Brought up in the rustic backwoods of the Yorkshire Dales, I have been exiled, through self-infliction, in the metropolis of London for over half my life, living near the notorious Murder Mile.
I started writing poetry at the somewhat advanced age of 46 (Jan 2008 - to be precise) but have caught the bug, the above locations providing some inspiration for some of my poems, which number over 1500 at the last count, not all of which are posted here (or indeed are suitable!)
There seem to be at least five or six different poets working inside me, so don't expect to see the same style or theme every time - My poems range from the traditionalist sonnets and strict metrical forms, through the rural, bucolic scenes of the Northern Countryside, past the reflective, nostalgic memories of childhood, to sardonic comment on today's modern lifestyle, slightly humorous nonsense verse and, finally, attempts at more contemporary poetry.
Much of my early poetry is of the old-fashioned, rhyming variety, however - I'm a curmudgeonly stick-in the mud although there have been attempts to jazz up my style a little more recently & I'm trying a new modern format without capitals at the start of each line - I'm not sure if traditional forms like sonnets need an old format, though.
After summer 2008 I was bold enough (foolish enough? arrogant enough?) to foist myself on the fringes of the London Performance poetry scene. This had an effect on my poetry and new styles crept in - I seem to have acquired a liking for scattergun rants or mock-Gilbertian patter-song rollercoasters of poems although I have been much less active of late and reverted to rhymes and sonnets.
The first visitors to my poems may notice I have added my first initial to my name - there appear to be at least two established poets with whom I share my name; I would not wish on them the embarrassment of misattribution of one of my petty scribbles!
At the zoo's fruit feeding time:
An ape ate a grape, .
A porcupine ate a lime,
A skate ate a date,
Pink cherry blossom sifts like snow
Along Rosebery Avenue,
Where I am sitting on the bus
Since some poor soul's mislaid their pass
A bus-ride brought me Hebden Bridge again
This time in summer, though the spiteful clouds
Sheet-shrouding hilltops, half-heavy with rain
This awful August, threatened they dare drown
We sometimes say we need a change,
As a change is good as a rest
But often fail to ponder
If change is for the best.