Little Mumbles

thoughts, poems and ramblings of an Oxford creative writing student
Treasures of the circus museum in Paris

Treasures of the circus museum in Paris

Secrets of my friend’s house

Secrets of my friend’s house

A garden in my room

A garden in my room

morning yoga in the park

morning yoga in the park


I offer my speech up as a gift

given to you full of flowers

and memories cut together

with smells and tastes

that moved my hands

in just this way, and that

found me smiling, yawning,

crying at you or you

to stop, to keep going

and then come round

and sing to me, speak

to me, with your own gift

rustling full of flowers. 


I’m scared to turn out the light

to hear all those midnight creatures

crawl into bed with me 

and carry me down lanes

i thought or wished i’d travelled

that day or the one before

and sometimes the next

years= stretching out before

in imaginary colonnades

and mirrored rooms with

curtained windows.

They make me want to relive the day

do it over, take it back.

And in the meantime,

they steal the next one from me. 

Language Teaching

Summer rolls in, rolls on, rolls back.
Can you explain the difference to foreign language students?
Peeling back layers of skin
Like a banana peel.
Did I get that right?
Or do I require more learning?
How much is enough in the riding heat?
Don’t forget to use the right preposition.
So embarrassed in front of the class
That my own language fails me.

Edinburgh Fringe Accounts

I owe portmanteau 75 - 10 for shopping = 65

Eva owes me 11 - 9 for morning rave & 1.50 for half a coffee = 50p

A River Poem

There’s nothing here
But treasures dear
And naught for you to see.

I want to walk
The sun to see
Shining down upon me

Flat the river runs
Shining like the sea
Glinting gold with nothing on
Shining down upon me

stalking myself on facebook

to check who i am and

how i see me see myself

then and now and then

as when we’re walking

and waking the body

feels differently to how

it sees itself at times

and thinking

who is looking now?

This is beautiful. The ghazal is such a great form!


Red Ghazal

I’ve noticed after a few sips of tea, the tip of her tongue, thin and red
with heat, quickens when she describes her cuts and bruises—deep violets and red.
The little girl I baby-sit, hair orange and wild, sits splayed and upside down
on a couch, insists her giant book of dinosaurs is the only one she’ll ever read.
The night before I left him, I could not sleep, my eyes fixed on the freckles
of his shoulder, the glow of the clock, my chest heavy with dread.
Scientists say they’ll force a rabbit to a bird, a jellyfish with a snake, even
though the pairs clearly do not mix. Some things are not meant to be bred.
I almost forgot the weight of a man sitting beside me in bed sheets crumpled
around our waists, both of us with magazines, laughing at the thing he just read.
He was so charming—pointed out planets, ghost galaxies, an ellipsis
of ants on the wall. And when he kissed me goodnight, my neck reddened.
I’m terrible at cards. Friends huddle in for Euchre, Hearts—beg me to play
with them. When it’s obvious I can clearly win with a black card, I select a red.
I throw away my half-finished letters to him in my tiny pink wastebasket, but
my aim is no good. The floor is scattered with fire hazards, declarations unread.




the edge

pulls deep,

the tides

moon after day

never knowing

they go

the wrong way

Born of the sun
Raised on water
Under bridges
Over laughter.

Barbara Kruger in Oxford!!! WHAT!?! Wish I’d seen her speak at the launch. Amazing to finally experience her work after so many years referencing it in life and essays. She’s been such a big influence on my thinking. Incredible to stand on all those words, to read the letters warping under your feet and over your head as you struggle to take in their enormity. So much more powerful than I imagined! Like seeing Guernica for the first time.

Frowning at badly written feminist criticism in The Taylorian, Oxford. 

Frowning at badly written feminist criticism in The Taylorian, Oxford.