A little chat with Khaya!

Had a little chat with fellow-poet, Khaya Ronkainen, about my book ‘Water to Water’ and about life and all things poetry! Thank you, Khaya, that was a lot of fun!

Khaya lives in Finland and Amazon being Amazon and international shipping being, well, international shipping, I mailed her a copy from the closest point I could reach – a tiny little post office in the middle of Old Town, Tallin, Estonia, which has the friendliest post-office-person in the world! From there the book could have caught the two-hour fast ferry to Helsinki, if it wanted to! Poetry crosses boundaries in ways we cannot imagine!

Here’s the link to the post on her blog.

Also, with Diwali round the corner, I’d like to give away a copy of ‘Water to Water’ to one interested poetry blogger in India. (Indian mailing addresses only!) So drop me an email at suspension.point@yahoo.com before 27th October 2019 if you would like a copy  and I’ll pick one name by lot.  Please include the name of your blog in the email.


Water to Water on PU

Water to Water was featured on Poets United today. Here’s a link to the brief interview that includes a couple of poems from the book.

Grateful to Sherry and all of the poets over at PU – definitely one of the warmest places on the net to meet poets and share poetry.

Paperback and e-book editions are available on Amazon.



The Interview

I want to tell you about me,
about the sour smell of penury ,
about loving but not telling,
about fear, about being a woman,
about things not in my file,
but you know all that without even shaking my hand,
my lowered eyes, my dress, my hesitant gait,
my accented hello, what gave me away,
the unease flickers like a second iris in your cold eye,
pulls quickly at your limp palm, holds back that unborn smile,
you cross your arms across your pinstriped suit
and I wonder which me your first word will break,
I see patterns on the carpet,
and rearrange my bones, my genes,
my tongue, my breasts,
align my birth to your contempt,
but I needn’t have worried
you had already swept me away,
my identity hovered briefly on a dust pan,
before the paisley motifs on the floor
became my shroud,
my muffled breath had not enough left
to ask which me you wanted to bury first.