and dimples from hips to make a more perfect me. In his own image.


Soft hands of delicate lace speak louder than any mouth upon youthful face,

Patient eyes set deep in skin provide purpose and reason to unquestionable sin.

A slow, paced, experienced stride leaves lost times, loved ones and warm hearts behind,

And a house that waits in misty cast upon grass that remembers the visitors past.

All would be nothing without body and bone for my grandmother’s love is my definition of home.

I wrote this poem for my granny, whose birthday it is today, as I sometimes find it hard to say in person how much I admire them. I also find it incredibly difficult to write a poem about a person I love. I don’t like to talk about people with loud metaphors and excessive hyperbole. This is why I tend to focus very closely on the specifics of a person or an idea as I believe that true beauty is in the detail and not the unnecessary decorations we tend to smother it in. By concealing our beliefs and our raw emotion in extravagant and idiomatic sentiments we reduce its meaning to a muted and detached string of words that merely say what others have already said. To make something truly personal we must dig deeper and focus more closely on where our passion and emotion truly lies.

I’m not now going to write a paragraph where I list the amazing things I love about my grandma as I’m really not into that cheesy kind of expression, and never have been. So instead I will let my poem stand as it is as I feel that the semantics behind it convey all the emotion I put into it and therefore to comment on it here would be to offend its very existence. Enjoy.