Poetry.

So, I write poetry. I enjoy doing it and recently it seems that other people enjoy reading what I write.
I've done a couple of readings at open mics which have gone really well, the most recent of which was particularly good. This was at the punter in Cambridge and I read two poems, and two of the other poets both came over to say they thought they were very good. Obviously praise is always great but it was really reassuring when poetry is a medium in which I very much feel I'm still finding my feet.
There's another reading in Cambridge on Monday night at The Maypole which I think I might go to, and I'm helping to organise one at Uni (in Sheffield) in April, so lots to look forward to.
For now, here is an example of one of my poems, 'A Night On The Drink', which I read at The Punter on Tuesday.

In the morning, as the sun spills
in where the curtain has slipped
and the wine has stained our lips,
we kiss.

Then you roll away,
the mattress lilts in that familiar way
and your feet are tickled by the rug
where it’s frayed.

You tilt your head and arch your back,
pull your gown from the hook,
where a screw is still loose
in the corner of the rack.

Maybe we’ve got lectures, maybe
Our only worries are our clothes;
And it’s alright that there’s so much
We still don’t know.

As if we’re only kids,
with nothing to dream about but this
or what our friends will think.
And I wish it were true as you lean on the sink.

Then you come back to bed,
the sun spills in where the curtain has slipped,
the wine has stained our lips and we kiss,
becoming seventeen again, in my head.