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Creative Writing

Halting Place: A New Poem

For Wang Wei. And Fiona. Here, autumn has not yet plucked the last of the leaves. Evening mist has nothing to hold but the trees. It’s that time of day, that time of year, when poems come. That ache to be here, to be heard. Surely, soon? You relieve it with love, always have. My dear, I saw you pick up his scarf on our way out, the old one you said he won’t wear any more. I see you wearing it now, worn side in.

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Creative Living: Be More Creative

The Create-State: How To Go Creative

I’m on a concrete pit-stop somewhere between Cologne and Brussels, surrounded by hundreds of resting forty-foot trucks and the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of motorway traffic passing on two sides. Every year I attend Frankfurt Book Fair, to speak and learn about publishing and self-publishing. Usually I fly, but I prefer trains to planes and this year, I’d thought I’d travel by Eurostar and ICE train, via Brussels. It worked a dream on the way over but on the way back, we find ourselves unexpectedly taken off the train at Cologne. Sorry, but there’s a rail strike in Belgium, they tell us. They’ve laid…

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