top of page
A poet's thoughts are always busier than their pen
J. Pennington-Twist


“Writing poetry is about capturing the very essence of something. Exceptional poetry should ache with beauty and give life to something in a way that nothing else could.”

Certain Things

(Coverstory books – Second Prize)


When you go,

What will it be like?

Who will pull

The bee sting out

And cut the doweling

To a perfect length?

Will I find the necessary papers

And will I know what to do

With your shoes,

Your drill bits

And your (unfinished) puzzle book?


When you go,

What will it be like?

Will you depart,

In the carriage

Of a perfect English Summer afternoon,

Or will the air

Be cool and distant,

Like you yourself

Could sometimes be?

Like I myself

Can often be.

What will it be like,

When all the things you’ve ever said

And could’ve said

Are taken with you like tattoos?

When I must let you go

And turn to a reflection,

That I doubt

I’ve ever truly seen.


Pica Pica

(Ironbridge Poetry Festival – Shortlisted)


I see in you,

A bloom eternal,

Life’s reaching hand

In flighted form.

The young are fed

As young should be,

Come fish bone cloud

Or leaden storm.


I see in you,

This pale new day,

Sweet sonnet sung

In cackled rhyme.

As privy to

This courtship waltz,

I care not 

For the sands of time.


I see in you,

A manumission,

My foolish manner

Laid full bare.

In iridescent monochrome

Are born these notions pure of tone.

My tutor

Winged and yellow eyed,

Her grace

A gently turning tide.

Strange days

Have tested blood and bone,

I’ve lived each one,

But not alone.


The Great Exhale

(National Poetry Library – Highly Commended)


The sound came,

Whilst the world was busy

Wrapping things in plastic.

Pylons and cattle,

Bending and vibrating

Where they stood.

To come, was a billion light years

Of hollow fall,

So slow and massive and tar like,

That each and every gaping phoneme

Spanned a deafened generation.


The sound came,

As heavy as everything.

Breathless and perpetual,

A living ache,

Causing flesh to sag

And minds to fail.

It had announced itself,

As some unimaginable chord,

So ominous and hellish in its dissonance,

That holy men pressed cloth

Into their bleeding ears in fright.

It was an unceasing drone,

The key of ‘A’,

A tinnitus ring by comparison.

Unstoppable, in absolute black.

Relentless, omnipotent.

How magnets sound inside.

Time itself was drowned out.

The universal lung,

Sick and dizzy with expansion

Had begun the great exhale.


If you'd like a bespoke poem, do GET IN TOUCH and we can get started.

bottom of page