Apology doesn’t bring back flesh and bone,

Or beating heart,

Or the promise that was living.

Nor does it restore faith,

Uncry tears,

Unhear words.

So what I’m saying, is that forgiving


Would be to forget all who have been lost to your choices.

Whose voices can never be heard,

Hearts can never be won,

Hopes can never be clung to


By forgiving you,

I dishonour


So I will not forgive you,

Not even for a second,

For all you that have done.

This is my shame,

My weakness,

My sorrow.

And for what’s to come,

We have only to blame ourselves.


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Favourite Poets: Edgar Allen Poe, Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
I don’t know, I always feel like this poem speaks to and celebrates uniqueness, not fitting in and being as everyone expects you to be. That’s just my interpretation of it, but it feels like a comfort 🙂




There’s no need for technology to know that he is there.

Even in this pitched darkness, you are ensnared in his stare.

When they warned this place was haunted maybe you should have had a care,

But then, you always did disdain at those who cautioned: beware.


You moved into this old house and replaced corroded locks.

You blamed the age and creaking wood for all those unknown knocks.

Whispering scorned, footsteps dismissed, unsettled feelings mocked

Until you woke from slumber, startled by a chair that scraped and rocked.


He lingers in the shadows, grows more arrogant at night.

By day, he’s lurking, creeping just upon the edge of sight.

You tell yourself he does no harm, and at worst, causes fright.

But when he bars all exits, your heart still hammers in flight.


Accounts record that his corpse was found not so far from here.

He watched you as you looked him up; over shoulder, he peered.

Cause of death: bludgeoning of skull by object from the rear.

They never found his killer, so he can but linger here.


History tells the story of a violently led life.

It whispers of whipped children and a meek, thin battered wife.

Stories of all his wickedness are harrowing and rife.

You try to forget what you’ve read, yet grip to chest a knife.


And now the doors are bolted but the danger is within.

The monsters aren’t out there hiding; there’s only one. It’s him.

Excuses for your sleepless nights are becoming too thin.

You recoil from the thin air, feel his breath upon your skin.


So now the lamps are lit and you sit, sipping Bristol Cream.

Perhaps by the morning light, things will not be as they seem.

Maybe you’ll wake to tell yourself, ’twas nothing but a dream.

But through these thick stone walls you’ll call. No one will hear your scream.


Three days passed in your absence; then the village deigned to care.

They creaked your door wide open, and by torchlight crept in there.

Many a back of neck pricked under the weight of his stare.

Nothing of you they found but clawed floorboards reading: beware.


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Poetry In The News


Hello 😊

Here’s your poetry in the news for this week.

Denver is hosting its first National Poetry Slam, and Suzy Q Smith will be there, which is reason enough to go; she’s an incredible performer!

This is a really nice article in the New York Times about poetry.

The Australian Poetry Slam‘s heats are currently taking place.

An article on taking poetry to heart/learning it by heart.

Why children need poetry according to the Huffington Post.

And finally, Wild Hollowfields at Upper Hollowfields Farm will be holding a series of workshops on everything from archaeology to poetry; an eclectic enough mix to get anyone’s attention!

Happy weeks all round!

Poem of the Week: The Laws of God, The Laws of Man, A E Housmen


The laws of God, the laws of man,
He may keep that will and can;
Not I: let God and man decree
Laws for themselves and not for me;
And if my ways are not as theirs
Let them mind their own affairs.
Their deeds I judge and much condemn,
Yet when did I make laws for them?
Please yourselves, say I, and they
Need only look the other way.
But no, they will not; they must still
Wrest their neighbor to their will,
And make me dance as they desire
With jail and gallows and hell-fire.
And how am I to face the odds
Of man’s bedevilment and God’s?
I, a stranger and afraid
In a world I never made.
They will be master, right or wrong;
Though both are foolish, both are strong.
And since, my soul, we cannot fly
To Saturn nor to Mercury,
Keep we must, if keep we can,
These foreign laws of God and man.

The Laws of God, The Laws of Man




That mask you’re wearing is slipping.

The sheen of fear on your cheeks leaves you gripping

Tightly to it, trying to keep it there in place

And not reveal what’s behind it – your true face.

What are you so afraid of?

It’s not like you believe in anything above

That will smite you down for your sins.

No. You just don’t want people to see what’s within.

To show you’re just as fragile as the rest

Of us. You love, you fear, but keep it to your chest

Only revealing your inner thoughts to very select few.

And even then, even they have questions long overdue

Answering. It’s paralysing, letting someone in,

How do you choose who to trust, or where to begin?

I’m not the one to ask,

Clutching tightly at my own lurching mask…


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