Why He Likes Her

She breaks her own heart
on her knees at his feet
begs his permission
to lick up the bits

Tells him it is always his
though it’s not very good
and she’s sorry
always sorry

He can have her please
keep her – she promises
to apologise her love
to him forever



He’s stocked up his reserves,
insulation from the cold outside,
from the wind, the cruelties;
he’s tuning them out.

Forget Christmas, forget snow,
forget whisky-cheeked lovers
laughing under streetlights,
holding mittened hands.

He’ll keep his warm in fists,
the heating cranked high,
the windows locked tight,
the lamps off.

He wants no part of it;
he’s checking out
until spring.
No one will touch him.





Ok, so it’s not quite winter yet, but this song came into my head as a cosy antidote to the rather melancholy poem in this post… Enjoy!


Publication news – The Stare’s Nest

Hello, lovely readers!

Just a quick note to share some good news. I’m very proud indeed to have my poem “Nobody, Of Rotherham” featured today on “The Stare’s Nest”.

It’s a new poem, totally unseen here or elsewhere and it focuses on true events that have been very much in the UK news in recent months.

Leaving my poem to the side, I cannot recommend “The Stare’s Nest” page highly enough. It’s a platform for “poems for a more hopeful world” and is updated daily with contemporary poetry about the world we live in – how it is and how we’d like it to be. There is much to enjoy and inspire.

So, here’s the links.

My poem is here: http://thestaresnest.com/2014/10/13/holly-magill-nobody-of-rotherham/

But also, please, please take a look at the site as a whole here: http://thestaresnest.com/

Thanks, as always, for reading!
Take care all!




Never meant to bite, just to nip;
a risk to any tender skin, but
only playing, yes, only playing.

They muzzled her loud mouth,
chained her up, caged her in
with all their other mongrels;
the odd-looking and the lame,
the abandoned and the strays.

Said she was best kept that way;
like all those other dirty bitches
who couldn’t be trusted
to sit and stay;
behave: or she’d see the man
with the needle and nothing more.

The night-howling was the worst:
she vowed never to learn to beg.

One morning her leash swayed,
empty-slipped like a used noose
above the blanket she’d pissed on.

Now it is her season: she runs
for her pack, to find a fit mate,
to roll, growl and play
dirty by her own rules:
no one can hold her.



“Why do you do it?” she asks,
a genuine question; her fingers
worry at a pink frosted cupcake,
dismantling it on her plate.

“No one pays you,” she says:
her eyes mourn ever wider,
fingers pattering the crumbs,
trying to make Braille of them.

“But then…” She hesitates,
revelation stilling those fingers
in the devastation of her plate:
“I guess, if you’ve time to waste…”

Rising to it, I force-smile myself
to the counter – two more cakes,
a pot of strongest builders tea:
we are both in need of the sugar.

Publication News – Nutshells & Nuggets

Just a little note to share my happiness at having a poem featured on the lovely Nutshells and Nuggets page. They publish short poetry – some very short poetry indeed – on their page. My poem is “Hums” and was written over the hottest bit of the summer…

Here’s a link….


I totally recommend having a read round the other poems on there – some excellent stuff.

Guilty – New Poem

Hello World Of Blog – gosh, how I’ve missed you! Anyway, here’s a new poem…


I nearly stole his phone.
It was an accident.

Somehow it was in my hand
instead of the empty pint,
closing time, end of the night.

Don’t remember any further:
memory edited or censored.
Never worked out which.

Next morning a surprise
lucky dip shock
in my coat pocket.

Flat plastic hangover baffle,
“Mum” buzzing in my palm:
It bounced off my toe
on the way down.

Took it to the Police station:
hoping, please, he’d come
claim it, lost property.
Desk woman wanted details:
I made a break for the door

smack into him coming in:
Me, shame-facing the floor,
waving him to the desk.

He said did I fancy coffee.
I legged it.

Yes, I nearly stole his phone.
It was an accident.
Never got his number.



A warm splat of lips to cheek
is his greeting: feels like a bird
shat on my face at close range.

I’m dying to wipe his slobber gone:
even though it’s not the done thing
at such a genteel gathering.

Fretted flowerbeds and fingernails
frosted to shimmer like pink sweets,
pretty pedicures in peep-toes
that pinch and heels that plunge
deep into the host’s lauded lawn,
but it’s too posh a do for us to kick
off shoes. Great Aunts and cousins:
sometimes distant for a reason.

We perch and chat nice-nothings,
clink china beneath trees that smirk
down loose leaves in our careful hair.

He sidles closer on the picnic bench:
long time, no see – how I’ve blossomed,
apparently. His hairline is sidling away

and my instinct is to follow as it flees,
though I fear it’d not be quick enough,
so I’ve no choice than to stay,

arching my body away, a contortionist’s
stretch, a talent I never knew I possessed:
any other day, I’d be quite impressed.

The tablecloth drags with his sliding knee:
linen wrinkling disapproval under plates
of swollen scones and I have to steady
my tea from spilling. His elbow winks
blithe to my side, his hip creeps sly
up to mine, polyester trouser-heat
gluing sweat to my thigh.

I edge, none to subtle,
to the end of the seat. Any nearer
and he’ll be slap-bang in my lap,
like a grabby toddler, demanding

a lick of my cream: I’ll have to pierce
his testicles with a cake fork to make
my point and escape, throw my tea
hot in his crotch, or topple my body,
as if Pimms-pissed and heat-stricken
into the laughing hydrangeas:
there’s no way on this earth

he’s getting his jammy paws
on me. Sometimes, like I say,
we’re distant for a very good reason.

Publication News – HCE Magazine!

Happy days!

The fab HCE (Here Comes Everyone) magazine have published my new poem, “Territory” (which has not appeared here on the blog) in their “Disgust” themed issue. It’s on page 43, but I highly recommend you check out the mag as a whole as there’s oodles of brilliance in there – I am feeling quite starstruck!



No Confessional

No Confessional

If you really must know, she’ll satisfy
your prurient curiosity, co-operate
with your prying enquiries,
humour your pesky questions.
Her whereabouts at the time
of that very unfortunate incident:
well – it’s quite clear if you read
between those lines. Read it right.
Never was at the scene of that crime.
No alibi: truth lies on no-one’s shelf.
Still now, completely elsewhere,
the unabridged version strung out.
Her own Gone Girl; pulp-cornered,
cream-lipped and replete
she dangles and swings
in their cattiest cradle.
Always just out of reach.
Her fable complete. At first
they hooked her in by her eye
on those quick-turned pages
and clutched her tight in the spine.
Captured: a marker, in her place.
No ransom is demanded,
for who would care to pay?
Though she could make you…
But no, in actuality,
she is already released.
No Stockholm. She is free.
You cannot read her here.

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