https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog daily 0.75 2026-03-13 https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/farnham-literary-festival monthly 0.5 2026-03-13 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/a5a70667-364c-47e8-9f30-e02ec63e30a7/Ghost+story+workshop+Farnham.jpg Blog - Farnham Literary Festival - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/80f1c135-c367-43cf-876e-3db578b6a5d0/IMG-20260313-WA0007.jpg Blog - Farnham Literary Festival - Make it stand out Ted & Sara - waiting for our workshop participants to arrive https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/55f0b0fe-134d-4cce-ae3a-f18479a3f6bb/IMG-20260313-WA0006.jpg Blog - Farnham Literary Festival - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/poetry-and-pavlova-anyone monthly 0.5 2026-03-10 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/8470972a-2f92-4698-aa70-1cc7aeadc580/Booming.jpg Blog - Poetry and pavlova, anyone? - Make it stand out The Booming Lovelies at Poetry & Pavlova https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/80215bb1-3cbd-4fe3-b507-fe4f626b8fe6/Messenger_creation_FEC9AC66-B2F5-4B87-BA16-018CA962AA8D.jpeg Blog - Poetry and pavlova, anyone? - Make it stand out Ted Gooda hosting at Poetry & Pavlova https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1ee14d8a-5dfc-4e63-8af5-3a9f3538595b/Messenger_creation_65929816-5734-485B-942A-6BF62D0DF597.jpg Blog - Poetry and pavlova, anyone? - Make it stand out Sharron Green, Ted Gooda, Trisha Broomfield & Heather Moulson https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/b25d3ed5-603b-4746-9a1f-bb3bfa80e64b/open+mic.jpg Blog - Poetry and pavlova, anyone? - Make it stand out Open mic readers plus hosts Liz Barnes and Ted Gooda, and the Booming Lovelies https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/february-foragers monthly 0.5 2026-02-28 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/70e51cd8-94e6-4325-90ae-9cf3bc0ae382/February+Foraging+Pigs.jpg Blog - February Foragers - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/more-foraging-pigs-december-2025 monthly 0.5 2025-12-10 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/d668e277-92a3-4948-b65c-9e8e040a6793/IMG-20251205-WA0003.jpg Blog - Festive Foraging Pigs: December 2025 - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/450405df-ce89-4930-b188-878d29106781/IMG-20251205-WA0034.jpg Blog - Festive Foraging Pigs: December 2025 - Make it stand out Foraging Pigs: Barry and Simon https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/november-foraging-pigs monthly 0.5 2025-11-11 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/f6da10e0-b169-4f91-ae15-0a70c022fae4/20251106_210724.jpg Blog - November Foraging Pigs - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/ed6e1a4e-cd4c-4282-b4ad-cc1f41013258/Drugs+by+Pauline+Howley+Drugs+No+I+experiment+with+crisps+now.+Ate+some+sea+salt+and+chardonnay+vinegar+ones+the+other+day+I+have+to+say+they+burnt+the+top+layer+of+my+lips+won%27t+be+giving+anyone+.jpg Blog - November Foraging Pigs - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/launching-the-misses-beck-of-billingshurst monthly 0.5 2025-11-05 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/c79f91b8-cd01-4c6a-990b-724e40a56d62/20251104_185153.jpg Blog - Launching The Misses Beck of Billingshurst - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/3b8f6f24-2475-4d7c-ace6-a73b50ed0bd9/IMG-20251104-WA0007.jpg Blog - Launching The Misses Beck of Billingshurst - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/b12df174-ec7c-417c-9785-8a00d9f3c5d7/Ellen+and+Edith+.jpg Blog - Launching The Misses Beck of Billingshurst - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/writing-in-rye monthly 0.5 2025-11-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/7bca1569-3ba8-4992-b9d7-05bdb0041e0b/20251101_110751.jpg Blog - Writing in Rye - Make it stand out Rye’s Mermaid Inn, one of the most haunted hotels in the UK https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/27606260-c69f-4873-bd7b-8b8b7643497b/20251031_183823.jpg Blog - Writing in Rye - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/c6d15c8c-e20c-4c0d-b0fe-9569c0501c2d/20251031_154203.jpg Blog - Writing in Rye - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/ceef687d-186b-474c-b574-b95e5ddeebc8/FB_IMG_1762016751805.jpg Blog - Writing in Rye - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/9445d58f-65b0-443f-ab87-02e5f6bf280a/IMG-20251101-WA0005.jpg Blog - Writing in Rye - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/9bd498c0-385d-4f68-abe1-b958521fca34/FB_IMG_1762016759258.jpg Blog - Writing in Rye - Make it stand out Oswald on the ghost-walk https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/back-to-school-for-national-poetry-day monthly 0.5 2025-10-04 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/21b507d4-f758-4ed6-a8fa-1b3fc63cda0d/speech+rhymes.jpg Blog - Back to school for National Poetry Day - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/the-birth-of-the-foraging-pigs monthly 0.5 2025-09-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/4ea7aba4-e979-4eef-bf5d-8287da4f7bc5/Screenshot_20250926_104624_Instagram.jpg Blog - The birth of the Foraging Pigs - Make it stand out Liz & Ted - photo credit Dave Streeter https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/e3fd58d4-ebb9-4798-8816-537bfc6cf752/IMG-20250925-WA0007.jpg Blog - The birth of the Foraging Pigs - Make it stand out Ted & Liz host the inaugural Foraging Pigs Poetry Open Mic Night https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/67930a6a-043b-4a94-a188-a9a1edcf5d74/20250925_211432.jpg Blog - The birth of the Foraging Pigs - Make it stand out Poet Liz Barnes takes the mic https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/004c445e-caa3-4a6f-93d3-c23219b710fe/20250925_212529.jpg Blog - The birth of the Foraging Pigs - Make it stand out Books from Mark Davies, Maggie Weir-Wilson, Ted Gooda, Liz Barnes & Lexy Medwell on display. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/repotting monthly 0.5 2025-06-16 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/851e7f1e-7c96-40b4-881c-96f494b9faf5/Can+spring.jpg Blog - Repotting - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1750094730524-JKGUKCO81ZWHSRL924U7/unsplash-image-IjVvZCY2qmU.jpg Blog - Repotting - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/billilit-2025 monthly 0.5 2025-04-28 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/d12be55f-9333-4a29-bb72-8ee6aae02381/20250426_174628.jpg Blog - BilliLit 2025 - Make it stand out Simon Zec & Ted Gooda beneath the BilliLit book arch https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/0e1b3bd1-de4b-4a1f-9b8e-5882a3976040/AS.jpg Blog - BilliLit 2025 - Make it stand out Ted Gooda & Abi Smith https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/28ad7abd-330c-4d31-bdc5-8045d3307412/LA.jpg Blog - BilliLit 2025 - Make it stand out Ted Gooda & Louise Allen https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/banishing-the-branks monthly 0.5 2025-04-28 https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/making-the-leap monthly 0.5 2025-01-04 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1736006827184-O1UEDUCDZFX0V9TLOXJ2/unsplash-image-M-fUYg8MYyM.jpg Blog - Making the leap - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/performing-poetry monthly 0.5 2024-10-18 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/3e38c8cc-7c4e-4b63-b53c-fc163ee87298/image15.jpeg Blog - Performing poetry - Make it stand out Performing a selection of poems at the Shelley Memorial Project Celebration of Poetry https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/literary-festival-return monthly 0.5 2024-10-18 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/0e1de023-2c56-4fdb-8954-687cc36e7383/Arundel.jpg Blog - Literary festival return - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/9720fc83-8689-431c-b746-12e41ecea6be/Arundel.jpg Blog - Literary festival return - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/never-the-bride monthly 0.5 2023-08-18 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/dda5b0ff-0b79-41e7-badc-9368515fafe6/Henshaw+Press.jpg Blog - Never the bride? - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/6e950a6d-0623-46b1-a073-7470c95da28b/Longlist.jpg Blog - Never the bride? - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/e7ab1977-1ff2-4598-aaab-932b7c2e3638/Longlist+Indigo.jpg Blog - Never the bride? - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/arundel-literary-day monthly 0.5 2024-03-18 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/5f0bb99c-5409-48b5-99e2-bfed33300460/ArundelLiteraryDay.jpg Blog - Arundel Literary Day - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/6f02e8fa-a28f-4bae-89cd-8c6d55240771/Green+Room.jpg Blog - Arundel Literary Day - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/poetic-triggers monthly 0.5 2022-11-27 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/7f01afd8-3ad5-4e23-8c73-41d7278856a5/Thetriggeringtown.jpg Blog - Poetic triggers - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/a-spooky-tale monthly 0.5 2022-11-08 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1666622493255-L1HE5ULSV741NIGDL9GP/unsplash-image-FZOOxR2auVI.jpg Blog - The accidental ghostwriter - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/5c923ea8-ab6d-4aed-9ff7-1050f6a977e3/3+Young+me.jpg Blog - The accidental ghostwriter - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/goodas-gold-competitions-and-what-to-avoid monthly 0.5 2022-08-15 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1660562405657-34ETI9SBVHJA606J0UZJ/unsplash-image-U5y077qrMdI.jpg Blog - Gooda’s Gold: competitions and what to avoid - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/judgmentday-fr58g monthly 0.5 2022-07-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1658640484729-T9MYNDQRUVVO7ORXQW5P/unsplash-image-b0pNcKAPDSg.jpg Blog - Judgement Day https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/tag/memoir monthly 0.5 https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/tag/book+award monthly 0.5 https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/tag/competitions monthly 0.5 https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/tag/judging monthly 0.5 https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/blog/tag/poetry monthly 0.5 https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/home daily 1.0 2026-03-13 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1620140575545-WE1ORYDU5QYHEDHU4MYD/CJ1A3928.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/7f1f6c70-1851-46aa-813f-99b6c357d627/20250307_221649-POP_OUT.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/aef729aa-d93e-4262-a8df-e614664ac836/March+Foraging+Pigs.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/077e0435-d33e-45f2-a8a4-1f9d808202e1/Copy+of+Copy+of+Billilit+black+poster+%28A3+Portrait%29%29+%28A2+%28Landscape%29%29+%281%29.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/be9f5636-e745-461f-b911-0c9dae107a6e/The+Misses+Beck+book+launch+invitation.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/eca7110e-2470-4d85-b4a9-1795b3abfcd8/Cutting+girl.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/b30f182b-b509-45e0-a5fc-9813e715adcc/shrinking.png https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/6fc71420-f66d-483e-91fe-01996b0281f9/Front+%285%29.png https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/e725a903-7947-46e3-a229-a2c5f29b0c84/STEP+FORWARD+IN+SOLIDARITY.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1688b7ae-2029-48e9-822c-b761f61680da/Silence%26Selvedgecover.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/63d9e3d7-f533-48d2-b05f-b62869dceefa/Six+books.jpg https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/ghostwriting daily 0.75 2025-11-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/7595fceb-96d3-4a31-a8f7-740853011ae0/slave+girls.jpg https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1762537582855-FT9FSDRG6U0D2IXAO3VZ/Camila.jpg Ghostwriting https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1762537582740-Q14S6I9Z59ZADBP7DZ6U/Milo.jpg Ghostwriting https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1762537581702-VF1T3WC1BD451ME0MCKG/Willow+1.jpg Ghostwriting https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1762537581677-L7KDUUTJWFFXL8VA40VY/Marilynim.jpg Ghostwriting https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1762537577182-VCAJ6JZQTA1EZ13ND897/Max1.jpg Ghostwriting https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1762537871557-VFQKG92IKVM7RUA2GXG7/sparkle1.jpg Ghostwriting https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1762537578295-O5KAF3R6UES9AG6Z20UD/Billy1.jpg Ghostwriting https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1762537578488-UNNGAVLCJ4TD9RKJ6Q5B/Sky1.jpg Ghostwriting https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1762537577224-K9V5EPOLEPFMSS0S5I88/Jacob1.jpg Ghostwriting https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1762537580647-PH4Z9IEUR6XZX0D97TKD/Eden1.jpg Ghostwriting https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1762537579344-4GY36CDNR5826V3Y88W7/Abby1.jpg Ghostwriting https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1762537579630-K6EHR043X9H05H7KFJX9/Stella1.jpg Ghostwriting https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/academic daily 0.75 2024-04-19 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/27e47c46-119f-43a0-8345-b0380b60f566/UKLA.jpg Academic - UKLA CONFERENCE AWARD 2024 Dr Theresa Gooda was among five recipients of the first NEU teacher awards for fully funded UKLA International Conference places in 2024. Teachers were invited to submit for sponsored places based on experience of reading and discussing longlisted and shortlisted UKLA Book Awards their engagement in other UKLA activities. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/5ab0213a-6808-48b9-9476-2c0e5b93ee76/phd_bound.jpg Academic - READING RE-COGNIZED Gooda, Theresa (2022) Reading re-cognized: fostering collaborative reading pedagogies to reconstruct reading teaching practice with secondary English teachers. Doctoral thesis (PhD), University of Sussex. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1620237410655-11AS4I8NDX78RNJ1LPRI/Mentoring.jpg Academic - Mentoring English Teachers in the Secondary School. CHAPTERS: Gooda, T. & Catchpole, S. (2019). ‘What subject and pedagogical knowledge, understanding and skills does a mentor of beginning English teachers need?’ DOI: 10.4324/9780429490477-4 Hickman, D. & Gooda, T. (2019). ‘What knowledge, skills and understanding do beginning English teachers need?’ DOI: 10.4324/9780429490477-8 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/497c7df7-a7c9-4cd0-b1dc-3c7ee7df74fe/eie.2017.51.issue-3.cover.jpg Academic - Situating students as authentic writers outside the classroom Abstract: This paper explores the value of writing journals for both students and teachers beyond English lessons and without insistence on evidencing writing progress. Keeping a journal or undertaking regular reflective writing is an unfamiliar experience for some students, and schools may offer limited privacy for writing. Used in a comprehensive school as part of a trip to Uganda, the journals provide space for reflection and remembering, enable the emotional and cognitive dimensions of the experience to be captured, and initiate students and teachers into a shared community of practice that celebrates writing as one way of processing individual academic and personal development. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/about daily 0.75 2025-11-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/6af73e3f-3cae-42e7-92d3-97f34541f529/20250307_221649-POP_OUT.jpg About - About Theresa (Ted) Gooda is a poet, playwright, ghostwriter and former English and Drama teacher. She lives in West Sussex and is deeply involved in the local literary scene, organising events and festivals in the south east. She is the co-founder of BilliLit, a book festival in Billingshurst, and of The Foraging Pigs, a monthly open mic poetry night. She co-ordinated the 2025 Farnham Literary Festival and was chair of West Sussex Writers from 2023-2025. She is also a director of the Shelley Memorial Project. Her verse drama Mannequim was performed as part of the 2025 Brighton Fringe Festival. Her recent microhistory, The Misses Beck of Billingshurst, written with historian Caroline Newell, highlights the lives and suffrage work of two notable local women. Her debut poetry pamphlet Silence & Selvedge came out in 2024. She wrote the libretto for Beware the Mackerel Sky, a folk opera produced by Bernardi Music Group, in 2023. Her play Beck & Calling was produced in 2023 and the script was published in 2025. She has ghost-written more than 20 memoirs, including a Sunday-Times bestselling series. Dr Gooda holds a PhD from the University of Sussex, with research focusing on reading pedagogy in secondary schools. She is an editor at the National Writing Project (UK) and has published several papers related to secondary English teaching. https://www.theresagooda.co.uk/poetry daily 0.75 2026-02-05 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/f30fc0b5-6324-4046-b11c-b07f14673506/Screenshot_20260128_160615_Facebook.jpg Poetry - Wild Swimming Selected by Brighton & Hove Arts Council for their 2026 Poems on the buses series https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1b288e0e-40e2-49d5-8fcd-e74c8ea7a45f/Phony+Sea.jpg Poetry - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/b12df174-ec7c-417c-9785-8a00d9f3c5d7/Ellen+and+Edith+.jpg Poetry - Ellen and Edith Written to share at the book launch of The Misses Beck of Billingshurst. As well as the two Beck sisters, two oak trees threatened with felling in Billingshurst have also been named Ellen and Edith… https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/6591386d-16ac-40a4-8592-314e54597dd6/Can+spring.jpg Poetry - Repotting A philodendron stayed its height for a year, then shot up six inches in a month, with rich compost, roomy new pot and fresh, sunlit spot. Yet I always put this off too long, waiting until it's no longer a straightforward task. My daughter asks to stay out all night at a party. I hack at plastic masquerading as terracotta while trying to protect delicate tendrils, feel the sickening, tell-tale snap and know there’ll be root damage. White snakes, like slithering intestines, curl around clogged soil with nowhere to go. Yes, I say, and look away. Repotting was published in the Vole Spring Anthology (2025) and Highly Commended in the Dempsey & Windle 2025 single poem competition https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1731940216919-01AN28JH70NE9RZI1CAQ/unsplash-image-cK6ixOQx1fI.jpg Poetry - Birth day Her hair catches fire. Curls fry to copper wire when she blows a feeble spit-filled wish over five candles. That’s when it begins. He follows her inside the sweet shop while she buys sugar mice. He seems nice, notices the burnt tresses. It's her first time alone outside home. She plays grownup though her mother watches from the window, not ready to cut apron strings. He’s still there later, parked outside in a van: predatory waiter. The policeman brings bewildering conversations about strangers she can't reconcile with respecting elders. She’s done wrong, it seems, because it changes everything. Her hair is scissored into a shiny pageboy trim. Paul Bailey draws diagrams on the school desk of how babies are made. It sounds like poppycock. On the way to school, something in the bushes. Rustlings, sharp intake of breath, flash of pale flesh. She thinks at first he must be in some distress, before the rude sting of understanding. Years pass. She takes matters into her own hands: red streaks, punk-dyed. The next jeans-down clown freak taps with flashlight on the glass window pane at midnight. She screams alone in the all-female, off-campus student halls. A magnet for this sort of thing, unfortunately. The fed sighs. Such a fuss. He was only outside looking in, after all. No harm done. All sorts of cuts after that. Loose waves, bleach-blonde, cropped, bobbed, shaved. It doesn’t matter. She still loses count of the violating. Look, don’t touch, she wills her hair to say. Grey-haired, she trades her plaits for venomous asps. She makes a wish. Nothing has been extinguished. Now girl turned crone can spit, burn, turn them to stone. Birth day was Highly Commended in the Frosted Fire FIFTH Annual Single-poem competition, November 2024 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/14ad2030-8446-4e9f-96d7-911e7a0220e5/Screenshot_20240928_163430_Samsung+Notes.jpg Poetry - Imposter syndrome The day the birds came to my birdtable pecking at seed an arm’s length away like, oh I don’t know, St Francis of Assisi. The day I stood in front of a class as a qualified teacher in her first job like Marie Stubbs. The day I threw my battered saxophone case behind the driver’s seat of my roof-down Spitfire like YolanDa Brown. The day I drove the camper van away, white smoke trails whispering messages of adventure like Aloha Wanderwell. The day I wrote ‘author’ in a shaky hand as I signed in at a publishing house in London like Aphra Behn. The day I held my baby girl awkwardly in my arms like a mother. Imposter Syndrome was longlisted in the Cerasus pamphlet competition and published in Issue #3 of Cerasus Magazine, published October 2024. It was also commended in the Slipstream 2024 poetry competition. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/3019ddd6-5cbd-426d-8193-b263d8c68bca/Ingenue.jpg Poetry - Six portrait heads in clay In the sculpture class, we play Prometheus, forming human heads from cold, grey clay. Our model is Beatrice, pronounced the Italian way. We dress our armatures, then stand, measure, observe with callipers as she turns in our centre. We knead and need, cleave leaden lump to lump until it breathes. Beneath our pressing fingers, shapes are unleashed over weeks. We caress, curse, battle vexation until the end. It is a shock. Each one has captured her and yet the six heads are nothing like each another. I wonder what we each see of human nature’s duplicity. Six portrait heads in clay was published in Issue 44 of Ingénue Magazine, July 2024 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1731939128658-K2CT0L5C30QMGP9W3VRA/unsplash-image-JHCBdwuwssY.jpg Poetry - Chanctonbury Dawn Beneath the ancient burh she rests with alloyed dagger waiting. A ring of beech trees bumbershoot the barrows. Perhaps she carried a wooden bowl carved from an alder tree, dared her soul for soup. When she turned over, the beeches fell. Link arms now with me across centuries. Create new strongholds. Wake, weapon-wielder, Bronze Age sister. Chanctonbury Dawn was published in Dawntreader Vol. 67, June 2024 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1718540534323-II3OWZC6MGIIBI3IR765/image-asset.jpeg Poetry - Also-rans Sylvia left school at 14, preterm, to look after her brothers when her mother died. Too soon she qualified in caring and quickly became bogged down in domesticity. Pat, conversely, 11-plussed it to the local Grammar where the masters mostly ensured an education in shame, though he managed to overcome the worst of his stammer while hitting the books. Quick with numbers, skilled in budgeting on nothing, Sylvia blagged a betting shop job calculating accumulators. Pat was a gambler, quick with figures from long hours of algebraic equations. They met across the smoky bookies’ counter when he took a punt each-way in the three o’clock at Ascot. She dreamed of freedom while he contemplated graduation. Neither factored a child before they were out of the starting stalls. They rented a tiny flat together - with hurdles - where the going was never good. Simple maths that neither could solve. Dead heat. Also-rans was longlisted in the Wildfire Words FF150 Anthology competition 2024. There is an audio recording of Theresa reading her work. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/77805320-0667-46e3-8c0f-98cda5b624b4/motya.jpg Poetry - Conversation with the Moyta Charioteer, British Museum Here you are, standing haughty-eyed, jaunty-hipped. Through to the limestone bones of your arrogant legs you have the X-factor preserved in muscled marble. Pert buttocks pose in hardened faux-fabric tunic folds which a plaque calls your 'xystis'. I’ll choose my own pronunciation. Your toil is over, your race won: fame forever. Well done. My xystis is a crumpled apron. My chariot a pram. My existence is my children, who swarm the museum. I sweat to think they might touch something of your white antiquity. Hooded eyes and aching hips frame sagging flesh to form my victory stance. And pert buttocks? After three kids, not a chance. Why would I want to be statued anyway? Who would seek paralysis through petrifaction to be stared at in blindness everyday? I only get turned to stone for transgressing. Enjoy your pillar of salt. This Iodame lives and demands not stone, but fire. The Motya Charioteer was on temporary display at the British Museum in London for the duration of the 2012 Olympics. Conversation wtih the Motya Charioteer was published as the third placed entry in the 2023/2024 RC Sherriff Trust ‘Fame’ competition in April 2024 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1704471712527-183F85IEC8OUAWUBR9HP/image-asset.jpeg Poetry - Soap The scent of lavender or rose on the breeze also means to smell pink carbolic soap, to notice on the window ledge the tangibility of making do. Beyond the window, are snapdragons and their bees, the buddleia and butterflies, and crabapples and cuckoo spit and cooking apples and shady vine. Inside, slivers and scraps join together to make a new bar, marble-edged though nobbly and cracked. A sudless impossibility smelted together with the dirt of other people’s hands to purify the convergence of toil, a kind of love in a grimy dish. Published in Wildfire Words Confluence and Collaboration Anthology January 2024 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1704108180523-DR48EGSHIKKDF188CAFB/image-asset.jpeg Poetry - Email Etiquette, Head of English It lands in my inbox with a heavy thud. Line after line of anxious text about a new student. Precious offspring of another fretting parent. How long is an email ‘page’? It seems to go on for eons: litany of failure, and at first I’m disinclined to help. Yeah, yeah. I skim-read the electronic tome searching for the salient bits, the headline, some things her teachers can do something about that don’t involve counselling for the sender, suffering from a severe case of Year Seven syndrome. No need to read the whole thing, I tap out Instead read Tolstoy, it’ll be quicker! Winky face. Just move Lily to the front away from Jake; change her reading book. I intend to forward to the right staff but in haste hit REPLY ALL, then doubt, check, curse digital speed, and no undo function. A reply comes back within minutes. Two lines only: I will be sure to limit my too-verbose words in future, and thank you for looking out for Lily. Smiley face. It’s the tell-tale coordinating conjunction that makes me think of my own, too-fast growing daughter. What this mother really wants is for me to rewind the clock, return her child, beat back the waves of experience washing over her. I can’t stop either drowning in the ticking tide of secondary-school water. Published in Wildfire Words TIcking Clock Anthology December 2023 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/fc1b1cdc-90a3-4d76-bc13-eb6fc84ba023/370360679_737634711713186_8554191313528335747_n.jpg Poetry - The difference between girls and boys I’m only five when I’m asked if I know the difference between boys and girls. I do, of course: girls wear tights. Wretched things, all encasing, wrinkled, twisted up, wrong-way-round heels, something lumpy but unreachable near the toes. Or falling down, sweaty, stretchy, saggy crotch-drop. If only the tyranny of tights was the worst of it. Later, the teenage slagginess of a ladder, lacing up the thigh. A hole in your hosiery. But oh, when you worked at it until you felt the satisfying rip of destruction, and release. Published in Washed with Noon, Vole Books Summer Anthology 2023 October 2023, and read as the penultimate poem at the Arundel Literary Festival 2024, video below. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/d13873ea-7250-47c4-9bdf-6417742da973/periodpower.jpg Poetry - Listen People listened to me once when I had nothing to say, but dew-fresh skin proclaimed womb functioning. Today I stretch my face, smooth away fine lines that jump back in rage, shouting about cessation. Strange I was only thought relevant before the painful labour of vitality delivered to grand climacteric. Shame. Your loss. This crone’s caul means I speak less these days, though I have seen and know much more. Published in All Things Menopause, June 2023 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/a7de24ea-145a-41ae-85db-f26d525c0958/poetry-is-not-dead-cover.jpg Poetry ‘A child tiptoes into a restaurant kitchen and ‘Stepping Stone’ are published in the Dempsey & Windle Anthology Poetry is not Dead (May 2023) after being shortlisted in the BRIAN DEMPSEY MEMORIAL PRIZE 2023. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/ac54f2cd-d64e-4b66-bf95-556e2de575d8/WSW85+KDP+Cover02+%281%29.jpg Poetry - ‘Tides’ and ‘Seeds’ were published in the West Sussex Writers’ anthology, WSW85 December 2022 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/c7899f0a-f7cd-4017-a8e9-ef052f216406/_20221128_130331_2.JPG Poetry - Village Inn Two red cartwheels stand in the passageway, recalling old hostlers at the ancient hostelry; resting point on London stagecoach Sussex artery. Archives insist on wheeling through the archway of time to create new chronicles. The long-ago is here and now with ghostly imprints on each barstool. At first the pub was the only three-storeyed place in the village, and the pint-sized stories grew. We started a new fire when we moved in. The inn closed for weeks with an unstable chimney stack; old smoke kindled in wispy trails, rising to join who knows whom? Hearty faces spoofed through pre-Google arguments growing pale at last orders: Wurzel and that damn dawg, the whisky-swilling actuary, John the egg. They’re there still. In the end we’re all just passing through. We pause a while; share a tale over a nip or two. Published in the Village Tweet, December 2022, p.28 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/b857d84a-1158-4a71-8d88-83ab9e81e52e/Cardsonthetable.jpg Poetry - Cards on the table Some Sunday evenings in the seventies shaped by playing card games with my parents, a surprise treat. The grownupness of rummy. Counting, remembering, keeping score. Happy families for a moment. That game where play continues until no family members are left separated. Master. Miss. Mr and Mrs. Imagine. Patterns to aspire to, then fight against. Snap. Published by Wildfire Words October 2022 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1666454878003-QKGW0KQ55PG5NOEHHOHN/unsplash-image-0dso2fC54ug.jpg Poetry - Holding Hands That child once knew the instruction to ‘hold out your hand’ and how it never had a happy ending. The child also knew how to recite in order Genesis to Lamentations (alongside the Periodic Table) so she didn't have to hold out her hand. This child knew that to come home late to a locked door might be cloudy in that moment but was probably argentum-filled and she held on to that. The child should not have known the language of the bookmaker but she was fluent, and saw what was held and changed hands. This child well knew that when ten pound notes were burned in the grate it wasn't time for a hand out. That child grew and learned to handwrite her own happy endings. Published by Wildfire Words October 2022 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/b6ff4c21-36e1-42bd-86c3-488cbd40251b/Breastingthewave.jpg Poetry - Breasting the Wave Twelve week ultrasound scan: womb with view and calendar of extra visits for geriatric mother. Small lump, lower left breast. engages a different type of scan. Less congratulatory. Frowns replace smiles. Biopsy, mammogram, McMillan nurse. Precancerous cells: also called premalignant. That little prefix disquiets. Prenatal, one believes, leads to birth. Preschool isn't the end of education. Premeditated is with intent. Should one be preconcerned? Severe dysphasia. Atypical lobular hyperplasia. Long words that might turn into a long sentence. How tricky you’ve made things the surgeon accuses. Ducts everywhere: engorged breasts. A nightmare under the knife for him – as if I have engorged them out of spite. I weep milk. Published by Wildfire Words October 2022 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/eca2017b-2b49-4020-8c39-a95f1b21ab99/Cannon%27s+Mouth+September+2022.png Poetry - Sunday Mass We went out of habit after a childhood of nuns and dark corridors and there is a peace in familiar ritual. Still how pious you look with your head bent in prayer and your thoughts elsewhere; wandering anywhere but heaven. I learn I like the feeling of the toddler nestling into me even if he's falling asleep bored and it’s easy to get the giggles when you have to be quiet. It only needs someone tall walking back from communion and a tennis head swivel. I see how the stations of the cross resemble helicopters from a distance and my incense sticks don't come close to the intense, evocative aroma here. I bear witness to the way light changes over an hour through stained glass instead of searching my stained soul. I reflect on a tranquil time away from work and house, free from sins, plan the day ahead. And I like the hymns. Published in The Cannon’s Mouth Issue 85 Quarterly Poetry Journal, September 2022 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1663507108298-D0XCP79QRNYAHKYXU1XM/unsplash-image-Byc8mUdUvss.jpg Poetry - Tides It looks like a pork scratching or cracked bat wing. Maybe a beetle body turned upside down, skeletal debris from a scalding cauldron, dusk-discarded. With the toe of my boot I dislodge the empty husk. Hard to believe this brittle embryo-carcass was once fluid, sea-soft. A membraned, pulsing capsule of some wave-tossed creature and her kin, delicate tentacles curtseyed to Neptune with treasure packed inside a mermaid purse. And I remember the surly teenager with her sand-fin tail, who walked old summers here. Now, autumn rain pinches cold across the beach. I shiver inside my hood, flinch at the seagull’s screech. Winner of the West Sussex Writers’ Poetry Competition 2022, judged by Jon McCulloch https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1657362131894-58GDIA08T2WP51I50CRC/unsplash-image-nJ2YCCnVp6k.jpg Poetry - The daisy and the bellbind The grass could do with mowing. Daisies cluster with their sisters. White bellbind trumpets triumph in twining blasts along the wall. Purple florets unfurl white soonest in sunny hours, easing each new day’s eye. Bolder rhythms embroider fresh chains of time. And daisies smile of old time: smooth faces tilted skywards lying in fields, making loose chains; mouthing multi-futures. Do new fortunes still exist when, mid-June, time slips its shackles? I leave the grass. Instead, to curb those trumpet bells heralding days’ ends, I cut their clockwise strangling bindweed stems. Published by Wildfire Words July 2022 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1657361906766-O9U99AHQUB02SBWKVJT8/unsplash-image-A9_IsUtjHm4.jpg Poetry - Send in the clouds I want blue sky, unending blue, cloudless air blue, midsummer blue, lush green canopy of oaktree blue, dazzling blue of yellow sunflowers, sweet, smooth blue of vanilla ice cream, red-chequered picnic-cloth blue, golden blue of beer-garden pint, graceful, swooping kite-tail blue, rich sand-between-the-toes blue. But I know I need the clouds to pearl the summer, ripen the green, true the blue. Published by Wildfire Words July 2022 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1657361999695-TU7UGKOT5QT3UWVPI8IC/unsplash-image-381mluBoRI8.jpg Poetry - Long Sky the gauze thinned so briefly between two worlds and we felt liminal: caught out in the spinning tilt of the globe that winter when planets aligned for the great conjunction at an unequal equinox but found no universal fix for the longest darkest epoch we have known still summer brings cataplasm of possibility in its solstice poultice of long sky spread taut over the smarting skin of swollen earth Published by Wildfire Words July 2022 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/53a422e5-dd8c-42a9-a654-d1767067cb8d/Platinum+Jubilee+Competition.jpg Poetry Silver to Platinum I remember seeing through legs in a crowd, and stretching to hold mum’s hand for safety and a colourful flag that made a nice noise when I flapped it hard in my tight fist and the taste of ice cream soda. The queen looked a bit like Grandma. She certainly sounded like her. I must get orf from the branches of the apple tree because climbing in a dress was unseemly, and it was important to use the right cutlery. Later there was a wedding with a proper princess in it and things in fairy stories could be real. That dress was Cinderella’s, the carriage might turn into a pumpkin and ice cream soda was for babies. Grown up, I didn’t mind the monarchy, quite enjoyed the colour and pageantry, pomp and ceremony in some far-off way: easier not to examine ideology. Later still there was the sadness of funerals. I felt the collective outpouring of grief, but could not explain why I felt loss for faces that I’d only stuck down into sticker books, tongue glued to philtrum with effort, leaving very unprincess-like red marks. Now a platinum jubilee. Metal that is malleable, can withstand tensile stress. There’s been too much of that for all those women, and so that little child inside of me is somehow still flapping her flag furiously. Writers Bureau Jubilee Competiton Winner Also appeared in The Cannon’s Mouth Issue 85 September 2022 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/d5c9dcce-7d84-4c57-b6a0-83f6882999d8/Love+the+words.jpg Poetry Elements I read that the human body was seventy percent water. I know this to be true: you hear the drops as they spill-splash. White heat turns to water, as the river washes along years meandering this way and that. Some jettisoned debris gathers on our shores. It can be hazardous. Moments of strong current propel towards vast, dark pools. Once a wooden boat capsized. We had laughed moments before, but came up spluttering desperate, hoping our skin could hold it all in. Infinity Books UK Love the Words 2022 Winners Anthology https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/38e605a1-ee47-40b2-9f96-cfb1bf8b9a74/Station+Road+Gardens.jpg Poetry - Station Road Gardens I take the familiar route. I'm surprised each time the dogs aren't interested in bird hedge on a noisy morning of village tweets. But today, something else is on the air: palimpsest traces crossing boundary rope. Preoccupied with treats, poo bags, I need eyes in the back of my head. ‘Good recall,’ observes a fellow walker. He means the dogs, but still, eyes in the mind recall ghostly shapes, other times my footsteps have scored this landscape. Funny, there was no gate once, no fence at all, so a four might trickle off the ground and over pavement edges, or a six connect with parked car. Beyond, pitchblend: that gentle mound was flat, about mid-wicket bowling from the Weald School end. There, behind the community notice board is where we drank rum and danced to steel drums. Listen. Maybe their calypso rhythms echo faintly still. And here, where the old pavilion stood proud nestles different, newer, play-train wood. Past the three horse chestnut trees, an empty square, ring-fenced. I clutch the air where the receiver hung, recall the sweet stink of tobacco-wee once trapped behind red-framed panes, think of all the ten-pees spent telling Mum the train was running late. There's a bench in the place where we used to lie on the grass and read the Sunday papers in sunshine, long before summer follies or Picnics in the Park. Or did we only do that once? It's hard to say. I’d forgotten, though I come here every day. Village Tweet, 2022 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/58091a59-bf5c-4752-a452-0e99f8a4a299/sentinel.jpg Poetry - Seeds Genesis. In late winter I sowed so many seeds, spending time in a blindly hopeful gamble: covered them in dirt knowing nothing would appear at all for weeks, if ever. Petulant frost did for some, one starred night when the greenhouse door was left wide open; heat did for more when scorching sun crippled through radiating glass that should protect. Exodus. In April, I planted out, after what I’d heard was the last of the cold. It wasn’t. Demeter’s grief had miles further to run, adding to my hurt. Nodding bedding plants, begonia and petunia, lost their heads. Little red mouths stopped smiling. Frozen corpses lay in that cold bed, unblanketed. Leviticus. My daughter, high priestess of Pinterest taste, helped with re-planting. She wore my gloves, hands nearly my size, I had to show her how to break hard ground. I watched her choose new places, pattern earth. So more of that blasted blind hope returns, with Persephone, broadcast to the winds. First published by Sentinel, 2021 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/a10b6cc9-76cc-4ba6-a3e7-4ee9116b4334/Down+the+Bowling+Alley.jpg Poetry - Down the Bowling Alley My new school friend knocked for me to go with her to the ‘bowling alley’. I'd never been to one but thought of finding giant mechanisms to reset the ninepins after spares and strikes, like in films on VHS. I was surprised when mum said yes, learned that playing till dusk was the rule for year-round going out after school. I wore clean socks and pocketed a shiny twenty pence piece to spend. Through a wooded twitten came an open glade at the foot of a steep bank by a decayed sail-free tower. It was striking and spare: a tree sprung from the bricks in the threadbare brambled branches that hid brown glass bottles. My socks got muddy in long grass. There was nowhere to squander my coin only slot machines for childhood time where we spent wildly, toppling forward through dreams and games and awkward hurtling down that slope screaming symphonic swearwords on top of an upturned car bonnet. Today just a small wooded slope remains beneath meandering landscaped lanes that gravel their way in neat striations. by the old windmill’s preserved foundations. And finally a long-felt mystery is solved about how our bowling alley evolved: first named as neutral ground for skittles’ club fixtures between the high street’s rival pubs a century before we played as kings of that childhood castle, and outdoor pins. Village Tweet, 2021 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1666623425444-5E182M3UTXETUL1WVJWP/unsplash-image-8xAA0f9yQnE.jpg Poetry - Question Time "Well?" The words hang in the air communicating the opposite. Some seek sanctuary in the blank pages in front of them while others bury heads down avoiding the teacher's eye entirely. One student clears his throat and there is a hopeful surge but still no response comes. The classroom is a sarcophagus. They may all die here. The pregnant hush that has descended rages like the roar of ocean and they drown collectively in the silence. A head turns towards the window searching for escape; for one marvellous moment they might float out from it away from this constricting hell. But the latches remain mockingly shut, the air stifling. "Anyone?" The teacher's probe is desperate. The repeated question celebrates their collective failure to know. The bell rings: Chairs scrape signalling the start of the barging race to join the explosive fizz of students out in to the corridor. One figure only is still by the window braced against the shudder of misgiving, recalling her own desire to flee just a moment before. Published in English in Education (2020) 54(2), p. 119 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/1667155551844-G12EOT4CUWZSVIFF2UB4/unsplash-image-1F_L_-sQYDo.jpg Poetry - Covid Sleep My son goes wandering in the night. He’s safe at home through the day, but you can’t lockdown the mind of a child that wants to get up and unplay. Early nights mean even more sleep, and that sleep, perchance, to dream. Half-waking terrors infect the dark in a horrible unseen livestream. Last night, wide-eyed, he grabbed my arm. ‘Sssh, Mum. It’s there, underneath . Stay with me, don’t leave me alone.’ His terror is real; I can’t breathe and then I am child again too. When the wind blows, I still feel like not wanting to sleep in the dark; just in case that the warning was real. By morning, of course it’s all gone. We’re back in the safe light of day. But whatever you say, son, I’m listening; I can’t make it all go away. Published by National Writing Project, March 2020 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/609160053fcf0967bf1c2ff4/683c5ebf-89fd-4f68-9d07-2bfeda7e30a5/unsplash-image-rwkQ5O95bxc.jpg Poetry - On Red Wheelbarrows (With belated apologies to William Carlos Williams) Oh that red wheelbarrow - Nothing whatsoever depends upon it. And yet, perhaps, as the man with the same surname and first name said: So much depends upon it. I hated that wheelbarrow. It must be something other. I knew words like symbolism and juxtaposition and preposition. So why red? Why white? Why a wheelbarrow? Why upon? How angry it made me feel. Perhaps some punctuation might have helped. Where were the capital letters? Was it a poem about a poem? My English teacher laughed. Now after all, I sit English teacher myself coaxing more students to depend upon red wheelbarrows. 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