I wish that I could draw…

I wish that I could draw


because I could show you my work and

you wouldn’t question what it meant.


A charcoal figurine with lavender eyes

would be admired for its form, its contrast.


Little feet and large swollen hands and

you wouldn’t even question my perspective.


It is art- things are meant to be distorted

and wrong and upturned.


You wouldn’t say; “Why are you sad?” or

“Where have these thoughts come from?”


because you’d know what is produced comes from

pent up creativity that has always been there,


or maybe just the lead of a pencil

and a moving hand.


How to stop eating

(I often write about past experiences- I find it a therapeutic way to process things that have happened, to take what I need from that experience and discard what I don’t need. This is an ‘I don’t need any of this’ kind of poem. It may read as ‘advice’ but in reality, it is a warning….maybe even a reminder, that withdrawing from others and concealing your thoughts is something to question. Why don’t I want other people to know about this? What am I hiding? Sometimes the answers are scary but at least they provide clarity and something to work through… 🙂 )

How to stop eating

Swish a little milk
around the inside of a bowl.
Drain the dregs down
the sink.
Do not rinse.
Place on the kitchen side
in full view.

At lunch time say,
“I had a big breakfast”,
At tea time say,
“I had a big lunch”.

Strategically place
an empty crisp packet
in your car,
some sweet wrappers
in your handbag.

Drape an oversized
jacket around your frame.
Layer jumpers underneath
for warmth, comfort
and pretence.

Repeat daily.
Do not cause a stir.
Silently perfect
the recipe.

Backwards on a Train

Somewhere in the Lake District,
mountains comb cumulus clouds
into a frizzy mass.
Pigtail-like wisps use branches as tongs, releasing in gentle curls.


I vomit in the tiny,
too-hot toilet cubicle;
diagnose myself with synesthesia or
some anxiety disorder.


There is relief
in the trolley passing through
the carriage,
the attendant calling me ‘dear’ as he hands me a copy of ‘Cosmopolitan’.


I read an article about
nightclubs in Ibiza,
glance at glossy photographs
of silhouettes dancing
on sand left sodden
by backward waves.



When Beauty was Currency

Hi, I’m Sara 🙂

I write poems. I write rubbish folk songs whilst strumming my guitar. I do a bit of yoga. I would like to be healthy but I actually quite enjoy junk food. I am Irish but England has adopted me.

That’s enough about me. A poem would make a better introduction…

When beauty was currency


We weren’t friends because
she swore and sometimes
smoked on the school bus.

And my mother was aware of her,
had seen her by the local park,
sussed her out from the length
of her skirt.

“Her mother was wild too”,
she remarked.
“Went with half the boys in the village”.

“She must’ve been pretty”,
I said,
twirled my mousey hair around
a bony finger,
pinched a little fat on my thigh.


So I
read the Brontes in my bedroom,
collected obscure CDs,

followed a career path,

never bought a mirror for
my lounge.