It is on nights like this that time

truly does seem

to stand still –

or, at least,

to slip more slowly.


Is it day

or is it night?

Perhaps it is a kind of…


for daylight persists

even into the dark.


Tonight is light time.

They are all you can see:

lampposts; overheads; traffic signals.

And the white, white sky

and the white, white ground

and the white, white horizon.


All the people have vanished,

been blanketed,

asleep in their vehicles that attempt

to carry them safely to bed;

huddled in their buildings

in the company of more lights –

warm lights;

drawing their curtains

and their blinds

so that they can forget what

lies in wait



A.N. The UK is currently in the middle of a snow storm and it’s. Not. Coping.



A New Circulation

My heart –

fickle – trickles




its valves


and close,




haste so

that after


pulse it


changed, the




to make

me feel



A.N. Indecisive.

These Haiku Can(‘t) Speak

This haiku can’t speak

Without your voice. You want my

Death but I, a choice.


This haiku can’t live

Inside your head. If not told

May I please be read?


A.N. Someday I will have the courage and the ability to read these (and my other poems) out loud. But for now, they will have to be content with being read by others. Thank you to all my readers for making me and my haiku happy! They were written in response to the theme of voices. 

Note From the Guard At Cell Cluster 2517

don’t you Dare do that again!

you can’t stop ruining the pattern, can You?

Stop and think before you act for once,

then i won’t have to fucking edit this Too.


i gave you these Obsessions for a reason:

i wanted you to follow the rules Perfectly

so that our relationship could stay Intact

and you’d be what you Are/meant to be.


– Guard at Cell Cluster 2517


A.N. Have you ever felt as if your brain is some kind of guard, protecting you from threats that may or may not be imaginary but you go along with them anyway because it somehow convinces you that this is the logical thing to do? Sometimes the mind seems untrustworthy… but what would you be without it? I don’t know about you, but that’s a question to which I’m never willing to find out the answer.

Wish You Were Here

Four luminous seats

Set around a table.

I occupy one.


Three chairs stay empty,

Soft, plump – waiting for no one;

I wish you were here.


You wish you were here

But settle for fantasies.

Happy holidays.


A.N. I was on the train back to university, sitting by myself on one of the table-seats, which felt overwhelmingly odd. My family would usually be next to or facing me – not worn-out fabric. It got me thinking about how I would miss not seeing them for a month or two and how they would miss me. The scenario presented in these haiku, however, is not mine, but that of a fictional speaker. Someone who is going on holiday by themselves for the first time, for whatever reason that may be.

Second-hand Home


Crumbs in the cupboards; a single burn-encrusted

hob, ochre and sienna and hot-white

like the midday sun that hid its face

behind rainclouds

on the day that we entered this place;

beaded chains sticky with a substance that

may or may not be bodily,

a goo that is to the

touch twins with the appearance of the brown

marks blended into the surface of the

linoleum floor; a stringy cocoon

dangling from blinds the shade of cartoon snot,

as if housing a caterpillar who –

like us –

is anticipating the “Transformation

of a lifetime.”(Or perhaps

behind the threads a bloodless fly is trapped.)



A grey smudge on the mattress, the faded

mark of a woman from decades before;

a diagonal claw-mark on the headboard –

a broken life-line – which makes me wonder

what sort of accident might have happened

here, in my

flimsy single bed.

I am witness only to the fossils.

Haphazard brushes of off-white succeed

a paler wall paint, its secrets too

dark to be obscured by a congruent

colour; magenta stains the carpet with

countries that resemble India and Australia


This room was once somebody’s world.


Or at least a fraction of it.



A toilet seat that shifts and twists within

its loose-screwed grooves; a shower base crowned with

deep slits:

the remnants of an earthquake

perhaps orchestrated by the victim

of a personal or familial


dark holes brimming with the promise of

spiders and mice


into the cavernous hollow within;

drunken lines like constellations,

someone’s attempt at

divining the future,

cling to the wall in flickering

fluorescent light that warns of

imminent collapse;

shreds of tissue adhere to the ceiling,

dead skin peeling

from a back or stomach.


A.N. For my first creative writing portfolio, on the given theme of legacies, I decided to explore the signs of wear and tear that I found in my flat when I first started at university.  I wrote a poem for each room: the kitchen, the bedroom and the bathroom, drawing inspiration from James Merrill’s ‘The Broken Home’ and his divergence from the traditional sonnet forms to create his sequence.