I have always felt that one of the aims of poetry was to reflect the age in which it is written as well as seeking universal truths.
Poetry should also inspire and move the recipient but within its beauty it can act as a stimulus for action and reaction, which not only affects the head but also the heart.
Other emotions and reactions can also be triggered such as joy, hope, anger, identification, sadness, reflection, humour, despair and a fundamental love of life.
The true poet, I believe, should constantly go where others may fear to explore and at all times should strive for an absolute honesty. He or she may adorn many roles in this exploration for such goals particularly when the positives conquer negatives and when understanding and acceptance overcome ignorance. This of course is where hope supersedes the despair of doom and individually we accept that we are not after all immortal.
Great individual poems reach across generations as do works of art. Some of Shakespeare’s sonnets are as fresh and lucid today as when he first wrote them. A.E Houseman and W.H. Auden can express our deepest emotions simply, but with the power of internal drama which defies intellectual analysis, Dylan Thomas can trigger an emotion with a passionate boost of words hammering them home like bullets from a machine gun. T.S. Eliot reflects the world in a selective way seducing the reader into an acceptance before leaving him or her with a line that lives uncomfortably in the subconscious for a lifetime. The list of poets who have given such a rewarding dimension to the English language is endless. Robert Frost, John Keats, Lord Byron, William Wordsworth to name but a few and what an inspirational legacy they have left.


I was woken up very late one night
By the sound of a heart gently breaking
Inside the sleeping body of my wife.
She lay in her innocence in trust,
Listened to my twisted, miserable lies,
Smiled sadly, as if wanting to believe,
Then turned and went unhappily to sleep.
We had lain together, very much apart,
Her back curved towards me, so I kissed her,
As if to apologise for my sins.
But it was wasted and of no avail;
For I was woken very late one night
By the sound of a heart breaking
Inside the sleeping body of my wife.


It's cold
So cold and unreal
To sit waiting
And waiting
To take away the object
Of what was, and is
A part of you.....
And me.
This form that lives
Deep within your body
A symbol
Which we are paying
The old fat woman
To murder.
Would that living mite
Which is protected
In your body
Request the fate
Such as we have decided
In our cold respectable logic?
Would it, I wonder
The early morning sun
And the warmth
Of its own body
Close to another
As we once were?

I sit waiting
Clasping your cold hand
Waiting for that woman
To destroy the flame.


The young man
With a red scarf
Had revolution
In his heart
He marched
He protested
He chanted
He demonstrated
But his revolution
Fell on deaf ears
It remained bottled
In his heart
To draw the cork
He waited and waited
But anger
Turned to arrogance
And the idealist
Became the cynic