For over fifteen years he has been in loco parentis (or Poetry Father) for the Poetry Society's Young Poets Award writing week at one of the Arvon Foundation's writing centres.


That day you fed me cherries by the waterfall
I remember how white and firm your belly was.
And your lips stained red with the fruit.

I saw you once more in Church Street, hanging
on Steve Jackson's arm, giving him
doe eyes and laughing in an affected way.

I often dream of your white room, the way
you would lie spread-eagled like a doll
on your 'futile', as you liked to call it.

It may have been that for you but never for me,
though of course nothing came of it but love:
no babies, no marriage vows, no forever.

But we laughed easily, felt good together
for a while and bad apart. So, thanks for that.
Steve Jackson, though! He always was a prick.


Zen and the Art of Peeling an Orange