Poets is powered by Vocal creators. You support Andrew Wilson by reading, sharing and tipping stories... more

Poets is powered by Vocal.
Vocal is a platform that provides storytelling tools and engaged communities for writers, musicians, filmmakers, podcasters, and other creators to get discovered and fund their creativity.

How does Vocal work?
Creators share their stories on Vocal’s communities. In return, creators earn money when they are tipped and when their stories are read.

How do I join Vocal?
Vocal welcomes creators of all shapes and sizes. Join for free and start creating.

To learn more about Vocal, visit our resources.

Show less


More of My Recent Poems!

I will say a few words before each poem, in explanation. The first one concerns the land known as The Westwood, near the Yorkshire town of Beverley.

High on The Westwood

Land of the pasturemasters, as of yore.

A green, unspoiled paradise, it still

Casts over me the same spell as before

It did, and I dare say it always will.

The Grandstand appears through a blueish haze,

Calling to gamblers and other like fools;

The distant Minster recalling those days

When people knew that it is Christ Who rules.

My grandfather's asylum fairly near,

Reminding us of the darkness within,

Which Dr Jung says we should hold so dear,

For, only in its gloom may we see light.

In summer's heat the land is dotted with

Ice-cream vans dispensing their sweet delight.

The next concerns my mother's mother:

Lilias Tweedie Davie (1894-1974)

Overlooked by Andrew Robb and his wife,

Her ancient ancestors from Peebles-shire,

My grandmother towards the end of life

Ate fine fruit cake with such sweet composure.

In younger days a watercolourist,

The charms of Bartok were to her unknown.

Hers the graciousness of the true artist,

When Tom Davie left her eight years alone.

Car headlights reflected on the ceiling

Of the nursery where I used to sleep,

On the wall my grandmother's engraving.

She'd studied at Edinburgh's School of Art.

I take from her her "can do" attitude,

And that in life we should play our full part.

Beverley Minster

The third relates to real events which happened to me in 2015/16

Sweet Anaesthesia

Injected by a sweet anaesthetist,

I enjoyed the losing of consciousness.

ECT might not have headed the list

Of experiences I craved, but unless

I am mistaken, it did me some good.

Psychiatric medication harmed me,

Taking away from me my taste for food,

And causing me to faint quite cruelly.

"You're putting it on" cried a Jamaican.

This was not true, though she may not have known.

The day came when I at home would waken.

Looking back, bipolar symptoms now ended,

I recall memories both bad and good,

Medicine and hospital transcended.

The fourth sonnet relates to travelling by train from Lincoln to Norwich in the early 1970s. John Nichols was my great-grandfather, pictured below.


Telegraph poles which were not quite upright,

Rows of poplars, and the gorgeous black soil.

Just some of the impressions which I might

Set down, and which time cannot ever spoil.

Locomotion an "English Electric,"

Our cosy compartment well-upholstered,

Corned-beef sarnies with mustard just the trick;

March South Junction, not forgotten once heard.

We passed Pinchbeck Marsh, where John Nickols farmed.

Later on, Lakenheath and its air base.

Tuliped Fenland, by this who'd not be charmed?

What wondrous farmland, dead-level, austere.

Criminals have come and ripped up the tracks,

Destroying so much of what I hold dear. 

My Great-Grandfather John Nickols (1848-1915)

Now Reading
Read Next
The Body