The Poet
"I'm a British poet. For over thirty years, my writing has grown quietly alongside me, shared mostly with friends and family until recently.
My voice is rooted in the North of England. But my work reaches beyond geography. I don't just write poems — I craft invocations. I write to explore what it means to be human: how we relate to ourselves and each other, and how the deep currents of history and myth shape our existence. I write not because I hold answers, but because I feel the profound weight of the question.
What follows is a laying bare of how I write — how I stay with the ache, the uncertainty, and the flicker of something forming. It's a kind of reckoning: Listening for What Might Rise.
You can discover the range of my work, organised into thematic portfolios, throughout this website."
Craft: Listening for What Might Rise
Ars Poetica (The Art of Poetry)
but name the haunt that murmurs near.
Not to instruct, nor to amend,
but touch the seams that never mend.
No answer sleeps within the line—
just echoes borrowed, half-divine:
a voice that ruptures as it spills,
the shape I conjure into will.
If you should sense your own unrest—
that quiet wound, still unconfessed—
then let this page become our street,
the fragile room where strangers meet.
Ars Creare (The Art of Creation)
a gasp that swallows air and breaks.
Not grace, not gift, nor heaven-meant,
but wrestled from the breath we've spent.
It stirs beneath the ribs held tight,
too frail for flame, too fierce for flight.
It grows through fingers charred by years—
from ink of ashes, salt of tears.
Each line inscribed leaves deeper marks—
thin scars that widen in the dark.
Not flame, but smoke infused in skin:
not truth, just worlds we might begin.
Ars Attendere (The Art of Attention)
a gaze refined by broken glass.
It breathes beneath the day's thick skin,
in cracks too faint for names to pin.
It watches shadows slowly fold,
the quiet heat that stones still hold—
a window's chill, the dusk's slow burn,
the half-held breath that won't return.
To pause, to sense, refuse defense;
to name what silence must condense—
this is the covenant of lines:
to witness all we leave behind.
Ars Connectere (The Art of Connection)
a bridge of breath carved into bone.
It cannot heal. It does not save,
but kneels in soil grief won't brave.
It threads the dark, its only art:
a fragile faith, raw, whole, apart.
It murmurs truths we fear to write,
and listens at the wound of night.
It asks no vow to be believed,
but breathes in silence, unrelieved.
And should one line survive the stark—
remember this: it lit the dark.
Echoes
Poems don't end here. They carry on — scattered in fragments, rhythms, and thoughts across other spaces.
Poems in parts, fragments, and behind-the-scene glimpses.
Medium
Essays and longer poems — more time, more space.
X (formerly Twitter)
Where the short form lives — thoughts that don't wait to be polished.
Fragments
a cloak all stitched with miners scars—
he warmed the hearths of a colder land,
and he darkened a thousand stars.
— from Kingdom
Gluttony auto-feeds demands,
Wrath trends in 280-char flames,
Lust deepfakes love—rewires names.
— from Nexus
as if the void came crawling back.
They burn once bright, then fade to grey—
the color hope bleeds as it slips away.
— from Dominion
Just anxious minds with shaking hands.
They patched the cracks with padded rules
And made the pillars sway like fools.
— from State
each breath a struck silence.
Memory isn't archive.
It devours ritual. Ruins what it keeps.
— from Kingdom
Desires distilled, desires bred.
Your restless hunger neatly tracked,
Echoes sold, reflections hacked.
— from Nexus
she finds the rot inside the true.
They weigh you not by word or prayer—
but by the wound you would not share.
— from Dominion
but limping is a direction.
Soon the weight chooses its own way down,
and we will call that fall surprise.
— from State