Showing posts from 2018



Taking that tooth, I trace two short white tracks
on the stone with it:
first, top to bottom;
then, left to right.
‘T’ denotes the spot.


I've been writing poems for each letter of the English alphabet. This is one of the shorter ones. 

The letter 'T' is a descendent of the Semitic letter 'Taw', which looked like more like our 'X'. That letter in turn is thought to have derived from an Egyptian hieroglyph simply meaning 'mark'.

The poems are a sequence - you can read the first 19 on the links below:




So. I descend
past so much fossilised stuff
submerged in the soil:
soupcans, shirts, speakers,
strange glass structures, creased silk dresses,
sabretooth skulls,
possum’s spines, the exoskeletons of scorpions, starfish and spiders.

It seems endless – until, suddenly, I slam into sinopia sandstone
somewhere impossibly lost in the subterranean depths; the basis of all places.

I stand cautiously – seemingly I’m unscathed, except that seconds later, that shepherd’s staff I’ve been schlepping
plummets after me
slaps me on the jowel
lands on the floor below and shatters into fifty pieces. Shit!
Struck clean out of my mouth is a fifty-first –
a small, whitish lumpen stem –
a cuspid.

Inside my mouth there’s no pain, but I can taste the blood. I think of those in the great maw I stepped into to get here.
Stoop to gather my erstwhile tusk;
a scent of sugar fills my nostrils when I touch it.
It’s a little sticky.
Staring closer, it looks just like a stick of chalk.


I've been poems for each…



I often remember another dream I had, even longer ago when I was a child. I had dug a pit in the sand, on a beach.
I was trying to go as far down as possible. It worked –
I fell through a crack of red rock
as deep as the world.
Rushing down, I passed a mirror,
and for the briefest moment saw my own reflection, wherein –
horror! –
I was a werewolf.
I realise now that - to my younger self -
my face today, glimpsed in a mirror 
for less than half a short breath, might have struck me as lycanthropic. Relatively grizzled; sprouting dark hair from cheek and chin.
Perhaps it was only my future appearance that startled me.

Right now, my prehensile rudder wrapped around some root or other, way down in the crevasse, I can linger
and stare at that mirror. Once more, the reflection parts from my reality.
In there, I am resplendent,
Rose-coloured locks spring from every part of my face and head.
If, right now, I really am the werewolf I saw years before,
then perhaps this creature is some future incarnatio…



“Queerer and queerer”, quoth the quester.
Question: what am I, now?
I seem to recall I grew a tail, a little way back.
(J’ai fait pousser une queue) So - I’m a squirrel monkey?
Muriqui? Toque macaque?
‘The aquatic ape’?
Quis sum?
Quid sum?

I'm falling quickly.
I’ve fallen quite far.
My tail is a quirt, whipping the air,
searching for something to grab.
It finds the spot.
It ties a knot.

I am writing a poem for each letter of the alphabet. The letter 'Q' has questionable origins; its originally thought to have depicted either something threading through a hole (a knot or a needle and thread); or a monkey with its tail hanging down.
The poems are a sequence and you can read the first 16 on the links below:


The lips press together, then part: it’s speaking!

I prepare to respond. Though I’m puzzled by what’s put to me, to progress on my pilgrimage, I presume I must be positive.
But, just at the precise point when I open my own mouth, I’m interrupted:

Again I prepare to answer, but each time I’m stopped  before the words can reach my tongue.
I’m given no opportunity to do so.
“HAVE YOU A PARACHUTE?” and the lips part wider, opening  to reveal a pit, into which, it appears, I am expected to jump.

Reasoning that actions speak louder than words, I step up to the edge of what was once a pond, is now a portal.
Now I am stood on the lip of the lips, and as it speaks it is the ground moving,
myself thrown violently back and forth with it.
I am at risk of being catapulted in involuntarily,
never mind leaping.

Perversely, it’s only now, being propelled one way and then th…



Ouroboros. One whole loop.
The enormous cobra goes around the pond, holding its tail in its mouth.

Ouroboros. Omega.

Once, I dreamed I was at the Old Oaks in Glastonbury – those primordial mothers of acorns known as Gog and Magog. Two sheep stood on the path – one black as coal, one white as snow. They were both ovine ovates. Owners of knowledge.
The coal one spoke words of portent in an otherworldly tongue.
Its voice was a rumble of thunder, spilling across normal borders.
I could not comprehend. I woke.
I look at my crook:it’s shaking. It shook.
It will shake.  I look at the lake.
The surface of that pool is (will always be, has always been) a reflection of the sky above. Right now, as I stare,
the clouds that had grown into towers while I stood
have also grown down in that mirror,
have also grown dark in that mirror.
Surrounded by an anaconda hoop
those onyx clouds below look bottomless, a void.
For all the world it could be an eye.
I look at the sky. The surface of that ceiling is
(will always …



Now you see it / now you don’t. As if energised by the rain, the ground shifts in numerous places
simultaneously: now in front, now behind. Now beneath the pond, now around the bank, now beyond. Now under my knuckles. Now under my knees.
Too close for comfort. I start back, away from it. Then I can take it all in - its undulating movements animating the foundation. The ground churning. Now and then (or now and now – and now! And now! And now!) its skin can be seen, glinting silver. And it’s enormous: a monster. I’m reminded suddenly, incongruously, of the encyclopaedias I’d kneel and learn of heraldry in: a serpent, argent. A snake, rampant. An adder, courant. In the reflection of the heavens, the clouds have gained negative height,
turned to inverse nimbus. Around it, the Nāga turns and turns up and down, in and out between the liminals of the elements… nimble as lightning through the muck! Until, eventually, I notice it’s forming into an unbroken ring.

For #NaPoWriMo2018 I set myself the task …


From a mile away, it might be mud. Move closer, it becomes a mirror. The basin almost empty, its ‘lake’ more of a mere. From there, my face looks back at me. In the same way, I remember myself marking you; and your merging with the air at the moment I emerged from the meadow.
Beyond my head, the murmuration of cumuli meanders in misty sympathy with my own motion. I am here for a reason. I shake the stick, and at the same time, circles grow from pinpricks in the water. At the same time,
I feel them, coolly blessing my cranium. At the same time, something makes a movement in the murk; animating the mire.
What’s there?
Under air, water. Under water, earth. Under earth,

I am writing a poem for each of the 26 letters of the English alphabet for #NaPoWriMo2018. The poems are a sequence and you can read the first dozen as follows:


The letter 'M' is derived from an ancient Egyptian hieroglyph denoting water.


It’s lovely. A leather handle at the heal, a long hazel shank, and glinting silver ferrule completed at my shoulder with a curl of golden antler. I’ll walk a long while with this cleek.
Meanwhile, looking along the landscape, I feel something is lacking: If this is my crook, what will my livestock be?
(Elephants? Cattle? Llamas? Leopards? Lemurs? Leverets? Lemmings?) The fields are empty – full of nothing likely.
Initially directionless, I still feel a silent calling,
and I let my legs yield to it. There’s a flicker in the sky as I go, small clouds blocking and unblocking the solar glare
– their shadows follow my shadow through fields splendid with purple flowers; lilac and lavender, tulip and lily, violet and viola.
It’s getting late by the time I realise at last, until I hold the staff aloft and swirl the sky with it, the little fluffy clouds fleeing left and right, orbiting the invisible line. They’ll be my flock.
I close my eyes (that kaleidoscope again) and level the walking stick with the lie o…


If you think you could be dreaming you can try a handcheck: look at your hand’s open palm and flick back and forth between that and the back.
You’ll know if you’re awake. Your knuckles will just be your knuckles, your little finger just a pinky. If not, there are all kinds of freaky possibilities – your fingers could be tied in knots, or covered in dark lipstick kiss marks, or made of lank kale…
I check. It looks like normal… I think. Only, when did I get ink? What’s normal? I blink… and in that quick movement there's a sparkling kaleidoscope of black and shocking pink. I don’t know I’m awake, but something’s out of kilter, and I reckon if I take a breath, I can make things happen here. I close my eyes again. Take my time. Hold my palm out flat. What will I make? A knife? A key? With a whack, it lands from the sky. I sneak a look: a shepherd’s crook.

I'm writing a poem for each of the 26 letters of the English alphabet for #NaPoWriMo2018. The letter 'K' is derived from an Egy…


I grew a tail. J’ai fait pousser une queue.


I am writing a poem for each of the 26 letters of the English alphabet, for #NaPoWriMo2018. The poems are a sequence and you can read each of the preceding letters on these links:


'J' is a junior member of our alphabet, having been until a few hundred years ago the same letter as 'I'. Its distinction from its manxome* progenitor is attributable to an individual, Gian Giorgio Trissino (a man with 5 letter 'i's and 3 'j' sounds in his name, but no 'j's), as in this article - it was over a hundred years later, after the publication of the King James bible, that the letters became distinct in English. Until then 'J' or 'j' were just different ways of writing 'I' or 'i'.

Thanks to Dylann Knight for helping me not screw up the line in French here, especially since that's half the poem.

*I wrote this on the assumption that it was generally …


I'm writing a poem for every letter of the alphabet this #NaPoWriMo, and I've reached the letter 'I'.
You can read the poems for the first eight letters here: ABCDEFGH
'I' is conjectured to have been derived from a Phoenician symbol for an arm. This reminds me of a mysterious line from Twin Peaks - "I am the arm". The letter was also the Roman numeral for '1' and closely resembles the equivalent arabic numeral.
When I began writing this this morning, strange inversions occurred such as the trackpad on my laptop suddenly scrolling up and down in the opposite direction to normal - and the 'I' of the title turned red when I replaced yesterday's 'H' with it. I've decided to keep the red.


Leaving the old house and its charred garden behind, you decide - what else? To follow the hare over the stile.
However, you have to hesitate when holding on to the topmost bar, you can’t help but notice: the front of your fingers ha…


I am writing a poem for every letter of the English (or, if you prefer, international standard Latin) alphabet, this NaPoWriMo.

You can find the poems so far under the following links: ABCDEFG
On Monday I stumbled across this beautiful diagram of the letters' histories by UsefulCharts  - have a look.

'H' is derived from a symbol for a fence! Now I think it's a stile.
Here is a hare. He hears your heart.
“Hello”, puts forth the fair-haired hare, “have to rush… horribly behind
for a hugely himportant happointment”.

(That’s how you think you heard it in your human head. What he said
was holy - hard to echo here).
“…have to rush… Heavens! Hades!”

he hops, hurriedly,
under a hurdle in the hawthorn hedgerow.


Day 9 of #NaPoWriMo.
I am writing a poem a day (more or less) for each letter of the English alphabet. You can read the first six here:
'G' is derived from the same throwing stick symbol as 'C'
You go down to the ground again to get a closer look – to have a gander at this gift.  In fact the club is not just iron: its edges and corners are gilt. They glint gold against the green. Then again, there are gaps through which
you glimpse bare wood – and you gradually recognise –
it’s the same stick you flung over the house! Brought back armour-clad,
metallurgically guarded and graced. You gather it up. God, it feels good. It hums in your grip. and for the first time you can hear its song ringing clear in your thoughts. It comes through in a perfect chord: “I’ve got to go back to guard the garden. I am the guardian”
So you give it back to where it came from,
and it glides in a glorious arc
and it lands in the grass.


Day 8 of #NaPoWriMo and I'm only on the 6th letter of the alphabet. Maybe I'll try to do more than one a day for a couple of days to catch up.
You can read the first poems in the series here: ABCDE
'F' is descended from the Semitic letter 'waw' (the letter's 'f' and 'w' are surprisingly closely related - to find out why, make a 'w' sound and draw your bottom lip back towards your top teeth so it becomes a 'v' - and keep going...) - its hieroglyphic ancestor probably stood for a club or a mace.

The frequency fades
and you follow his frantic gaze floorwards, where, freakishly, you find ’e’s sinking in to the ground! First his feet, followed fast
by his fit legs, and the rest of his frame….
his femurs, fibula, fat gut, false teeth - all the way - to that furrowed forehead and the follicles of his fine coiffure. Even then his arms remain aloft. In five seconds flat, he’s in up to his funny bones, and only now that he’s nothin…


Day 5 or 6 of #NaPoWriMo.
This month, I am writing a poem every day (give or take a few) dedicated to a different letter of the alphabet.
You can see the first four letters here: ABCD
The letter 'E' is thought to be descended from an Egyptian hieroglyph which depicted a man with arms held aloft in jubilant worship. 

“EeEeE”- an entity emerges from the sunrise, at first indistinguishable from the enveloping light, then in abstract blobs of emerald and eggplant, eventually res
embling an elk or an
eland or any horned earth creature
- except those
extensions ar
en’t horns, th
ey’re arms, h
eld aloft as if
embracing th
e morning sky. He exits the engulfing energy, then eclipses it - exclaiming an endless ecstas
y! Expressing an eternal excitement… Exhibiting an energetic exaltation. He do esn't ev en acknowl edg e your pr es enc e, whil
e his not
e, his
e not
e, echo
es ev er
ywh er e. “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…