About Me

About Me

Gardener, Writer

A former English teacher and bookseller, I now work as a self-employed gardener (National Certificate in Horticulture) and write poetry, plays and essays. My writing credits can be viewed here. I have had two poetry books and two poetry pamphlets published by various publishers. I was a co-translator of Alain-Fournier:Poems (Carcanet). I commissioned and edited Four American Poets (The High Window Press) and was a co-editor at The High Window (2016-2018). My essays can be read at the Fortnightly Review. I enjoy cycling, fell-running, sea swimming, dog-walking, jazz, travel, reading, horticulture and garden design.

19.8.16

Derdriu






Illustration by Svenja Gosen

Fragment of a long poem, Derdriu, which relies heavily on a version of the Derdriu myth by the poet John Duffy in The Constancy of Stone.  I wanted to empower Derdriu with Goddess-like attributes. Give her, for a while at least, choice within her overall fate, that she might have her own domain, a freedom in the woods, a sense of her own life, and not merely at the whim of Connachar, a part of 'his' story. And in associating her with, in some way, Artemis, I wanted to bring Irish and Greek myth together.

...She approaches the warrior,
One of Connachar's men,
Who seems to him
Like a witch of the forest
Until close-up, a goddess,
Her yellow hair and green eyes
Have him cowering and transfixed.
She shames him first
By asking 'boy or man',
And fearing her fate with Connachar
Seduces him quickly, boldly:
'What use is a heiffer in the woods
If there is no bull'.
Noisiu grabs at his spear
Then chases her
With the speed of a lustful stag
Being granted Derdriu's permission.
Derdriu enjoys the chase like a joyful bird
Mirroring the shapes
         Of its own shadows,
Noisiu, pursuing at times
Only pollen or musk,
Follows his nose
Down every dirt track,
Through hollowed-out hedges
And burrows, across the bluebell
Woods, cleaving a mist rising
Over a carpet of meadowsweet
And stachys, to a sun-stunned
Clearing where they both stumble
On their own breath and desire...