Low River

From my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

Low River

Listless and limp;
unmoving bowers,

no rain to wash
her barren banks

or call to arms

incumbent on

A hiker
an angled 

picks a route
the exposed spine,

leaves behind
dislodged stones.


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Morning Theft.

I’ve been having one of those nights.

I love Buckley, his voice; his playing.

And it’s all such a damn waste isn’t it? Such a tragic, pointless death that could have been easily avoided.

He left us without reaching anything like his potential, but that is just my own selfish lament.

After that acclaimed debut album, Grace, he was finally ready to record the follow up. He sent cassette demo recordings of the new songs he’d been working on to his band so they could familiarise themselves with them on their way over.

While his friends were in the air Jeff was already drowning in the Wolf River. Following his father Tim Buckley into an early grave.

Those songs, destined for an album named My Sweetheart The Drunk were eventually released posthumously on Sketches For My Sweetheart The Drunk. 

Further hints of what could have been.

This is one of those songs, one I’ve been playing over tonight. Beautiful, and poignant with the opening lines

Time takes care of the wound
So I can believe
You had so much to give
You thought I couldn’t see

R.I.P Jeff. Keep singing.





The Ghosts Of East End Children

Taken in the early 1880’s, this is one of the earliest images of the East End of London.

I love the way the children appear insubstantial and ghost-like, which in effect they are. Lingering echoes of lives long lost, wandering along now vanished streets.


When In Rome

From my Poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

When In Rome

I was talking to a Swiss girl,
she told of a former classmate 
who plucked out all of her eyelashes,
inflicting a vulnerability on her soul.

I bartered with the tale of a girl
who shaved off all of her eyebrows.
I’d received the news when drinking beer
by the Colosseum, 
that place where gladiators
had impaled by trident and sword point.
She had scalped herself with a Bic.

(She met me at the airport, masked by a silk bandanna. 
I knew what she concealed. She knew that I knew.)

Sometimes she would descend the stairs 
wrapped in a yellow sari dress:

“Look at me, I’m a Punjabi girl!”

Dancing around the room like some
insubstantial sylph


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