Poetry reading at the Curious Fox bookshop, Berlin

June 26, 2014


I’ll be reading some of my poems at the Curious Fox bookshop on the evening of Tuesday July 1st at their ‘Isn’t Everything Poetry?’ event. It’s on Flughafenstraße 22, and the nearest U-Bahn stations are Rathaus Neukölln or Boddinstraße. 

Come along, cringe and look embarrassed for me.



Baking Song

May 21, 2014
 I am baking again,
 after scraping the pan clean
 black with oil from last night's
 disaster, chartering a boat across the grey
 gravelly sauce that might have been edible had I not been so full
 to forget it
 toasting on the hob.
 We tread carefully through the flour;
 our feet, meet;
 faces on the floor. 
 I am still singing as I throw in the rest,
 some eggs and some salt
 the radio on and the apron string chafing
 my skin, under the hairs, I whisper along
 the song
 a reminder.
 With tiny-mice-fingers I mix the butter in
 til it crumbles and rolls,
 becomes soft and crumbles again with the sugar,
 sweet white waves cascading, itching my palms.


No smoking

January 24, 2014
 From a distance
 it could've been a bird
 or some kind of angel free
 from limbs.
 The wisp of smoke
 a wing,  caught mid-flight
 by the line through it.
 It was cold on the train
 and we huddled in groups
 a soup of people swimming
 through the carriage.
 The eye from the video
 sign watched us
 alongside that bird
 stuck like a kiss
 to the window.

Last Night

September 28, 2013
 to match my insides
 I cycle
 stuttering along cobbled streets, smoothed by wind
 and tyres filled with more air than mine,
 shoe-shined by late summer rain.
 I breathe in;
 holding the night before close
 to my skin, tickling belly-hairs
 under the loose-string cardigan
 you so coveted in photographs
 that I have thrown on
 thrown over
 to cover my embarrassment.
 Face tired and long
 from all night trying;
 smile woolly at the edges
 where it meets my cheeks
 I think about you.
 With each turn of my wheels
 shoes sticky from something
 and stuck on my pedals
 it jiggles above my ribs,
 gets caught in my throat
 that high-ceilinged room
 me, coat on and waiting
 for an answer
 and you standing there saying
 something, saying
 nothing at all;
 all your charms gone and
 you're suddenly, surprisingly small:
 all height lost to the walls.

Why do lovers break each other’s hearts?

August 3, 2013


April 18, 2013
Sieved through window blinds
light falls in stripes
on your eyelids and mine
Birdsong, also filtered by glass,
and the first I've heard all year
is still shrill in our duvet'd ears and,
confused by the cold, poses
a question at the end of each phrase.
Birds nests, like wedding hats, sit
in bare trees that flex with age. Arms
outstretched like the ladies
who wear them.
No leaves.
You turn to me, face
avocado green (and sick of me),
your fists
curl and uncurl;
mine are pounding the sheets.


December 8, 2012
You were there all Summer 
behind warm trees 
waving, waist-high grasses hanging 
from our belt holes. 
Now lying still 
under ice of your own
making I think about skating or
pressing my cheek close
to your window; knees
by my chest, skates
cutting a hole, blowing
hot air and writing
my initials with a gloved finger.  
I cycle past, 
brakes broken from cold and shrieking louder
than before.
The swans stay in their corner 
as snow comes down 
and you are not.
Staying true.
This isn't your season
the playground filled with Christmas wind
but in Spring 
they'll come again with rucksacks
and babies 
bigger than last year; 
made fat on the same geese
who once laid their eggs here
and tripping up on their laughter
we'll chase each other's children
our own strapped 
like birds to our backs
and they'll make songs 
for the Summer
to float like boats 
along the soft water.


November 11, 2012
 He said 
 du gehst nach Hause und
 ich gehe kaputt,
 arms crossed over an empty chest. 
 No heart. 
 I charted the evening's success on my thigh  
 drawing lines with the waiter's pen  
 making circles
 while we waited for dessert.

Tempelhofer Feld (2)

September 4, 2012

En route to Tempelhofer Feld

August 23, 2012
his engine stuttered and failed, like
he'd come too soon right there in the street.
My mother's dress, fresh
from the hospital
billowed around my knees, the traffic-
breeze circled us and the fabric waved.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.