Category Archives: Poetry

You pass a woman in the street, not a second glance given, so ordinary, nothing special, But, she is a nurse, saves lives, comforts the dying. She is phenomenal. Look at her over there, dressed smartly, but no different to … Continue reading →

“You’re an angle,” the drunken man said at 3.30am, in A&E. “An angle?” the nurse replied. “You’re an angel, an angel” he slurred “Don’t suppose angels have to use food banks,” she muttered. “I clapped for you,” he said “Well … Continue reading →

She Little But She Tallawa is a poem about an Eighteenth century Jamaican heroine, Nanny, small and wiry. ‘Tallawa’ means strong. She was trafficked from Ghana to Jamaica to become a slave. But once there, fought her way free and … Continue reading →

Bertha (Antoinette Cosway) The Woman in the Attic (inspired by Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea) My real name Antoinette Cosway New husband Rochester Brands me Bertha Henceforth My land, house, body mind (what little remains) All his I know who … Continue reading →

Dear Sir I request, respectfully, that you listen to me. I am young I am female I am Afghan Now I realise I do not count because I was born in Afghanistan. You said we could do it, we could … Continue reading →

Tonight, she weeps in sorrow for all her lost dead boys; all those who blindly follow and believe their leader’s lies. She’s the universal mother and she’s black or white or brown; but her sorrow knows no colour when she … Continue reading →

Young, fresh-faced and Swedish, she is the undisputed heavy-weight in the fight for the soul of this planet. A pint-sized activist, she began her giant-sized journey into the realm of green politics at the age of fifteen and has never … Continue reading →

Half-written on the sprawling page of Time, my epitaph’s a process underway. The pessimist would argue for decline and say that all is tainted with decay. Such people see the worst in all mankind; no chink of light, no joy—indeed, … Continue reading →

Although I try to write my love for you, the page, I fear, stays resolutely blank; no message from my muse is getting through, nor is it likely to, I must be frank. Yes, writer’s block has been with me … Continue reading →