Shakespeare ‘s ‘The Winter’s Tale’: A Found Poem


Tell him you are sure,
Say this to him.
as potent as a lord’s
my saying,
however you lean.
Do not weep
my women, Come
innocence shall make
who will least seem to do so
tremble at patience.

Tell me what blessings I have
ill planet
the flatness of my misery
eyes of pity
myself on every post
upon my grave!

But hear this;
not revenge
The most replenished villain in the world
did but mistake.

in an rpg

red-ribboned white mage,
green valley, bent
over bonny blue shrubs;
hands on heaped fruit
and heady-scented herbs,
making sense out of summer.

read tomes of old dust,
gold, yellowing quick
under stands of torch light;
bronze fingers ghosting through
webs of spells and text
finding use in winter time.

red-pixelled bonny sprite
trapped where she is free,
never there will autumn fall
— the sky is stuffed with blue,
and the seasons wait for you
over the rippling hills.

The Insistence

I shouldn’t have to
renegotiate every relationship,
re-frame every untamed thought
and scrub with sandpaper all the shames
spreading in my sinful soul
—Or refine all facets of my face
like letting faucets run to let out
the silently leaching rust
(I don’t have that much water, and
I don’t have that much trust)
—No, I wouldn’t want to
sanitise the self from sorrow
to be happy.


Roller coaster thrills:
inaccessible to the heartless,
insensitive to the heart’s penchant
for cardiac arrest.
The lack of mouthfeel
in candy floss disadvantages
people without taste buds. Nobody
feels they belong here.
Park-goers are grown
like plants, never knowing what size or
shape they’ll end up in, in the end. We
are not constructed.
People compensate
building around the attractions with
flexible multipurpose daydreams
reserved, just for them.

The Fence-sitter

was wild and young and
trees sprouted from the sand
when she walked past

was regurgitating
atavistic impressions of things
that never last

was worse than a knife
on skin, to the notion of life,
and that of the past

was hugging her well-groomed
resorts to herself: the neutral room
when i saw her last.


Walled in on all sides
by the selves of others;
call in backup from
screeching drones overhead
that don’t take sides.
Two halves of you digging in
on slabs of icy soil;
there is a blade storm between
your hemispheres, and soon
you will have to take sides.
Where are you? With whom
do you stand? White crust.
Blood lust. Breathe in air,
breathe out your verdicts.
Even round atoms roll on sides.
Broadsides, on one front,
and air raids on the other;
debts overpaid in blasting
noises, from sister to brother,
walled in on all sides.

The Trap

Dreams are germs.
We all crawl with
sticky dreams,
licking dreams
all over for
stuff-less dreams.
Dreams stick us
to substance-less
thoughts about
warm cookies
burnt and rebirthed,
phoenix of
our future:
when germs return,
dreams crawl back.

Auspicious numbers: no use here

The concept of an asymptote
excuses the fridge dinner sets’
over representation of
chopstick noises and heartsick jokes,
the bias against warm smiles and
I see how the combination
of all-consuming altar flame
and a polite and timid shame
equates to soldering shut ears
at verses not signed off as god
or money.
This rocking chair line of logic
is destined by soothsayers, who
say hearts exist to be murdered,
between chews of carcinogens
on an allocated slot of
late TV.
Miscommunication relies
on mathematical belief;
and belief belies the truth of
many a shared fantasy, where
we touch, and we talk, and the lines
meet at last.