For the longest time I thought creative work wasn't real unless you birthed it into the world, chipped, chiselled, refined and polished it until it was smooth and undeniably complete. That is the craft of my writing. Entire scenes arrive beautifully complete in imagination and it's my job to translate it into form. That joy is mine to enjoy with the universe as we navigate the journey together.
But poems? One day, sitting on a train held at Lewisham station one arrived. A clear, line by line, 'please write this down,' voice authored something which was felt oddly complete. I sent the poem to myself in a text message. I've been scribing and sending ever since. That was touching two decades ago. Lately, they are asking to be shared, unedited and raw, just as they are.
And so, here they be—
