I write mostly to commission. My poetry is written for the solo live voice, usually mine or as a script for multiple voices. I submit that 'poetry' needs, above all, to be heard. I suppose I am a sort of neo-Romantic poet: I do a lot of walking, thinking, contemplating, listening, 'en plein air' recording in multiple media. I look into things and write down what I hear, so in that sense am 'sculptural' - I am looking for the form that wants to be expressed. So the art of writing 'a poem' is listening to what wants to be said, adding 'myself', then paring that back.

Recently I have been thinking a lot about and experimenting with how to integrate 'words' (live/sculptural/graphic) into land- and cityscapes.

I write a lot of 'walk-poems'. I love wild places. My poems can tend towards the epic - both in style, and in length. CHRISTABEL-RELEASED, for example, my epic completion of Coleridge's unfinished Gothic ballad, CHRISTABEL, takes over 3 hours to declaim live.

My work with academics, and my GPS-located work, is heavily research-based. I am thinking of re-packaging myself as 'a transmediator' or perhaps 'poetician' rather than 'a poet' as I spend a lot of time 'translating' the results of such research (mine or other people's) into 'poetry/prose scripts' for voices and/or voices and music, ambient or otherwise

quarry right wall 2

Poemscript for the Step in Stonetriptych (extract only)

The grass trembles at his approach. The grasshoppers tintinabulate their strident kicker-legs and invoke the Joker King of the Infinite Waters. He splutters into a kind of Being which has grass clinched to his brow. Beginnings. Endings. In-between is where he lives. Never beginning, never ending. Always beginning, always ending.

The morning’s baldness dissected the straight line of horizon. He raiseses.d his head and sees the arc of the bitter flight as petrels sheer out of the Atlantic on the tilt of the crystalline plane; and the waters stream off it down to an infinity where Choughs run red-legged and inchoate in their golden, golden cage. He swerves his gaze: landwards! And the sea hauls him back: come rest in my bosom, come suck and gnaw with me at the stubborn land. Then all will be sea and all will be sea and all will be at sea; and all will have returned, free as dolphins who, so many aeons ago faced the same choice and chose. Can you say we chose right?

There are some words; there are some words, they are so powerful they negate space, crush time once they are spoken; crush space-time in their slavering jaws. Like the name of God. Or the Hand of God. We don’t know that anymore. So long since it was chosen for us

Past, Present...Fuchsia, for Bristol Alliance - Cabot Circus


(in terms of length, style, content & delivery)

Gothic Romantic poetry at its best. People have been known to do a 4hr round trip just to hear it. My 3hr completion of Coleridge's Gothic ballad 'Christabel', lately performed as a perambulatory piece at the atmospheric Halsway Manor nestling in the folds of the Quantock Hills of Somerset


Ladys Fountain


some of the poems composed for multiple voices for SATSYMPH-HERMES. You can open a virtual auditorium anywhere in the world (maybe the galaxy) and navigate SATSYMPH-HERMES with your ears (and legs/or wheelchair).
Voices: Ralph Hoyte, Jesse Meadows & Tania van Schalkwyk

Hermes suite

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