Writing is both a way of making life more liveable and of making ourselves more whole. Words have a being-ness: when we write poetry, we tap into a network of resonances.

I am all hair, glittering with diamond-glass. A forehead streaked with blood, rubies and roses crisscrossing the tangerine flaps of a ripped collar.

The darkening sky skids past at sixty miles an hour. My eyes are keeping a vigil over the dead fringes of tarmac either side of the road as I drive . . .

Hello Tamara, it’s lovely to hear your voice stretching out across the Atlantic, from your eco pod of wellness into my quiet space, where things are not so well today. But it is today. New and fresh.

And when the snake finished, the cow turned and licked the snake’s head, tender, like a mother to
her newborn. The snake slipped away, disappeared into the undergrowth.

end-of-day catch
our wicker basket full
of salmon sunset

With every book I sell, with every piece of clothing I give away . . .

how do I begin?

The Universe dreamed I’d come to its restaurant. I needed to pass the time before my train home.

the highway asphalt. reeks of exhaust and burnt rubber. the cars and trucks go by. the sun boiling and you rotting.