Skeleton Architecture

I am going away for a weekend in October, it's going to be my first weekend away since I had my first child. He's just turned eleven. My husband could not believe this could possibly be true. Neither could I. But it is, and it's time. I'm off down to my home town, for the Ilkley Literature Festival, or a bit of it anyway. I'm going to see Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall with my Mum. I may swoon, she's assured me, she won't. I'm going to see some local poets with my Dad. I am going to meet with friends I've known since middle school for lunch at Bettys. And I am going to lots and lots of events. One of the poets I'm going to see is Hollie McNish. I cannot wait. She's chuffing marvellous. You can go see her too, if you're near Ilkley, there are still tickets for sale here . And if you can't make it, if you don't know what all the fuss is about, or if you'd just like to Hollie fix, here are five of my favourites of her poems r

And so we're into Autumn, I swear I heard the tyres screeching as the season turned. I'm writing this at my desk in the light of my little lamp and it's almost 9am, but it's gloomy because it's chucking it down. I love Autumn. I spent ages yesterday watching gannets diving for fish in the roiling sea, keeping their places despite the wind. And I love the fog that can wrap us up in a quiet blanket. I used to live in the Isle of Man, where the god Manannan takes care of his drunk little islanders by wrapping his warm cloak around them. So whenever I can't see the islands near us for the fog I wonder if Manannan is wrapping his cloak around us too. It feels like it. Anyway, The Prompt, over on the Mum Turned Mom blog this week is Motion, which just had me thinking of the motion of the ocean, and of the good luck I have to be able to live near the sea again. So I am sharing this poem which I wrote earlier this year, inspired by a line in Andrew McMillan

It is said that for every poem you write you should read forty. Thinking about it I probably do, although the jewels amongst them can be far between (which is not to say that the rest aren't good, just that some are magnificent).  Here are some of the jewels I've come across lately. This video is Inua Ellam sharing his poem, 'Candy Coated Unicorns And Converse All Stars.' It draws you in to a shared moment, bringing a magical spotlight to bear upon a grubby tale. It is captivating and troubling, and bears repeated exploration. Next up is Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou, who is so often phenomenal. I adore the in-your-face awesome of this poem, which you'll find on Poem Hunter  here  (sorry about the really annoying adverts). Gillian Clarke has served as the National Poet of Wales for eight years and is now stepping down. One of the poems she was commissioned to write was one commemorating the mine disaster at Six Bells. Her response is a woman's

I've been thinking about family and our emotional bonds a bit lately. Motherhood is often dressed up in pink bows and seems to be seen as something to be argued over, and taken for granted, but that love that you get when you become a mother is huge and possibly violent and all encompassing. Personally, I've only become a mother through having babies, but there are other ways and I'm sure that magically weird strong relationships develop in those too. Anyway, before I start trying to ensure everyone is included I'll stop, because this is about me and how I feel about my kids. Perhaps there will be things in here you'll recognise. The picture above is of me with my last baby, the one who was born in bloood and flashing lights and drama, as referred to in my last poem, Return . I read this poem out today at my writers group, and thought I'd read it for you too. Click below for the recording. Love There’s a fierceness to it. This gentle, pa

I've been away for such a long time! My last post was about a month ago, and was written when I thought that Katsuma was going to die. I was so incredibly worried about him, and I'm happy to report that he has pulled through that crisis, although he is still a very sick cat. He is now on lots of medication for his heart disease, and he is no longer capable of living the life he previously lived. But I think he's still content. He gets ever so much love, and I know he wishes he could still go out and kill things, but lying in any possible patch of sun comes a close second. He's never going to be fully better, and at some point another crisis will come, and that is when we will stop, because he's done amazingly well, he's walking again and everything, but I wouldn't want to see him go through such a terrible time again. Anyway, what have I been doing to keep myself away for so long? Lots of poems. I have been writing away, with so many ideas that I'm