Autosomal Dominant - due for publication in forthcoming Paradox Anthology 2017
https://para-gram.com/2016/09/07/paragram-picks-for-the-paradox-anthology/
Covalent Bonding Published here - 6th May 2016
http://www.inksweatandtears.co.uk/pages/?p=10841
5 poems runners up in Paragram Chapbook Challenge and published in their Spotlights Anthology 2016
http://paragrampress.co.uk/product/spotlights-paragram-anthology-2016/
https://para-gram.com/2016/09/07/paragram-picks-for-the-paradox-anthology/
Covalent Bonding Published here - 6th May 2016
http://www.inksweatandtears.co.uk/pages/?p=10841
5 poems runners up in Paragram Chapbook Challenge and published in their Spotlights Anthology 2016
http://paragrampress.co.uk/product/spotlights-paragram-anthology-2016/
A selection of poems from my medical collection, Post-ictal:
Your Scan Results
(Illustrated by Sohi Mistry)
-See more at: http://www.sgim.org/web-only/medical-humanities/your-scan-results#sthash.gsxhMhXF.dpuf
Bridgewatcher
(Won first prize in the Psychiatry Research Trust Competition 2013) scroll down for judge's comments...
http://excelforcharity.blogspot.co.uk/
I don't ask you to unbutton the sleeves
of your smart shirt
to show me the cuts.
Because I believe you.
You tell me you typed 'suicide' into Google again last night,
tell me about the website that came up
and I nod as though I don't know exactly
the one you mean.
I know it wasn't methods that work
you sought, but the solace
of voices, clamoring across the pages
for help amongst the helpless.
On the way into work, my train flies past the bridge I know you go to.
In the morning glow, a crow perched on the railing, it holds none
of that poignant splendour I know it holds for you
at four a.m after the wine, the cider, the gin.
I know when you're up there,
there's a certainty to the smooth flat
concrete below, that just grasping the cool steel railing, toying
with that quivering possibility
is all the release that cutting no longer provides.
I should be the one to manage this risk,
but I don't
because I know that's not why you go there.
Instead, I up your antidepressants so it looks
like I did something.
And as I write the dose,
you tell me about a time when you were little;
the judder of the car across the Forth Road Bridge,
the sparkle of South Queensferry across the still black water,
and the sudden horror
of seeing a man let go and drop
into the unglimmering depths,
flashing blue lights arriving seconds too late.
'Sometimes people just don't want to live anymore'
your dad tried to explain, but he was driving,
hadn't seen what you had; the sickening courage
of that hand letting go
of the rail.
Pseudoseizures
(Won second prize in the Psychiatry Research Trust Competition August 2013)
http://excelforcharity.blogspot.co.uk/
And there's a seduction
in returning
to those moments
in which we were most powerless.
There's a comfort
in seeing each writhing collapse
into self-abandonment through
to its completion.
Then tend to the mess
in the aftermath of a drama you knew
you could have stopped,
somewhere in the stillness
between myoclonus
and floor- juddering convulsions, if
you had wanted to.
But you know you won't cease
until your limbs are spent
from each seizure's writhing throes.
Your eyes roll expertly back, you stiffen-
then crumple
into the seizure's familiar embrace.
And you know you could just stop;
save yourself the help you know you'll despise
in the post-ictal glare of day.
But something brings you back here
again, and again,
to the very crux
of your defencelessness,
to achieve nothing
but enduring separation
from the nine year old self who endured
that original undoing.
Your Scan Results
(Illustrated by Sohi Mistry)
-See more at: http://www.sgim.org/web-only/medical-humanities/your-scan-results#sthash.gsxhMhXF.dpuf
Bridgewatcher
(Won first prize in the Psychiatry Research Trust Competition 2013) scroll down for judge's comments...
http://excelforcharity.blogspot.co.uk/
I don't ask you to unbutton the sleeves
of your smart shirt
to show me the cuts.
Because I believe you.
You tell me you typed 'suicide' into Google again last night,
tell me about the website that came up
and I nod as though I don't know exactly
the one you mean.
I know it wasn't methods that work
you sought, but the solace
of voices, clamoring across the pages
for help amongst the helpless.
On the way into work, my train flies past the bridge I know you go to.
In the morning glow, a crow perched on the railing, it holds none
of that poignant splendour I know it holds for you
at four a.m after the wine, the cider, the gin.
I know when you're up there,
there's a certainty to the smooth flat
concrete below, that just grasping the cool steel railing, toying
with that quivering possibility
is all the release that cutting no longer provides.
I should be the one to manage this risk,
but I don't
because I know that's not why you go there.
Instead, I up your antidepressants so it looks
like I did something.
And as I write the dose,
you tell me about a time when you were little;
the judder of the car across the Forth Road Bridge,
the sparkle of South Queensferry across the still black water,
and the sudden horror
of seeing a man let go and drop
into the unglimmering depths,
flashing blue lights arriving seconds too late.
'Sometimes people just don't want to live anymore'
your dad tried to explain, but he was driving,
hadn't seen what you had; the sickening courage
of that hand letting go
of the rail.
Pseudoseizures
(Won second prize in the Psychiatry Research Trust Competition August 2013)
http://excelforcharity.blogspot.co.uk/
And there's a seduction
in returning
to those moments
in which we were most powerless.
There's a comfort
in seeing each writhing collapse
into self-abandonment through
to its completion.
Then tend to the mess
in the aftermath of a drama you knew
you could have stopped,
somewhere in the stillness
between myoclonus
and floor- juddering convulsions, if
you had wanted to.
But you know you won't cease
until your limbs are spent
from each seizure's writhing throes.
Your eyes roll expertly back, you stiffen-
then crumple
into the seizure's familiar embrace.
And you know you could just stop;
save yourself the help you know you'll despise
in the post-ictal glare of day.
But something brings you back here
again, and again,
to the very crux
of your defencelessness,
to achieve nothing
but enduring separation
from the nine year old self who endured
that original undoing.
OD in Resus 2
(Won 3rd prize in Lisa Thomas Royal College of Psychiatry's Poetry competition 2012)
https://www.rcpsych.ac.uk/members/divisions/southwest/poetrycompetition2010.aspx
There was a time
when ninety foil blisters
burst open
in row upon determined row
left me hollow
as the strewn silver packets.
With them; a spidery ‘I’m Sorry’
veering off the lines
of a note
handed over,
always with the rolling of eyes
by paramedics who’ve seen it all before.
There was a time
when each detail
leading up to these acts
of such searing finality
would tear at me.
Two days’ food left out for the dog,
recycling rinsed and lined up
in the right boxes
on the kerb.
A glimpse
of a Primark label
as pyjamas are cut off.
And the eloquent courage
of the ones who slip
notelessly,
leaving no fronds of remorse
to forever curl in tendrils
around the ones left asking why?
But now, it’s closed questions:
How many? What time?
Pupils equal and reactive,
heart rate in sinus.
Don’t get into the reasons
into what led to this,
The plans, the intent
of an act that says only ‘This
will make you sorry.’
Just stabilise,
send bloods for levels
and refer to psych.
(Won 3rd prize in Lisa Thomas Royal College of Psychiatry's Poetry competition 2012)
https://www.rcpsych.ac.uk/members/divisions/southwest/poetrycompetition2010.aspx
There was a time
when ninety foil blisters
burst open
in row upon determined row
left me hollow
as the strewn silver packets.
With them; a spidery ‘I’m Sorry’
veering off the lines
of a note
handed over,
always with the rolling of eyes
by paramedics who’ve seen it all before.
There was a time
when each detail
leading up to these acts
of such searing finality
would tear at me.
Two days’ food left out for the dog,
recycling rinsed and lined up
in the right boxes
on the kerb.
A glimpse
of a Primark label
as pyjamas are cut off.
And the eloquent courage
of the ones who slip
notelessly,
leaving no fronds of remorse
to forever curl in tendrils
around the ones left asking why?
But now, it’s closed questions:
How many? What time?
Pupils equal and reactive,
heart rate in sinus.
Don’t get into the reasons
into what led to this,
The plans, the intent
of an act that says only ‘This
will make you sorry.’
Just stabilise,
send bloods for levels
and refer to psych.
Asylum
(Won 3rd prize in Provocations Poetry competition 2012)
I am the meticulous clack of heels
of the ones who prescribe to those who trudge,
sedated,
madness rendered monochrome.
I am the yellow-tinged walls that resound
with voices that prattle with ever less urgency
as meds take effect and eyes fade
to blank.
I am the trundling swish of the trolley
returning bodies to their rooms,
flaccid, post-ictal
after measured convulsions,
Where they will wake
with aching temples;
released
from the electrodes’ juddering grip.
I am the uniformly spaced doors
enclosing each murmuring shade of mind
disordered
by thoughts that dare to veer from reason.
I am the skylight, chiselling the vast expanse above
into a square chink
of freedom
none raise their eyes to see.
(Won 3rd prize in Provocations Poetry competition 2012)
I am the meticulous clack of heels
of the ones who prescribe to those who trudge,
sedated,
madness rendered monochrome.
I am the yellow-tinged walls that resound
with voices that prattle with ever less urgency
as meds take effect and eyes fade
to blank.
I am the trundling swish of the trolley
returning bodies to their rooms,
flaccid, post-ictal
after measured convulsions,
Where they will wake
with aching temples;
released
from the electrodes’ juddering grip.
I am the uniformly spaced doors
enclosing each murmuring shade of mind
disordered
by thoughts that dare to veer from reason.
I am the skylight, chiselling the vast expanse above
into a square chink
of freedom
none raise their eyes to see.
It's the Little Things
(Published in Poetic Republic e-book 2012)
Like the borrowing of socks
after a run
in the rain,
or the sharing of olive bread
dipped in that dukka stuff
you used to bring round late at night.
These unremarkable moments,
gather significance, lead to a kiss
that arises as if from nowhere,
yet has been silently forming
with each delicate placement of trust
from the invisible scaffolds of the secrets we share.
Until the gentle realisation
that something big is unfurling
into something tangible
with rituals,
like the way we always kissed on escalators
no matter where,
or the way you always left a pair of socks
beneath my pillow
knowing I couldn’t sleep barefoot.
And the notes I left under yours
that you turned to feel the cool underside of
as we slept in that odd tessellation we called ours.
But it’s these little things
that will find you without warning
and floor you when it’s over.
When a stranger walks past and one scent of his aftershave
will carve out your chest,
and rape you with nostalgia.
Or when you are halfway up an escalator,
and the desolation
wreaks its way through the cracks,
like cold waves sloshing your ankles
when you hadn’t noticed the tide
drawing in.
And it was a little thing that betrayed you
that bland October afternoon as she unpacked her shopping
and glinting in amongst the cans of soup,
was that small square tin of dukka;
meek, smooth-cornered
yet violent with implication.
That’s when I saw
that those simple confidences
have become hers now instead of mine,
those little jokes are shared first with her now
instead of me.
And somehow,
like the empty expanse of beach, laid bare
when you hadn’t noticed the tide retreating,
the imperceptible shift of your loyalty
is all of a sudden
perceived.
(Published in Poetic Republic e-book 2012)
Like the borrowing of socks
after a run
in the rain,
or the sharing of olive bread
dipped in that dukka stuff
you used to bring round late at night.
These unremarkable moments,
gather significance, lead to a kiss
that arises as if from nowhere,
yet has been silently forming
with each delicate placement of trust
from the invisible scaffolds of the secrets we share.
Until the gentle realisation
that something big is unfurling
into something tangible
with rituals,
like the way we always kissed on escalators
no matter where,
or the way you always left a pair of socks
beneath my pillow
knowing I couldn’t sleep barefoot.
And the notes I left under yours
that you turned to feel the cool underside of
as we slept in that odd tessellation we called ours.
But it’s these little things
that will find you without warning
and floor you when it’s over.
When a stranger walks past and one scent of his aftershave
will carve out your chest,
and rape you with nostalgia.
Or when you are halfway up an escalator,
and the desolation
wreaks its way through the cracks,
like cold waves sloshing your ankles
when you hadn’t noticed the tide
drawing in.
And it was a little thing that betrayed you
that bland October afternoon as she unpacked her shopping
and glinting in amongst the cans of soup,
was that small square tin of dukka;
meek, smooth-cornered
yet violent with implication.
That’s when I saw
that those simple confidences
have become hers now instead of mine,
those little jokes are shared first with her now
instead of me.
And somehow,
like the empty expanse of beach, laid bare
when you hadn’t noticed the tide retreating,
the imperceptible shift of your loyalty
is all of a sudden
perceived.
That Last Click
(Shortlisted in top 12 Poetic Republic competition finalists 2013 and published in e-book October 2013) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00GNPBWK8
You’re looking at the camera in every one.
When you chose that last profile picture
it was as if you knew all along
that it would be the one that remained, and you’d become
my only Facebook friend who could never message in return.
You're looking at the camera in every one.
Twirling on the Meadows in your graduation gown,
shivering in your mittens with a pretend frown,
as if you knew all along
that after that December, there were no more to come.
poking up in corners with a glass of wine; that impish grin.
You're looking at the camera in every one.
Dressed up as Marilyn Monroe, tongue sticking out
at a couple kissing in Potterrow,
as if you knew all along
the hollowness of that last click, as the photos go back
to where they began, and that's it; there’s no more Claire.
You're looking at the camera in every one.
Smiling kindly from the order of service, as if to say
'I'm sorry sweetie' So like you, consoling us on that day,
as if you knew all along.
The whir of the photo machine draws to a stand,
print after glossy print of you drops, warm into my shaking hands.
You're looking at the camera in every single one,
as if you knew all along.
The Village of the Mermaids
(Runner up in One Night Stanzas poetry competition judged by Scottish poet Claire Askew)
(Shortlisted in top 12 Poetic Republic competition finalists 2013 and published in e-book October 2013) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00GNPBWK8
You’re looking at the camera in every one.
When you chose that last profile picture
it was as if you knew all along
that it would be the one that remained, and you’d become
my only Facebook friend who could never message in return.
You're looking at the camera in every one.
Twirling on the Meadows in your graduation gown,
shivering in your mittens with a pretend frown,
as if you knew all along
that after that December, there were no more to come.
poking up in corners with a glass of wine; that impish grin.
You're looking at the camera in every one.
Dressed up as Marilyn Monroe, tongue sticking out
at a couple kissing in Potterrow,
as if you knew all along
the hollowness of that last click, as the photos go back
to where they began, and that's it; there’s no more Claire.
You're looking at the camera in every one.
Smiling kindly from the order of service, as if to say
'I'm sorry sweetie' So like you, consoling us on that day,
as if you knew all along.
The whir of the photo machine draws to a stand,
print after glossy print of you drops, warm into my shaking hands.
You're looking at the camera in every single one,
as if you knew all along.
The Village of the Mermaids
(Runner up in One Night Stanzas poetry competition judged by Scottish poet Claire Askew)
They come in droves, flopping
out of fearful waters;
smooth bellies against the shore
of the village.
In lustrous gowns, their salty tresses
combed out, they wait
for sailors,
their boats guided inland
by the eternal flames of the chimaera
ablaze against the darkening mountainside.
They sit, uniformly lining
The village’s only street,
hands primly folded
on gowns that hide the glint of scales.
Enfolding their fish-flesh
as they stare ahead,
hoping to be chosen
by sailors made uneasy
by the scaly replications
of their lustre.
Not knowing which mermaid to take
to the room behind, to be lain
like a pike on a slab;
globular eyes pointed at blank ceilings.
Except they will not flounder or thrash,
or bare jagged teeth.
But will lie disquietingly still
in silent pursuit of a soul,
to later return to the glistening waves,
as silvery water rises to immerse
opalescent eyes
whilst unreturned souls
burn bright on the hillside.
out of fearful waters;
smooth bellies against the shore
of the village.
In lustrous gowns, their salty tresses
combed out, they wait
for sailors,
their boats guided inland
by the eternal flames of the chimaera
ablaze against the darkening mountainside.
They sit, uniformly lining
The village’s only street,
hands primly folded
on gowns that hide the glint of scales.
Enfolding their fish-flesh
as they stare ahead,
hoping to be chosen
by sailors made uneasy
by the scaly replications
of their lustre.
Not knowing which mermaid to take
to the room behind, to be lain
like a pike on a slab;
globular eyes pointed at blank ceilings.
Except they will not flounder or thrash,
or bare jagged teeth.
But will lie disquietingly still
in silent pursuit of a soul,
to later return to the glistening waves,
as silvery water rises to immerse
opalescent eyes
whilst unreturned souls
burn bright on the hillside.
Other Publications:
Shortlisted in top 6 columnists for glossy Scottish magazine No.1:
http://www.no1magazine.co.uk/columnist/1.html
Shortlisted in top 6 columnists for glossy Scottish magazine No.1:
http://www.no1magazine.co.uk/columnist/1.html