Glasgow Green with Nelson monument and People's Palace 

All photos PH

Welcome to my poetry, and a few pieces of prose.

Page titles are self-explanatory except perhaps The dark night and dawning of the soul, which presents extracts from a longer sequence of poems.

Do enjoy browsing. 

See editing page for my Editing and Proofreading services.

 

 

The Invitation 

 

The reeds growing thickly, clogging the stream

are dug and pulled and piled on the bank;

the sluggish clunk of the mill-wheel quickens

to a workmanlike chug, clearing, in time,

pondweed and watercress, leaves and green slime;

the water runs clear and at early morning

the kingfisher’s back, a flame in the shadows.

After summer’s stagnation, late August brings

an invitation, a blue flash, my heart sings.

                                                       The River Snail, Fordham

Untitled sonnet

 

Now I am old and grey and tend to grouch

and groan, bemoan the bits that ache, complain

and blame the world for who I have become,

and looking back at what I did in life

and did not do, and hurt and was hurt by,

it seems survival’s price was paid in hope.

But when I learn to love this ageing self

a light appears anticipating dawn,

illuminating purpose in the world:

how ordinary people are so kind,

how others, finding courage, live their truth,

how more than ever human hearts can feel

another’s pain. Within these fateful times

the burning fuse of our evolving shines.

 

To my Unknown Grandmother

 

You held me once, I do not remember –

I, a baby and you, an old lady.

In the worn, inter-war photograph

you beam in your monochrome garden,

gaunt and poor, stone-deaf, full of joy.

I think since then you’ve always been with me –

somebody has, invisibly guiding –

a warmth running through me, a lifting of thoughts,

hands holding me back from the fatal edge

to which I was drawn too many times.

How can I thank you when I cannot meet you

except when we pass, unremembered at night?

 

My grandmother, Fanny Ashen

My Own Private Jericho 

When I fled the homosexual life 

hiding in the fortress of denial 

under banners of propriety 

with its basilica of piety 

walls excluding otherness 

towers of self-righteousness, 

I found that nothing stops the wind of truth  

bearing storms of inner conflict, 

or the blazing sunshine of self-knowledge 

casting deadly shadows. 

 

The attackers blew trumpets 

my Jericho tumbled 

I crawled out from the ruins 

fearful and shame-full, 

discovered my besieger 

was an army of angels. 

The Muse on Boxing Day 

Turned up at the page, 

the muse didn't show; 

the sheet as white as 

snow on snow. 

 

I bet he’s up there 

with Dante and Virgil 

telling them how 

I go round in circles. 

 

He strolls in Arcadia 

with Coleridge and Wordsworth 

leaving me creatively 

blocked and wordless; 

 

divulging to Kipling 

the colonial old stiff 

how my entire output 

is one big if; 

 

with Gerard Manley-Hopkins 

having a gossip 

about how I made little 

of my time in the closet, 

 

and how none of my volumes 

are found on the shelf 

when even McGonagall 

made a name for himself; 

 

talking sex and religion 

with John, his old friend 

while I, down below, 

am Done with one n. 

 

But I guess even muses  

sometimes need breaks; 

I’ll come back tomorrow – 

perhaps he’ll bring Shakes...