Tuesday, July 27, 2021

Work in Progress

This site is (as you can see) a work in progress, after a haitus, gap, disappearance...for a couple of years.

Do check out the pages listed in the right hand column here for some elements of work to date.

Please keep an eye on the site over the next few weeks for new work, new back stories...and maybe some new tankas too!

See you soon ;-)


Sunday, April 12, 2015

And Death shall have no Dominion

In memory of Uncle John, who died last month in Wales.

RIP John Penri Hillman

Uncle John’s Hands

Big enough to hold the baby
In his palm, my uncle John had
Shoulders like a giant
The safest place
Was the palm of his hand

He walked the Valleys in seven-league boots
Leapt over mountains
He knew where black frogs hide
And rabbits have tea parties

When the tip at the pithead slipped and
Covered the school,
With big hands he shovelled all day
Holding little bodies in the palm of his hand.


From Postcards

Vaynor Churchyard, Merthyr Tydfyl

It was cold all day, we were
leaves blown among the graves and
John spat on Crawshay’s stone ‘The Devil’s
Got a mate’ he said. God Forgive Me said
the stone, but its voice was lost in moss.
Though the foundry tips are grassy now, still
The bitter scent of iron’s in the air.

Red Wharf Bay, Anglesey

Beyond the horseshoe of fields
Is another world. I’ve written
letters in it, watched tiny crabs
Swim to a cold doom until the sun
Sank away. Now the water rises,
And everything’s washed free.

Trefusis Point, Cornwall

We’re sitting on the dragon’s head, and
The sea is bubbling with its breath -
I saw the whole dragon once, it was very
Green, smelt of soil and salt.
Of course, that was before I lost
My innocence - before I found you.


And this, from the wonderful Dylan Thomas...

And Death shall have no Dominion
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion. 

Thursday, March 12, 2015

That Butch

That Butch

That butch is made of
hard wood, ebony and bone

holds me in the 
palm of her hand

woman gives me 
oceans full of dragging waves

turns me inside out, steers 
me with her constant fingers

no need to stop
no time for no

my cunt swims when I
see her, smell her

hell for leather, 
I'd crawl for that butch

(c) Hayley Fox-Roberts, 1999

Friday, August 8, 2014

Saturday Night Fever in Carrick on Shannon!

Northwest LGBT Pride presents

Saturday 9th August @ Burke’s Back Bar
Bridge Street, Carrick on Shannon, Co. Leitrim

Followed by heats of Ms/Mr Gay Leitrim and then

Al Fresco Disco: Retrosexual!!
100% Vinyl Oldies
Doors open 7.30pm / Quiz 8pm /
All events €10/€8 concessions
                             Disco only (from 10pm) €6     



Saturday, February 16, 2013


The Winter-Went-Unblogged 
Two Tiny Tankas

Four winter months slush past, not counted
In hours but in weather effects and the labour of love
Electronic blogs don't get written.

Hiss in the ground as of sap rising
At least three mice have migrated from the house, it's time
To dust the cobwebs from my corners.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Mothers and Farmers: more poems from the shelf...

More delving into notebooks...I've photographed the poems written on walls but not done anything with them yet. So many poems, so little organisation, but what matters to me is that they're there with a life of their own, even if they need some polishing. So today, here's two more...this time from the Red Notebook.

My Mother's Trees (2007)

From the bathroom window, my
Mother watches her trees. She says the
Aspen is the lady in a crinoline, the
Tall poplar the gentleman. The lady
Twirls and light catches her as she dips and turns.
Other trees would like to dance, but they
Crowd together to watch the lady. No room for
Other dancers here. The wind carries
Music for accompaniment: the
Sunlit jewels of her gleaming leaves shine
As she gavottes. My mother
watches the dance, enthralled.
Soon my mother may not remember
Words to describe her. But
She will still be dancing.


Cotton Farmers: India 2007

White bolls like rabbit scuts
Fill your hands; goes nowhere.
Your double hands full can't compete with
10,000 acres of mid-west America.
On a downward slope, pay out for GM seeds
No sale. No return.
The pesticide you bought on loan
To protect your artificial seed
When swallowed, does the trick.
No return.

Sunday, September 30, 2012

The Upturned Boat

"Art is the air pocket in an upturned boat" Jeanette Winterson

For the past few years I've been writing on available surfaces - walls, backs of envelopes, scraps of paper, occasionally my skin...
This autumn I' decided it's time to start pulling the fragments together. In no particular order...some are dated, some I remember from where I wrote them, or what ink, pencil or lipstick I used...there doesn't need to be logical progression in writing, any more than there's logical progression in how we perceive the world. We are living fragments, and around us the world takes shape through own imagery. Some of those fragments are mysteries to me. Surprises from my own life and my own art.

Two poems from A Little Black Notebook
- works in progress, y'dig

[@ National Portrait Gallery, Dublin. 2007?8?9?]

Dead art, voices of dead men
A hung rabbit, slaughtered
Cocks, lobster boiled blood red.
These are their banquets:
Old men's faces, dead hearts
In dark oils. Breughel
Lays his venom of venious
Life in layers of paint.
the darkness of the soul -
No life or beauty leaps out
But sinful dark and wormy age.


[@ County Clare...can't remember the place name...]

Lake's like the Lady with her mouth wide open
Calling from the bottom of her throat
Calling 'come and swim here' calling 'come and fall'.
You can't resist it, taking up the note

Water pulls like gravity: reed coils.

When you hear Her, the world begins to slip
Slick and smooth, she breathes and draws you down
Rope of reed and rushes tightens and is pulling
Don't resist it, follow up the call...

Road coils down below you, sticky...

Lake's like the Lady with Her mouth wide open
Calling from the bottom of her heart.
Calling 'come and swim here', calling 'love and fall'
Lake is like the ending or the start.

Ache with the loss of Her watery redemption