The Letters Lit: Official Unboxing, or should I say un-enveloping? And a poem inspired by my letter!

Happy New Year everyone!  One of my resolutions, is to write more and read more, so hopefully you will see an increase in my posts!  I am lucky to be completely spoiled this month, with lots of wonderful bookish goodies arriving through the mail, giving me inspiration for writing as well as new books to read.  On Sunday, you may have seen my post about unboxing my fabulous Bookish Box, and tonight I get to unbox (or should that be un-envelope?) my fabulous Letters Lit package.

letters lit 2If you are unfamiliar with The Letters Lit, they are a company which offer you book letters as opposed to boxes, thus giving you the experience of a book box subscription, at a fraction of the cost.  Every month, you receive a stunning wax sealed envelope, containing a selection of beautiful goodies themed around that month’s book.  This months book is ‘Season’ by Sarah Maclean, which I am very much looking forward to reading and reviewing (keep an eye out for the full review here on my blog).

Inside my package, I received some beautiful classic prints, which would look beautiful on any wall or notice board, some beautiful ribbon, some orange wedge post-it notes (as a list maker, this particular gift makes me very happy!), a heart shaped tea diffuser as well as a Twinings Earl grey tea bag (which I fully intend to sip as I read), a Letters Lit inspired page mark/paperclip and finally, my personal favourite, a bath tea bag (I wish I could add scent to my images, because wow does it smell divine).  The whole letter is just bursting with joy, and I love every little detail!  You can feel the care and consideration that goes into choosing each item and as a lover of all things vintage, I adore the classic vibes.

I have been following this company since their launch, and am so pleased to see them thriving and growing!  Subsequently, I was inspired to write a poem- I hope you like it!!

What joy to read,
to turn a page.
To fight and bleed,
explore an age.
To love or hate,
to shed a tear,
challenge fate
or face your fear

What joy to explore
a world unknown,
where dragons soar
and banshee moan.
Where ogres hide
amongst the fae
and vampire brides
escape the day.

What joy to share
a world in hand.
To cry and care
to understand.
To find yourself
through printed word,
where hearts they dwell
and lines are blurred.

What joy a book,
how knowledge spreads,
where wise men look
and brave ones tread.
But what of ends,
of final words?
When all is done?
That land preferred.

There is a way
to make it last
to steal away,
into the past.
A gift through door,
where book worms sit
waiting for
The letters lit.

Instructions simple,
there is but one:
Open seal with letter knife
A gift to bring a book to life.

Mother: A Poem and the latest edition of my collaborative series ‘Inspired.’

It’s officially Autumn.  The weather is beginning to turn, the days are shortening and the leaves will soon fall from the trees.  I hope, wherever you are, you are warm and cosy this Sunday evening!  For the latest edition of my collaborative series ‘Inspired’ I have collaborated with the incredibly talented Aurelya Raven, an artist and photographer from Berlin, Germany.  I was immediately drawn to Aurelya’s images, with their dream like quality and stunning content, every one painted a story.  For our collaboration, I was inspired by her beautiful photographs to write a poem, and Aurelya was in turn inspired to create the stunning images below.  If you love her work as much as I do, you can see more on her Instagram.  And if you are an artist or photographer, and would be interested in collaborating, please get in touch!

Mother 1


She is Mother,

formed in shadow and light,

lifeblood of the forest,

roots, twisting, veins of the earth.

Her song is carried on the wind,

                                                                                                              sometimes a whisper,

                                                                                                                                   often a cry.


Her tears fall with the rain,Mother2

nourishing, feeding, then

washing away, erasing, flooding.

She weakens,

earth replaced by concrete,

trees felled, soil leeched.

Pesticides, insecticides, poison.

She weeps for us,

                     our Mother,

                                            for we are killing,

we are destroying,

                                   we are dying.

                                                           She is Mother,

                                                                                                     soon she will be no more.





Awake with eyes closed: A Poem.

Happy Sunday everyone!  Another week has passed us by in the blink of an eye, and I hope you all had a good one!  For tonight, I wanted to post something personal to me.  I have spoken before about struggling with depression and anxiety in my life, and this poem focuses on  depression, and the way I personally experienced it, namely as overwhelming apathy.  I often found that to be the most difficult part, the lack of feeling, and frankly I would have preferred to be sad.  I believe it is important to be open and honest about these things, because even in today’s society, there is still a stigma surrounding mental health issues.  In reality, a huge number of people suffer or have suffered from the same issues, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.  I honestly think that if everyone opens up about such things, we can remove that stigma, and more importantly, we can ensure that no one suffers alone, ashamed of asking for help.  I hope you like it, let me know in the comments section below, and don’t forget to subscribe to my blog to keep up to date with all my posts!  Finally, if this seems familiar, or if you find yourself struggling more than usual, then I encourage you to speak to someone: your friends, your family, a charity or counsellor.  Don’t suffer alone!

Awake with eyes closed


Weighted, still,

Staring, blurred eyes.


unwilling, not unable.

What’s the point?

Life passing,

a waking sleep.

There are no dreams here,

just regrets.

It consumes you,

apathy, entropy

There are no dreams,

just regrets.

Mother’s Day Haiku poetry.

Since it is Mother’s day in some parts of the world, I decided to dedicate this blog post to mothers everywhere.  I myself am a mother, to a beautiful and perfect baby girl, and I now know just how much I owe my own mum.  It is the hardest job I have ever done, and the most rewarding.  I have never been more frustrated or happy, all rolled into one ball of emotions, and I am thankful every day to have been blessed with my daughter.

I also wanted to do something a bit different, so instead of a short story, I thought I would try to write some haiku poetry for the first time.  For those of you unfamiliar with a haiku, originating from Japan, it is a three line poem which consists of five syllables, seven syllables and then five syllables again.  It sounds short and easy, but it’s harder than you think.

I decided to write one haiku as a mother and a second as a daughter.  Let me know what you think, and Happy Mother’s Day to all the mums out there!  If you feel inspired to write your own haikus then please post them in the comments section below.

I hold her closer,

Tiny hand wrapped round my thumb.

I am truly whole.

I hope I’m like her.

Strong, kind smart and loving.

My hero, my mum.

Inspired Part 8

Inspired is a series in which I collaborate with other creative people.  I have collaborated with photographers, illustrators, comic book artists and painters and for this part I am collaborating with a poet.  The poet in question is called Georgia Lee Rose and she lives in Auckland, New Zealand, but you probably know her as ‘The Coffee Cup Poet.’  Georgia expresses herself with poetry, by free writing her words onto a beautifully illustrated and photographed coffee cup.  She started on Tumblr in 2013, as a way to get her out of a writing slump and stop her over thinking and over analysing her work.  She has been on Instagram since 2014 and has amassed thousands of followers.  If you like her poetry as much as I do, check her out!  For this collaboration, I wrote a story and sent it to Georgia, who used it as inspiration for this wonderful poem, which she then carefully placed onto a coffee cup.  If you would like to collaborate with me, please get in touch, and let me know what you think of this piece in the comments section below.  Don’t forget to subscribe to my blog, for updates and alerts when I post something new.

Coffee cup image

Beginnings and Ends

She didn’t truly understand the meaning of heartbreak until she met him. She had read endless novels depicting women crumpling under the weight of loss and she had seen a multitude of movies showing images of running mascara and snotty tissues. She had even read the endless advice columns from her favourite glossy magazines; ‘How to forget him’, ‘He isn’t worth it’ or ‘Move on with moving on.’ If there was a test, she would pass with flying colours. She was like that, learned, fastidious. She believed life could be learned in advance. Studied for like any test.

She loved to read. She digested books like meals and always had room for desert. She also liked to run. It cleared her head. She would run and run sometimes, without realising how far she had got, endless thoughts preoccupying her mind. She was fun. She danced without embarrassment or self awareness, she sang to the songs that played in the background of supermarkets, and she had a laugh that got her noticed and made others smile.

The first time she had met him, was in the university library. He had sat beside her, despite many empty benches. His elbows touched hers and he smelled of cloves. After about an hour, he had passed her a handwritten note, scrawled in red biro. It read simply, ‘Lunch?’ With one word, he seduced her. They enjoyed their first meal, then their first kiss, and then other firsts, precious and cherished, and never forgotten.

He was tall, over six foot, and she had to crane her neck to kiss him. She liked the way his long arms completely enclosed around her as she breathed him in. He had the same dark sense of humour as her, and they would laugh until they cried. They always held hands while walking, no matter the weather, resulting in a constant clamminess. He was in a band that played terrible punk music, with too much distortion and yelled lyrics. She was front row to every show. When her Father died, he had stood beside her, wearing a suit for the first time in his life, fidgeting at the uncomfortable tie and the even more uncomfortable silence.

They had a song. It had been playing in the trendy hipster bar on their second date; Moon River. It should have been a sign. They took endless selfies, always smiling, sometimes kissing cheeks or silly faces. The world knew them, and agreed they were the perfect couple. They moved in together their final year. After more than six months, they still had boxes as coffee tables and foot stools. They didn’t care, as long as they had a bed and each other.

They started fighting, quietly at first, then louder. He stayed out too much, and never said who he was with. She checked his phone when he was in the bathroom. He hated that guy in her class. He became moody and surly, sniping at her and making passive aggressive remarks. She always rose to the bait. They yelled and cried and said things they didn’t mean and could never take back.

He needed space, at first a few days, then a few weeks, then his things were gone and only odds and ends remained. A toothbrush, an odd sock, deodorant, a dog eared book; insignificant and minor in of themselves, but reminders of something painful, something that was once beautiful. Something broken. She cried when she saw these things, she kept them, even though they had no use. She stayed in her pyjamas, and ate junk food, watching horror movies and cheesy rom coms. She whinged to her friends, her family, anyone who would listen. Her profile was now full of vague comments, designed to have people ask how she was, desperate to express her rage, her sorrow to anyone who would listen.

She kissed other boys, but it wasn’t the same. They tasted differently, and she missed the way he smelled, and the way he would kiss the top of her head when they hugged. She called him drunk, and he said hurtful things to her. She never did so again after that, but there was more tears, more heartache.

She recovered, slowly, but healing takes time. She began to look around again, and smile at those who smiled at her, unafraid of their intent or agenda. She ran again, her thoughts no longer being exclusively about him. She read books, not about heartbreak and self help, but about strength through adversity and adventures and travel. She danced with friends, and even with other men, and sang aloud to the music, never caring who saw or heard. She laughed, at friends and movies and books and shows, and she found herself again, stronger than before, but changed nonetheless.

Georgia’s Poem:

He smelled like cloves
and I shopped for his
scent long after
he left me
dancing beat-less against our
firsts, our
lasts, our only’s
crushing love
more now than
snarling breath, and
what we’d used it for, I
dab my skin
with stems and
until it’s gone.

Tragedy in London.


Like many people all over the world, but particularly here in Britain and Ireland, I was horrified watching the news unfold from Westminster yesterday. It is truly heartbreaking to know that people lost their lives so senselessly, including a Police officer on duty, who died protecting others. Anyone who has visited this area will know it is regularly packed with people, many of which are tourists, and often, children. I dread to think what they witnessed there yesterday. My heart goes out to the families of those killed and injured.

Events like these are, tragically, becoming all too common. It seems like every day, we turn on the news or open our phones to find other innocent people have lost their lives in a terrorist attack, and I can understand why, through fear, behaviours and attitudes can change. But I am comforted that in the face of so much sorrow and adversity, the majority of people refuse to let these events change who they are or how they live. For every act of terror, there is a dozen acts of kindness, and instead of being divided, as is the intention behind the atrocity, more often than not, it unites us. Together, we are stronger.

Today, Westminster is open for business as usual. People will take that same route to work. They will continue, and they will prevail. Inspired by these tragic events, I wrote a poem, which I would like to share with you.


With every fire set,

We will prevail.

Rising from ashes,

Standing united,

Stronger than ever.

You cannot win.

Arms embraced,

Holding up wounded.

Words of comfort,

Spoken softly.

You cannot win.

Wounds heal,

Tears dry,

Never forgotten.

You cannot win.

You will not win.


*Apologies for the lay out of the poem, but this was the only way I was able to put it up.