I Am Your Light

I am your light
Brilliance in the winter sky
Joy in my sister’s face
As she giggles 
Presses on
The snowman’s button eyes

I am your light
Headlamps gently guide
Any distance
Spot the potholes in the road
We ride together
I still know my way home

I am your light
Your faith
Your Christmas tree bulbs
Your shimmering crescent
Your Hannukah candles
I am Diwali
Celebrate me
Feast with me
Shine with me

I am your light
Moonbeams on the river
Rushes quilt the ducklings
To Nightingale’s lullaby
Beaver starts his nightshift
Magic in the air
The scene feels like an illusion
But trust the owl, she knows
It’s real 
You’re not dreaming
Skim a pebble in the moonlight
I’ll skim you a precious stone

I am your light
Your rainbow
Seven party streamers
Sing across the sky
Fly above the jet plane
The swallow, the cuckoo
Seven vivid colours
One for every day
That I miss you 
My light burns eternal
I frame the shadow on the wall
Create the pixels in the picture
The dancers’ curtain call
Olympic Torch for athletes
Fizzing Catherine wheel
Dog’s illuminated collar
X-ray to help heal

Bulb in your bedside lamp
So when drowsiness marks the page
Switch me off 
But remember
If your dream’s not the one you wished for
Or loneliness gets too much
Just reach out
I’m close enough to touch

I am your light
My star
A speck across the galaxies
To show
Without me
Your universe
Could never be 
The universe you know


 When I pound the streets
 Sniffing out the scent of the next poem
 I attract strays
 Whether it’s a dog day
 Or raining cats and dogs
 A pause is the signal
 For a stranger’s friendly paw
 Kindred spirits
 With no distillation
 Of direction
 One disposed to instinct
 One disposed to reflection
 Both accustomed to rejection
 Threadbare and patched
 Shabby warmth
 Chews loneliness
 Between yellow teeth
 Yet there’s a limit
 We circle round for a while
 Then reach the end
 Of my friend’s territory
 Where plaintive eyes 
 Watch me pad away
 To the next steps of my story


 Like any faithful hound
 I scent dinnertime 
 From a country mile
 Come bounding
 Sit up
 Devour my bowlful
 Eternally grateful
 For a full five seconds
 Leaves me 
 Dyspeptically full
 Begging to get down
 Is a mystery 
 Of the cosmos
 I chew over 
 While Tim
 Over the rim
 Of his no dessert
 School ma’am 
 ‘I’m full’
 Like a whining
 I skulk off
 With the dishes
 Tail between my legs
 Sneak a
 Wistful sniff 
 Of the cheese
 And crackers
 Leave seizing
 For a furtive night time 
 What garnishes
 Wistful and crackers
 If not
 And knackers

Blithe Spirits

BBC India reports
The Universe has summoned
Keeley and Kyle
From Nottingham
To The Great Temple of Om
In central India
Where they will truly
Discover themselves
The Universe thinks
this is unlikely to happen
in Nottingham)
‘Hell on Earth’
Snaps Keeley
To our reporter
Close to the ground
‘God knows
When the tailor
Will be able
To return my saris
And I can’t even tell you
When I last sipped a latte
And does our government care?’
In the background
Of the shot
Another elderly Indian
Kneels in the dust
Sips water from a puddle
(the sleeve of his kaftan
frayed by anxious chewing)
‘How can 
Consciousness expand
When a dude’s been abandoned?
And does our government care?’
(he’s always been
a bit of a lingam)
Then one or the other bleats
‘All we want
Is enlightenment
Then to drift down
For a few days
On the beach’
(nearest beach
837 miles)
Just out of shot
To the stranded throngs
A child kneels in the dust
Playing solitaire
She can never win the game
Because there are
Cards missing
Marquee farewell party
In Mummy and Daddy’s pile
Bucks Fizz
Outside caterers
And so on
‘Long Island in the Bahamas’
Mummy snorts
‘It sounds just like a cocktail’
Tosses back her mane
Did Daddy marry his horse?
Rose-petal speech
‘We’re off to Paradise
But how could we possibly forget you
And we’ll always be on Skype
Of course’
Cue polite applause 
Twelve months later
Rips the roof off Eden
In the sea
‘Our boss has done nothing
Though he’s so big in pineapple
London doesn’t care
Although we used to pay our taxes
How could these peasants
To fix the signal
For the Internet?’
Maybe this poet
Has a chip of ice
On each shoulder
He’s never shaken
Or stirred
With the smart set
But I hope I’m not the type
To pleasure in asking
When you moved into
A cyclone zone
What the fuck
Did you expect?
Did you think
You’d been born
To sleep soundly
Swaddled in the eye
Of every storm?
Yes, there’s a plane overhead
No, it won’t be landing
Be thankful
You’re the chosen
With a bit of your house
Still standing

It would be wrong
To add insult
Stick the boot in
But what on earth
Possesses people
To splash thousands on a trip
Scrimp a hundred on insurance?
A drunken dive
A scooter ride
Family bereft
‘We might have
To sell the house
The government
Has left us
Hospital cares for nothing
But who’s going
To pay the bills’
I’m truly truly sorry
Nothing is so cheap
As human life itself
Why should they
Make sacrifices
For a complacent
When every single day
Hundreds of
Lie down in their shacks
Of preventable illness?
I don’t wear a halo
But I’m touched
By midday sun
When the attitude
Rising to the surface
Is that for all
We should have learned
Countries and their natives
Exist purely for our service
Please do me a favour
Stick to Blackpool
Send me your passport
I’ll refund the postage
Take care of the recycling


Like any faithful hound
I scent dinnertime
From a country mile
Come bounding
Sit up
Devour my bowlful
Eternally grateful
For a full five seconds
Leaves me
Dyspeptically full
Begging to get down
Is a mystery
Of the cosmos
I chew over
While Tim
Over the rim
Of his no dessert
School ma’am
‘I’m full’
Like a whining
I skulk off
With the dishes
Tail between my legs
Sneak a
Wistful sniff
Of the cheese
And crackers
Leave seizing
For a furtive night time
What garnishes
Wistful and crackers
If not
And knackers

(belated) Happy Birthday Mr. F

A couple of weeks ago marked the 101st birthday of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, poet, still active activist, resident of San Francisco and writer of my all-time favourite poem, ‘Two Scavengers in a Truck, Two Beautiful People in a Mercedes’ (see link below). In the 1950s, Mr. F. was co-founder of City Lights, America’s first ever paperback bookstore and every bit as iconic as the man himself. A champion of those who need champions, Ferlinghetti’s poetry is heartwarmning, honest and, most importantly, accessible. Anyone with a tenner to spend could do a lot worse than invest in his ‘Collected Poems’.

Why is ‘Two Scavengers…’ my favourite poem? It’s an idea of ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ simplicity used to show very deep and complex issues in a way which engages, rather than preaches. Clever, or what?

Enjoy the poem.

Two Scavengers in a Truck
Two Beautiful People in a Mercedes

At the stoplight waiting for the light
nine a.m. downtown San Francisco
a bright yellow garbage truck
with two garbagemen in red plastic blazers
standing on the back stoop
one on each side hanging on
and looking down into
an elegant open Mercedes
with an elegant couple in it

The man
In a hip three-piece linen suit
with shoulder-length blond hair & sunglasses
The young blond woman so casually coifed
with a short skirt and colored stockings
on the way to his architect’s office

And the two scavengers up since four a.m.
grungy from their route
on the way home
The older of the two with grey iron hair
and hunched back
looking down like some
Gargoyle Quasimodo
And the younger of the two
also with sunglasses & long hair
about the same age as the Mercedes driver
And both scavengers gazing down
As from a great distance
At the cool couple
as if they were watching some odourless TV ad
in which everything is always possible

And the very red light for an instant
holding all four close together
as if anything at all were possible
Between them
Across that small gulf
in the high seas
of this democracy
(Lawrence Ferlinghetti)

Dachau, 1902

Dachau, 1902


At certain points

Of the day

There is no time

Only hues

Which confuse

The seasons


An artist

She drips

Paint, sex, society

Blues, greens

Six-pointed stars


A shepherd boy lamb

No puncture marks

No apple

Just seeds


The Midday owl


It knows


The canvas freshly painted

Is blank





First Letter Home From A Migrant Worker In Mumbai

photo of trash lot on shore
Photo by Artem Beliaikin on Pexels.com

Dear Mama and Papa,


Despite our differences

It has broken my heart to leave our village

To leave you so very, very far behind


This astonishing city holds many challenges

Yet, you may rest peacefully

I am happy, safe and well


I am writing to tell you of my first great accomplishment

Please excuse my lack of modesty

But I am absolutely sure

Almost sure

You will be beacons of pride


I have visited Chowpatty Beach

And stood shoulder to shoulder

Amongst the elite of Mumbai

On the most celebrated and prestigious

Rubbish dump in all of India


For a poor village boy

It is truly a sea of inspiration

No well, no river

But an ocean of plastic bottles

Stretching further than the eye can see

Farther than the mind can dream


I am so grateful for your sacrifices

Your lifetime of simple meals

Fruit, veggies, dhal, chapatis

To give me this opportunity

This golden wandering

Through potato chip packets

Ice cream wrappers

Even paper plates


This isn’t just trash

This is cash

And you know what?

I couldn’t resist removing my sandals

To feel Lakshmi’s love

Dusting my feet




And the sea

The sea harbours such indescribable smells

No outdated salt

Or bygone fish

But bouquets of industry, progress, exports

I’ve heard it said they’re channelled

In a pipeline from Malabar Hill

To serve as a reminder

Such beautiful pollution

Is attainable for us all


Mumbai couldn’t be what it is

Without Bollywood fantasy fiction

I have heard a most entertaining fable

About a mythical palace called Antilia

A palace of such treasures

It could not exist on this earth

I believe it serves as an inspiration

That no matter how great one wealth

There’s no harm in coveting more


Back in the real world

I am enclosing three hundred and twenty rupees

A small contribution

But Chowpatty has strengthened my resolve

To become more than you or I

Ever dreamed I could be

I am also enclosing half of a paper plate

I took as a souvenir

I was tempted to take two

But wish my successes

To be tempered with the humility

You have instilled in me

Please show it to my siblings and cousins

As the oldest, I need to be the strongest of role models


You have brought me up not to take without giving

So I dropped my bus ticket on the sand

May it serve as a symbol

I am a man of the modern worls

A capitalist, a Mumbaikar


Your loving son




Kolkata (Calcutta)

Sometimes it’s easier to write about negatives than positives. When one feels disgruntled about something, it’s normally easy to articulate the source of said disgruntlement. Therefore, writing about my recent trip to Kolkata is comparatively difficult, because the trip was absolutely perfect.

I don’t like leaving unfinished business. In a sense, this applied here because I’d visited once before, but was uncharacteristically unwell and didn’t see very much. This time, I travelled in a way I haven’t travelled before, namely spending all of my time (19 days) based in one place. I didn’t get bored, and although I’ve seen now most of the touristy things and achieved my poetic goals, I’ve left thinking a return visit is certainly high on the agenda, and not just for poetic reasons.

Kolkata (often still called Calcutta, including by at one major national newspaper, but I don’t want to appear to be colonial) has a reputation for being the most cosmopolitan, liberal, artistic and interesting of the four great Indian metropolises. I haven’t spent much time in Delhi and Mumbai, and I haven’t been to Chennai/Madras at all. However, Kolkata has all of the aforementioned qualities in spades, so I’m prepared to believe the claim.

Touristically, it doesn’t have the ancient monuments Delhi has, but there is lots of more recent history, much of it concerned with the British Empire. Until 1905, Calcutta was the capital of British India, and London was the only city in the Empire which was bigger. Much of the colonial architecture is still standing, and it’s very easy to get a feel of how the city was back then. Lots of churches are still standing, plenty of old commercial buildings and very informative places, like the Park Street Cemetery, where the young ages on the headstones demonstrate chillingly why workers who made the move from the UK were very handsomely rewarded for doing so.

Modern Kolkata is comparatively user-friendly. Most of the touristy things are in a fairly compact area. For those which aren’t, India’s only metro system (cheap, efficient and under expansion) serves well. The chief backpacker area is Sudder Street, slightly north of centre. I stayed just off Park Street, ten minutes’ walk away, and more upscale, but right on the doorstep of the Lit Fest venues, including the venerable Oxford Bookstore, which organises the Festival.

For the first half of my time, I mostly played tourist, rather than poet, reversing the roles for the second half. As well as the major attractions of the Victoria Memorial and the Indian Museum (the country’s largest), the Asutosh Museum, the Planetarium, the remarkable Z Planet art deco house, the Botanical Gardens (containing the world’s largest tree in terms of canopy cover) and a few smaller galleries kept me well occupied. Throw in a side trip to the Sunderbans Eco Reserve (in theory, you can see a Bengal tiger, in reality, there’s more chance of the Loch Ness Monster) and the pre-Lit Fest time was filled easily and enjoyably.

The poetry side was an absolute pleasure. At the Lit Fest, I performed a few poems, and also took part in a panel discussion on Gender Sensitisation in Children’s Literature. I was a bit nervous about this, as I haven’t done such a thing before, but all went well, not least because the other panellists are established high-profile children’s authors, who generated plenty of ideas to talk about. The whole Lit Fest was great fun and very well organised by Maina, Anjum and their team.

Lit Fests also throw up the unexpected. The best example I have this time was that I talked football for fifteen minutes or so with a very nice man called Lorenzo, who happens to be Italy’s ambassador to India. He’s also a writer, and wasn’t just there for ceremonial purposes. Highest profile guest in terms of writing was Andrew Sean Greer, an American writer who’s just won a Pulitzer Prize for fiction, with his comedy novel, which I’ll be reading before too long. He’s been writing for quite a while with limited success, so I take my hat off to him for his perseverance and achievement.

The final few days were taken up with three workshops I managed to organise while in town. So, thank you to The Creative Arts, led by the indomitable Ramanjit Kaur. Two of the workshops happened at this excellent organisation, one with child actors and another with women actors. For the third workshop, thanks to The British Council, where several staff joined forces to organise a stellar workshop attended by a whopping 26 students, mostly young adults. At all three events, the commitment, passion and generally being up-for-it-ness were amazing.

And last, but certainly not least, thanks to Saikat and Aquib, who at different times were most helpful with tea, directions and wholehearted attentiveness.

Finally, there’s a poem below that’s my thank you present for the whole experience. This year was the 10th year of the AKLF Lit Fest. It’s theme was ‘Celebrating Park Street’, where the festival is organised. Therefore, the below is appropriate, and features many of the street’s landmarks.

Finally finally, if anyone is facing a massive dental bill and fancies getting the work done well and cheaply while abroad, I can recommend Kolkata, and recommend an excellent dentist to anyone who asks for details. My Upper Left 6 hasn’t felt so good for ages!!


Park Street, End of the Festival


As the sun sets

For the tenth time





To an embryonic horizon


Poets, playwrights

And the rest

Take their bow

Take their leave



Take to their nests

Sleep sixteen hours straight

In a flurry of sweet dreams




As always

By the thought

Of a Job well done


The old ones are the best


Jit Paul

Cracks his familiar smile

Holds a balloon

Bought from a child






The Park Hotel



Paints a brave face

On a five-star hangover


While in the cemetery

High spirits

Raise another glass


The late Metro News


Oxford blues

Illuminate to Mansion green


As an antique gas lamp

Feigns death

With a rag shroud


To deny

The naked eye

A glimpse

Of the tiny inside spark

It nurtures

To provide


2020 vision



Refugee Week

Crikey. This site’s supposed to be easy to use, but I always struggle. I suppose with computers, there comes a point where you’ve either got it or you haven’t. I’ve been dealt a pretty good hand in life, so I guess I can live with it.

And on the theme of the hand life deals you, I’ve actually sat down to write something about this week’s activities in schools for Refugee Week. Poetry workshops. Eight schools in Birmingham (8 primary, 2 secondary) and around 400 children, all of whom gave it their best shot at imagining being a refugee, or, in the case of quite a few, writing about really being a refugee or migrant.

I’ve long since suspected that pound for pound, children are far more open-minded and tolerant than adults. I’m now sure this is the case. 400 children aged 8-13 worked solidly for 2-3 hours and not once did I hear a word of the tired old racism propounded by the readers of our more ignorant newspapers. Discussions were measured, listening was attentive, and, crucially, those who disagreed with a point of view did so with respect, rather than dismissal. The work which was begun in our sessions (to be completed with the children’s class teachers) also showed a depth of perception which many outside the school system wouldn’t expect.

So, what did we do?

We looked at elephants! To be precise, David Attenborough’s ‘Spy in the Herd’, where a herd moves as they have no food. This necessity to move, making the elephants refugees, rather than migrants. (In all of the schools, the children understood this difference. I wonder what percentage of the adult population would get this right, or even think it important?)

Although it wasn’t the main focus of the project, as an English teacher, I wanted this work to enhance and reinforce literacy, so from the clip, we came up with some WOW words (one of my favourite phrases) to describe the feelings of the baby elephant as it was on the move. We then went on to looking at how the pachyderms’ (WOW word!) was a metaphor for human refugees.

This was followed by some clear and confident reading of a couple of my poems on the subject, and then the children planned their own and began to write them. This gave an opportunity to revise poetic terms learned, and they only needed a few thousand reminders that POEMS DON’T HAVE TO RHYME, AND ARE OFTEN BETTER WHEN THEY DON’T!!!!! And did this stop a few brave/silly souls from doing it anyway? Rhetorical question!

The aim of this work was to raise awareness of what it’s like to be a refugee. To be honest, the schools had done a pretty good job of this anyway (one school has used a classroom to make a mock-up of a refugee camp; another has written postcards of support to give to refugees). As I wanted expression and empathy to be the keynotes, pupils who have a second language were allowed to write in that language if was easier for them, or if it simply suited them better. Some work came out which sounded beautifully soulful, even to those of us who didn’t understand the words.

Once the teachers send me some of the finished work, it’ll be posted with due acknowledgement of authorship.

Hopefully, this will be repeated next year and rolled out to schools elsewhere in the country.

Meanwhile, I give heartfelt thanks to

About 400 children

Numerous teaching and teaching assistant colleagues

Carl Marshall and Razia Butt from Birmingham City Council

Schools of Sanctuary for supporting this project…

… and especially Barbara Forbes from Schools of Sanctuary who enthused about this from the moment I floated the idea, obtained the funding for it to take place, and put me in contact with her contact in the schools. Without Barbara, this really wouldn’t have happened.

Now for the hard part. Can I publish this without deleting it instead?