Life and War with Mikey Fatboy Delgado
Friday, November 23, 2018

Friday, October 19, 2018
A bird, suddenly

The double glass reflects sky.
I expect you thought you'd fly
right through it, thinking to enter
the tunnel of the convex mirrored cloud
and blueness on the back wall.
When I describe you to myself,
to try to know that the world
hasn't yet sickened enough
to make all birds yearn to self destruct
through things that we've allowed,
I am describing you to myself
to try to soothe the sudden terror
in me. I say it became momentarily dark
and I thought a grey sack had been hurled
against the window with the force
of a spurned god. You were a sack of sorts,
a beautiful feathered case of expectations,
a cold bomb detonating against the glass.
Decentered and trembling, seeing
the glory of you with your stilled beauty
drained of all its motivation, broken
outside the window beneath the green canopy
of coreopsis, what could a coward do
but reach for the keyboard as a shield?
Sunday, October 14, 2018
Letter #27

Dear --------

Spring is late this year where I am, don’t tell me about where you are,
don’t tell me that the cherries are just about to flower where you are,
this letter is my letter to you not yours to me, and we have likely not
met (the name at the bottom is not mine) but, if you read on, this may
yet turn into some sort of poem where I can mention a few colours to
make it the sort of poem that arrests you; and don’t complain if you
are thinking it can’t be a poem because a poem should have drunks
in it, or folks who have spent all of themselves in the way frivolous
people spend tomorrow to get a new coat today, on the eve of Spring,
when no coat will be necessary except for those wanting to be buried
in one. Just don’t. Don’t speak until I’m finished talking about all the
ends of prayers I am having to remember - so be it – a truer line was
never spoken – so be it - that can be a motto, I’ll breathe it to myself,
I’ll get used to it. What was firm will crumble, so be it, my turn now,
so be it. The seconds since I was handed to my mother have turned into
minutes and they have turned into hours into days with light and dark,
and those two have accumulated into years, into most of a life. Once I
stilled my tongue when I would have better let it run away while it had
the chance with this person or that person. Better that it had left my head,
untangled itself from its cautionary housing, rested on your shoulder so
it might be close to your ear and say to you what it wished while it could.
I quieted it when I shouldn’t since it will be stilled soon enough. The book
I will put this letter in is anyway a book of poems (in my opinion) even if
I may not always be happy with how it has been translated. That’s not so
very important in the scheme of things. I am diverting the future, maybe,
just a little, like a boy who puts a thin leaf between a flood and a drain
and sees the water parted. In a minute I will say goodbye to my letter
to you. You will know I have kissed it, even if you are a bad man this
letter to you has been kissed. I will fold it up and put it at the back of
this other man’s book of poems and I will hand the book to a woman
who works in the shop raising money for the hospice. I can’t know
who you are or why you came upon this book or if you opened this letter.
If you did ‘hello’, I hope you are well enough to seize the day. I enjoyed
this man’s poems. I only put letters in books I have enjoyed, books
which I can hardly read for more than a few seconds at a time before
I have to put them down and stare out of the window or at another person
eating, or a child playing, or the palm of my hand, at just anything
where the staring explains nothing. In any case, I hope you are well or
at least are learning to say so be it. Don’t worry about me. I am fine, I am
wandering through the world, looking at the windows, looking at the clouds
reflected in the windows. I am at least doing my share of worrying. Tomorrow
I am taking the book about Matisse to the orphanage shop and I have placed
a letter in that book about how the colours have made me very, very content.

Yours ------

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

the forsythia can take it,
the harsh and hard september sculpting,
the levelling to below the level of the fence.
late in the month a morning of sun,
and something in this heavy pruning
is reminiscent of a row of heads being lightened
by haircuts, relieved. what other creatures
think like this? not even all of us?
just some people with dry mouths
holding printed mirrors to themselves
amid the poetry shelves of local libraries,
the painter in his gloomy atelier?
or is it everybody and every thing
in their discrete worlds? is it these men
in their high vis vests pulling

the garden recycling bins to the kerb,
the woman walking circuits around this square
of streets, back and forth, again and again, to recover,
the portuguese laurel to be sculpted next,
the earwig rushing to the sanctuary
of the stone, the deep good night
laying out its maps, preparing itself,
gathering its strength in the gardener’s lung?

Tuesday, August 21, 2018
All was rounded

… die Axt hat geblüht …

All was rounded and all was soluble
And sharpness curled inward until the blade
Was like a leaf in autumn and poems
Lost their harsh edges and were about love
And the icepick fell out of use and ice
Calved and went all its separate ways and seas
Lapped at the machinery of the state
And the winds rose and in courtyards circled
Moaning like the frenzied past caught in traps
And the sound of its keening was the cry
Of grandmothers calling to their daughters
And their daughters’ daughters - “Judith, take care”
- “Aviva, be ready at the door”  - “We
Have lost Shulamit, has anybody seen her?”


Wednesday, June 06, 2018

I’m arguing with Yevtushenko,
I’m justifying all my lies to my child,
I’m watching filthy black clouds floating
towards the beautiful full white moon,
I’m zipping my jacket against the cold,
I want to be poetic about the moon,
I'm saying there are light grey wisps
passing across its beautiful whiteness,
I'm saying it makes me think of a snow leopard
alone in the night. I’m afraid for my child
to know what Lorca knows.

You know how these things are,
you are a writer, a leaper from stone to stone,
a noticer of the grass blurring beneath you
as you sail through air, a noticer of the whiteness
of coffee cups, of the stream of loveliness
flowing through the coffeeshop doors
to meet their loves. You are here,
not meeting your love, you are there
on the hill, leaping from rocks, the same hill,
different rocks, different blades of grass blurring,
descending from the summit to the riverbed,
recalling the insistent wind, thinking
of our children and the truths
waiting for them that we cannot bear to mention.

Saturday, May 05, 2018
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Tuesday, March 27, 2018
The Burial of the Dead
Monday, January 22, 2018
To town, via Mill Road, Cambridge

to love to love

Morning in the Oxfam charity shop,
Van Morrison, Madame George, brings weeping
close, moments of rapt grace that will not stop
when he ceases to soar, this man keeping
some kind of record
of how this life went;
a day starting, as it may, with beauty,
gifting us some small chance we may be sent
through unscathed to the close of day’s duty.
If the hours could pass kindly and sunset
find doorways emptied of the dispossessed
we could claim some small relief from our debt,
but this beauty cannot see us blessed
like that. It is a small moment, fleeting,
intense, just one’s heart and one’s soul meeting.

Thursday, January 18, 2018
Saturday p.m, Manor Park Cemetery

Don’t be afraid of the greying day
as dark descends on a life ending.
A transit across all there is above
the surface of the seas has slowed
to a halt, and here the velvet early
dark arrives and dusk greysilks
the tombstone’s image of the disappeared.
The foreign elegies scored on stone
with human thoughtwords, smeared
on fragmented walls, moss and lichen,
family, and descending sun.
This is the photographic record of the day.
Dear beloved and only son, Ypres, 1917,
life as memorial, life is memorial, mum,
a sea of remembering, a holding on, a city
of a floating people returning to life
in memory. When I am in a place where I see
ghosts I don’t say, just in case you don’t know
what I’m seeing. I don’t want to frighten you,
now or in memory, with how I am.
Monday, January 15, 2018
Reviews of Books We’ve Never Read ---- The Collected Fiction of Jorge Luis Borges

Borges makes sense of Trump

The Collected Fiction of Jorge Luis Borges /

reviewed unread by Kemoe Hopscotch

When the circus came to town when we were kids we wondered how they got
the posters advertising the circus onto the inside of the front windows and onto
the inside of the glass doors of the abandoned shops and the closed-down shops
and the repossessed shops and the bankrupt shops and every other empty shop
in our small town.

All the mail and the flyers that had been delivered to the shops since they’d failed
and closed was still littering the floor. No footsteps could be seen in the dust that
had accumulated on the floors since the closures, but someone had somehow
managed to get in and put these posters up on the other side of the glass. We had
a strange guy who used to hang around with us who even then at that age had
plenty of theories that he presented as fact. He said there was a circus man who
could float through keyholes. That, he was confident, was how it was done.
He said the guy was called The Wisp. Many years later I remembered, apropos
of nothing, in the midst of a day, that that kid’s home had three or four paintings
by Chagall on the walls of different rooms.

Another kid I knew, a kid who in later life became fond of repeating that all that
is solid melts into air, disagreed. He said that the explanation was simpler, the
explanation was that the circus could get in anywhere it damn well liked when
it came to town with its horses and horseshit, its cages of drugged animals, its
poisonous warmed-over interval snacks, its fat ladies and bearded ladies, its
clowns, its dwarfs, its colours and flags, its bully boys who stop you getting
in without a ticket, its man who tells big lies about the greatest show on earth
and its woman who tells big lies about the greatest show on earth. I wish I could
tell you that on the walls of his house there was some of Edward Hopper’s stuff.
I don’t know though. I think I would have remembered, even from then.

But how could they get the keys to these shops? That’s what interested the pragmatists
among us. It was a mystery even above the mysteries in that poem I’ve also never
read - that poem that some people you meet in life like to talk about, that poem by
that guy Prévert. People who’ve actually read the poem tell me that Prévert
numbers among the mysteries of the earth the river at Morlaix, the little canal at
Ourq, the masters of the world with their priests and their troops, the wonder
of people themselves, and finally the straw of misery rotting in the steel of cannons.
Somehow, even at this distance, it seems to me to be right not to have read that man’s
poem if among his litany of mysteries of the earth he has discounted this one, this of
the appearance of the circus posters in the abandoned premises of people whose
hopes or grandiose plans didn’t survive, whose dreams and schemes became piles
of letters with no one to read them, fronted by posters featuring a girl in a white
sequinned tutu, and a lovely face with a whitetooth smile, standing upright on the
back of a drugged horse, with one hand on her hips and the other arm crooked at the
elbow, and a flat hand with outstretched palm, as if asking permission (for what?)
of all who gazed at her.

And now here we still are in our small town, and now we are old, and the circus has
been and gone again and the mystery repeats itself still. It was cold again today
but the sun shone, and on the way to buy food to feed my family I noticed that the
red-bordered door of the bankrupt butcher’s shop still has a circus poster on the
other side of the glass. So does the toyshop that failed six months ago, and so
does the repossessed tanning shop, and so does the Thai restaurant whose owners
fled before arrest. And sometime in the coming months there will occur, I know,
the other mystery, the mystery of the removal of the circus posters, as if someone
in the future will be sent back from the far-receded circus to collect up those
posters, without disturbing the growing piles of mail and dust on the other side
of the plate glass doors. Among the many wonders of the world then, this, of
the display and the collection of circus posters from the windows of failed enterprises.
In my time I have never seen them being installed and I have never seen them being
removed. It has the air of a trick. It is worthy of a magic show. I have, as you
see, sometimes wondered how it’s done. I hope I never find out. Who knows where
the kid whose parents liked Chagall is these days, now that he too is old. Who knows
where the kid is who thought that a spectre is haunting Europe. Who knows what
mysteries have been resolved for them, or renewed, or receded. But I know what the
guy who haunts the second-hand bookshops in our small town thinks. He thinks
if I read Borges I will find out, and I don’t want to find out, I don’t want to know
how the magic is done, I don’t want to look at the back of the tapestry to see the
gathered threads.

I haven’t known the guy who haunts the second-hand bookshops of our small town
for long but already when I am out in the streets I am adopting a thousand yard stare
so I can avoid him if I see him in the distance. I am not being unsociable for the sake
of it. I asked him how he knew so much about Borges. He said quite correctly that
what I meant was why did he tell me about Borges. He said think of me as a deus ex
. In our small town that is not a usual response to either a question or an
observation. Even before he continued I knew that to deepen acquaintance with him
would be foolish but I would have to endure this one meeting until I could find a
moment to tap him on the arm and say yes yes and take my leave. Imagine, he
suggested, to walk through a small town like this, through the centre of a town
where all of us are visible, all known by sight at least, and imagine resting on a
bench, one of the benches that are situated at intervals all over this town, or to sit
at one of our café tables in sunlight, and to read, simply to read and to feel that
one may weep at a sentence of Borges, to weep at a short run of words which he has
fashioned into a mirror in front of which you are caught, and in front of which it
occurs to you to muse on what events have brought you to this moment. Or perhaps
it is a small run of words which deliver a memory of a love that was terminated by
the other, or a run of words that sees you placing Borges on the table, or beside you
on the bench, to recall the life of a parent or an animal that was terminated by whatever
process was allotted to that intersection between your life and theirs. And imagine you
look up from the book as you sit at the bench or the café table in sunlight and the world
has become other than it was when you first sat down, and no colour is the same, and
nothing is the same, and no one is the same.

This is why I haven’t read The Collected Fiction of Jorge Luis Borges and why I will
continue not to read it. I don’t want to know how magic is done. The mystery, I tell
myself, to hide behind an explanation, is poetry. Explanation is prose, and too often
it is couched in the genre of horror. Whether or not people think deeply about their
existence, and about what is in their own interests, is another mystery. Some say
yes, some say no, some say (having thought about it) that the act of thinking
and the conclusions drawn from thinking are in any case illusory. When I hear
these latter people I recoil inside and think to myself these people have read Borges.

Many people whose lives are lived in almost identical circumstances to those of other
people also think they think, but nevertheless they draw different conclusions from the
same shared experiences. These conclusions may, to the dissenting concluders in the
group, seem to cause them to act against their own interests. Some people think that
this must surely indicate a pathology. Some people think that it is safe to allow the
election of those who will make decisions on their behalf, if not necessarily in their
interests (as they broadly judge their interests to be). The goal of these elections is
in part at least to mollify all shades of people who do not agree with each other. So
periodically the circus comes to town and, oh my townspeople!, the mystery of the
posters reoccurs, followed within the month by the coming of the horses themselves,
and the horseshit, the cages of drugged animals, the poisonous warmed-over interval
snacks, the fat ladies and bearded ladies, the clowns, the dwarfs, the colours and flags,
the bully boys who stop you getting in without a ticket, the man who tells big lies
and the woman who tells big lies. They tell big lies in plain sight, from the centre of
the ring. In any other existence where the brains of people do not act as reducing
valves this would seem outrageous. Among us though, among the many mysteries
of the earth including the river at Morlaix, and the little canal at Ourq, and the masters
of the world with their priests and their troops, and the wonder of people themselves,
and finally the straw of misery rotting in the steel of cannons, this all passes for
normal. Few are shocked, few are surprised. Only those with damaged reducing valves
acknowledge much of a rise in blood pressure. “The world is as it is,” says the
bookshop haunter. “The world is exactly as it is.”

Maybe a reason for not reading The Collected Fiction of Jorge Luis Borges may be
compared to previous reading mistakes which, at circus time, come back to haunt
us. Let’s say, to choose one, Appelfeld’s Badenheim 1939 for instance, may be
considered one such mistake. In other words, what if it were a terrible failure of
judgement to pick up Borges as if his name were merely a noun meaning “one
who writes”, as if it was something to do to pass the time, as if it was a momentary
escape into solitude, a momentary escape into being with ourselves. And what if
the innocent picks him up and reads him and discovers there that this madness of the
circus is not just explicable but utterly normal. What if inside the pages he finds Borges
holding up a person in one hand and displaying a ballot paper in the other and he
proceeds to dash one against the other? What if unheeding madness is the default state,
coupled with an unnoticed incomprehension, and bewilderment? What if at the supposed
height of feeling, at a time of rapt attention to beauty, to Bach, to Chopin, to any number
of painters, to rooms reduced to weeping by a passage of sounds, what if the reducing
valve of our brains collectively acts up and urges culls? What if people start up again
about the necessity for hunting humans, what if the country has developed to the point
where the best it has to offer is a ludicrous binary, what if the man who lies and the
woman who lies are taken seriously by anyone, what if one of them wins the key to the
circus’s ticket office safe? What if that’s why Borges comments and doesn’t preach? What
if he tells a story that goes not only from end to end but also from side to side, and then
beyond those sides which he makes clear are, anyway, always moving away from us.
What if that is why his name isn’t to be found among the condemners of the generals?

I have seen myself in one of these alternate universes, if that is what they are, or parallel
universes, if that is what they are, or senseless realities, if that is what they are, and if I
continue not to read The Collected Fiction of Jorge Luis Borges I can hope that my
reducing valve will continue to work and irreality will remain hidden and I can imagine
reading some story of his that I will never read. Let’s say I will imagine reading
his last story, Shakespeare’s Memory, and in the reality where I am reading this story I
am one of the visible eccentrics in our small town, the kind that will read a book as he
walks along the street on the way to buy food to feed his family, the kind that will note
as he passes the bankrupt butcher’s old shop (inside which a slab of sunlight is framing
the piles of letters with no one to read them, on the other side of the glass door) and what
if I will be so enraptured that life can be like this, that a man can read the thoughts of
another man about possessing the memory of yet another man, that I am easy prey for
what happens next. And what happens next is that, by way of a simple short run of
words, a door opens.

Let’s say it is the door of that butcher’s shop we have already mentioned. And from that
door emerges a man. And it is cold today but the sun is shining and that huge slab of
light from the sun is cast across the floor of that abandoned butcher’s shop. The sunlight
has streamed unimpeded through the glass of the door and windows because today they
are clear of circus posters. And perched opened in my left hand, like a thick-winged
bird, is The Collected Fiction of Jorge Luis Borges opened at that last story that the blind
Borges ever dictated, and under the arm of a man emerging from the abandoned butcher’s
shop are the circus posters. And what if I look at the man’s face and it is identical to mine?
And my reducing valve fails to protect me, it registers that this matter – the matter of the
sun and the window and the posters and the man - has occurred. And what if I am unsettled,
and I continue to read as I walk along the street through our town, like one of the visible
eccentrics of our town, before I can avert my eyes from the page

And what if I too have caught sight of the mysteries of the world, I too have caught
sight of how Trump was elected, and of how Clinton was offered as a ludicrous
alternative to a ludicrous proposition. I have caught sight of how this happens and
how this will always happen. I have caught sight of our fate, from end to end and, worse,
from side to side. I have caught sight of chaos and foolishness and determinism, and because
I have only imagined reading Borges my reducing valve has saved me and the posters have
gone and I still believe in magic and I still haven’t bothered to try to track down the page
of that book, the bookshop haunter’s other obsession, which has Ruskin saying that it all
went wrong when the first man put a fence around a plot of earth. And that is why I can
be one of the visible eccentrics of our town, because I don’t know the truth, because on
my way to buy food for my family I don’t read from a book as I walk along, and I don’t
weep at the terrible truth laid out in a short run of words. And I haven’t noticed as I
lingered in sunlight
that the open book in the woman’s hand over there by the fountains
in the centre of our small town is The Collected Fiction of Jorge Luis Borges, and as I
stand in that same sunlight I haven’t heard her reading aloud to the wheelchair-bound invalid,
and the scene hasn’t put me in mind of some scene from Russian literature or conjured a
recollection of voices at dusk on the terrace of the Winter Palace hotel in Luxor as the hills
of West Thebes turn purple in the dying light. And I haven’t, upon hearing her read a
sentence of what seems to me to be pure beauty, pure truth, immediately felt a sob rise in
my throat, and wondered if it is really a sob or if it isn’t a barely silent scream escaping or
an oh my god or the catching of myself in front of the mirror of that one sentence. And
I won’t be puzzled for days. I will take home the food I have bought to feed my family,
and someone will say who won and someone else will say how that makes them feel
and the world will be exactly as it is and what will happen tomorrow will be only what
can possibly happen.

And that is why I haven’t read The Collected Fiction of Jorge Luis Borges and why
you shouldn’t read it either.


Kemoe unreviewing Bolaño


Wednesday, January 10, 2018
Far into this government

… a thousand potions to make you smell better?
And people sleeping on the streets? – Howard Zinn

Coming to Cambridge on wet afternoons
In winter, far into this government,
Sees an old philosophy developed,
A comatose religion of careless
Photography, pictures taken, arm’s length,
Of their own composed and smiling faces
And old buildings; and unremarkable
Beside all the doorways, sodden humans,
Barely optimistic to ask for change.
It seems from across the street, surveying
The damp bedclothes of her day room, that love
Would be a close held hug, a slow stroking
Of her wet hair, a kiss of lips to brow,
Remembrance that the barely breathing girl
Is someone’s daughter in another life.
For whatever reason, early onset
Or sentimental romanticising,
Or wishing, or resiling from rescue,
The thin drizzle stops and she is beneath
An orchard tree, her now young face at ease,
And in someone’s voice calling her is love.

Saturday, December 30, 2017
Library (2)

Whilst reading Yeats by the Travel shelves
in the library at
Letchworth Garden City

In the library garden the wind circles
and wails beneath the gutters, like old men
together, old smokers struggling to breathe
their stories before the end of the storm.
Oh, one keens, I have loved and loved again,
and underneath the gutters other men
murmur lesser responses and one fool,
angry with his life, cannot hear them out
and slams the doors and windows with she left,
she left, and all my fault
, and then silence,
and a woman by the Travel shelves turns
to see the sudden rain the moans have brought,
and a sad crazed man comes close and shouts
about New Zealand. He was happy there.

Saturday, February 04, 2017
Diagnosis / Prognosis


These things grind us to such a sharpened point -
the brightly-lit room, the gaunt sick faces,
the corridor and our feet constantly
shifting to give way, the recesses called
bays as if the grey men there have at last
a view of the sea, and where with stumbling
dread we feel sure the tips of our horror’s
honed blades will catch against the curtain and
cut it open to a vista of dread
and oblivion that will not be like
going to sleep – there will not be postponed
things to complete upon rising, or a
breaking of the fast, or rain, or sun or
a knock on the door and a returning
love, but in so bright a place memories
come flooding in – a man interrupting
an embrace says ‘you dropped your ticket, you
must be in love,’
– how true, the broken bed,
the stained sheet, the passionate protesting,
two arched backs and bodies fused at the hips
making a wishbone on its side, testing
its own strength – where is she now all these years
later? Has she gone on ahead herself?
Will word get to her that I’ve gone? These things
in the rain after diagnosis bring
such pain, such a flood of knowledge of what
a look may mean – in every face already
the November weather, the damp-filled air,
the terror, the fixed masks of a planet
of walking dead, the queued traffic as it
crawls up Pond Street, exhausting grey,
screaming to you 'accept no leaders, not
one of them, friend, is worthier than you'



Who knows what happens in the lives of people
glimpsed from a train? As a train crosses
a viaduct, and far below one sees two cars
embraced in their splintered collision
and the lovers' arms gesticulate
towards each other and to heaven
and then are gone, and the train comes
to the kind of city where for minutes on end
it rolls through townscapes of shops
and vehicles queued at crossings,
and if not a man there restraining his sheep
from suicide then a man gone down
in the middle of the day, and around him
people have parted like the sea around a rock,
a circle of living coalesced around him,
observing the struggle they’ll all come to,
seeing that something about him is like a man
on a rope at the base of a tree in autumn,
frayed rope, weak hands, tired heart. An
ambulance arrives and no-one cries,
or cries aloud I have seen a man die
but inside, for the rest of the day, and now
and then for evermore when at the end
of another November leaves start to fall too early
or floodwater parts around a pile of leaves
or the book opens by chance at the page upon which
a poem struggles to talk about us,
some of us hear a voice calling ‘stand clear’
and see a body jolt, and the crossing gate opens
and we are past and the scene is gone
and has no prologue and no end like a page
of a story in an open magazine
in the doctor’s waiting room
to which one has returned
to hear what comes next.

Monday, October 31, 2016
In this

In this house you would come to believe
in ghosts and lives beyond the grave. Here
noises configure themselves into the voices
of those who’ve gone. “Cyril!” calls a wife
lost to cancer; a dead dog’s nametag chinks
against the brass of her collar; the creak
of an opening door, a footstep
on a warped floorboard, and someone
you’ve loved comes to breathe your name
once again, and now in Autumn the wind
moans beneath the eaves, and the small tornadoes
of leaves lifted in frenzied gusts
scratch against the window late at night
like the feeble clawing of all our loves
wanting to come back, wanting to make us
believe that we can ever be reunited.

Monday, August 01, 2016

Amsterdam, from Prison: A monologue and lament -- Mikey Delgado

Friday, May 15, 2015
things to do when elected

Friday, February 21, 2014
kitchen window, early morning sun

through east facing kitchen window, early morning sun
Monday, March 18, 2013
booking hall, spalding
waiting room, spalding

Sunday, May 06, 2012


Saturday, January 28, 2012

doorway, rye, east sussex

Tuesday, December 27, 2011



Saturday, December 17, 2011
island christ

island christ
collage - mf delgado

Sunday, August 07, 2011

at Ty Coch, Rhiwddolion - meadow flowers
mf delgado

Tuesday, April 26, 2011


Saturday, August 21, 2010

dungeness / August
Saturday, January 09, 2010
sledging at kenwood, saturday pm



Wednesday, January 06, 2010
sledging, golders hill, 3pm



Wednesday, December 02, 2009
malus (golden hornet?)



Tuesday, August 11, 2009
snowdon summit

snowdon summit, august

Saturday, July 11, 2009
fortnums, piccadilly

Thursday, May 28, 2009
lowsonford late afternoon

at lowsonford


Saturday, May 16, 2009
ashwell dairy

ashwell, herts

Tuesday, March 03, 2009
spring and all

spring and all

Friday, February 06, 2009
silver birches, mist and thaw

silver birches, mist and thaw
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Yr Wyddfa

snowdon summit
Saturday, September 27, 2008
skater and biker

skater and biker, south bank
Monday, September 22, 2008
running man on hampstead heath in misty morning light

running man, misty morning light, hampstead heath
Friday, May 30, 2008
bench, west meadow, kenwood

bench, west meadow, kenwood
Monday, April 14, 2008
mikey dread

jumping master
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
last ward




Wednesday, January 02, 2008

Thursday, December 13, 2007


Monday, December 03, 2007



Tuesday, November 27, 2007


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Sunday, September 02, 2007

the earth yields tender grass


Sunday, August 12, 2007



Monday, July 30, 2007

Friday, March 23, 2007

draft and pen

Posted by Hello
Wednesday, March 14, 2007


Saturday, March 10, 2007

Pearls caressed from bamboo / Spring

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Tuesday, December 26, 2006

dec 25 hyde park 3pm

last year

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Saturday, November 11, 2006

mostly birches, hampstead heath

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Sunday, October 29, 2006

near flatford mill

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Saturday, October 28, 2006

and it was so

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Saturday, October 21, 2006

saturday, after rain

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Thursday, October 05, 2006

our arms are full, our heads are empty

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