its a funny thing, coming home.

Thanks to Lori, and a small Asian genius called Tam, i am back.

my blog, which was hacked and subscribed 200 ‘authors’ in 3 months, started writing posts about Justin Bieber and Weight Loss pills today. why am i telling you this? im sure you all would’ve received the notifications.

i am incredibly sorry for adding to what must be dozens of useless spam-shit that already litters your mailbox. these bugs were so good that they had blocked me out of my own settings, so i couldn’t get in and fix things.

oh, bugs. why you do to me.

so here i am. new lick of paint, and a lot of poetry and bits and pieces i’ve had to use a pen and paper to write.

i am really, really sorry for the inconvenience.

40 day dream.

one day you will know
that you never know anyone.

you dont know if at night
in the heavy darkness above their beds
their hearts leak out of their throats

because of the weight alongside them
or the absence of.

you dont know the atrocious lies,
old lovers they’ve dismissed,
all the dreams they once had, the wishing.

you’d never meet their younger selves,
the wine-dark passionate sighs, the sacrifices,
the ones that got away.

the people they once were
are now dust and broken bits of bone
shed carefully like old skin.

there’ll be a minute, a moment,
when the water pulls away from the earth
and you see the remnants of love, and plans, and loss.

you open your eyes and you see your open hands
holding on to nothing at all,
but air.

and i, am the arrow.

i saw my life branching out before me like the big naked tree out the front, the one you led me to that wonderful summer night, where you chose to kneel down on one knee. from the tip of every branch, like a fat, bright red apple, an array of scenarios beckoned and winked. one apple was a husband and a happy home brimming with books and movies and children, and another apple was a famous poet and another apple was a quiet reader – calm and comfortable. another apple was salty and tanned and speaking the beautiful language of home. another apple was Spain and South America and wrinkled suitcase clothes, you and i passing red wine in a glass cup between us. and another apple was tired and lost and hurting. another apple was a pack of old lovers with unknown endings, and beyond and above these apples were many more apples i couldn’t quite make out. i saw myself sitting in the crotch of this big, leafless tree, starving to death, just because i couldn’t make up my mind which of the apples i would choose. my usual reaction, i suddenly realise, the bated breaths before the staccatos of my 30 years – the un-decisions, the weighing, the silent ‘oh!’ at the end of an event. i wanted the ones up the top, but how do you climb a tree exactly? i wanted most of them, and definitely didn’t want certain others, and i knew choosing one meant losing all the rest. and, as i sat there, unable to decide, the apples began to wrinkle and go black. and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

sylvia. rewritten.

the finest thing.

this time last week, i was in church witnessing the marriage of two very good friends. the readings were full of words such as love and commitment, and i was surrounded by my bestfriends, cocooned in the summer heat, and i was happy. i thought – what more do you need really? but the word of someone you truly love, and their company, and good friends, plenty of wine and laughter and all will be just fine.

the next evening, hungover, and walking the dog before midnight to escape the oven that used to be our apartment, M and i ended up at the park across the road. along a row of humongous, fairytale trees and lampposts and sky, M got down on one knee and gave me the biggest surprise of my life.

with koko running around in the empty green, his smile like the moon lighting up the entire park, it was very perfect, and very unexpected and very us.

there was no other answer but yes. and ‘fine’ became a million times finer.


one day, you will say
(maybe without speaking)
and i will be silent, and listen –

there are fields inside your skull:
mangos and chaos of 9 beautiful children,
love songs in the kitchen
from a static-y radio;
a rocking chair in the corner of a room where he sat,
a portrait of yourself in sepia
when you were 19 and smooth and bewildered.
curtains of a particular shade;
chocolates hidden in sock drawers.
how the least favourite child
became your keeper and salvation.
All your private dinosaurs – in a language
which has become my old one.
you, the first

all i need to know
you will tell me,
just as it was
from the beginning.
and something magnificent
will come full circle.

happy new year, everyone. i hope all sorts of wonderful dreams come true this year. x