My poetry tends to come from bleak places of loss and despair. That is not to say that the poems are bleak. Often, they are lyrical and hopeful. I recognise a thread of cynicism in them sometimes. On occasion they are angry and bitter. But with the poems (unlike my prose) I try to let the feelings emerge uncensored. I also recognise my influences, and I hope I have used them respectfully and with enough of a tip of the hat to make them transparent.
I have an old-fashioned affection for rhyme and rhythm. Sometimes I write a poem as something to be read aloud. I don’t think we ever hear enough poetry. But I don’t want to hear some miserable people muttering from a corner, I want to hear the voice of the shaman, the percussive thump of his staff as he shouts across the clearing. I want to hear the wild drums that accompany the passion of the wise woman. I want a chorus that lets us all share in the pain and the love. And then at other times I want a reflective ode that one might read in a window seat, while outside the rain beats against the window, and the trees writhe in the wind.