March 2012


The continent is too large to describe. It is a veritable ocean, a separate planet, a varied, immensely rich cosmos. Only with the greatest simplification, for the sake of convenience, can we say ‘Africa’. In reality, except as a geographical appellation, Africa does not exist.

I am a copper wire slung in the air,
Slim against the sun I make not even a clear line of shadow. (more…)

Your bed’s got two wrong sides. You life’s all grouse.
I let your phone-call take its dismal course:

Ah can’t stand it no more, this empty house! (more…)

Though my mother was already two years dead
Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,
put hot water bottles her side of the bed
and still went to renew her transport pass. (more…)

I shall foot it
Down the roadway in the dusk,
Where shapes of hunger wander
And the fugitives of pain go by. (more…)

A woman dressed in all her wardrobe plays
a comb cadenza; she has packed her bags
into bags, a Circle Line refugee. (more…)

And I was travelling lightly, barefoot
over bedrock, then through lands that were stitched
with breadplant and camomile. Or was it (more…)

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