David is a poet, playwright, lyricist and short story writer from the North West of England.

He is a member of the international poetry study group Worldly Worders.

He has been published in a number of magazines both on-line and in print.

In 2016 his poem ‘Home Straight’ featured at the Fermoy International Festival.

The stage play ‘Intervention’ was produced for World Peace Day.

The main influences on his writing include; Ted Hughes, Ann Sexton, W. D. Snodgrass, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, James Baldwin, Pablo Neruda and his favourite poet Philip Larkin.

His poetry has been published in the following publications…
Poetry Pacific Magazine, TRR Poetry, Sixteen Magazine, Mad Swirl

Tulip Tree Review (Print Version) Oddball Magazine, Poem Hunter, THE BeZINE, Creative Talents Unleashed, Drawn to the Light Press, Live Encounters & The Galway Review.

His poem ‘He Crawled’ was placed third for the Pushcart Prize in the Blue Nib magazine in 2018. Also, in 2018 his poem ‘Pour me a Vision’ featured in VatsalaRadhakeesoon.wordpress.com for Dylan Thomas Day.

His debut collection ‘Through an Open Window’ was released in August 2021.

David’s website contains poems from his book, along with new works intended to find a home in a future collection.

https://david-ratcliffe.squarespace.com/

Sitting with Sylvia

She walked into an endless dream 
every step an echo, constant, resplendent,
swirling around a conch shell. With hinges 
of the basement door now eroded, light 

filtered through spent particles creating 
a pathway into painless existence.
On shedding her iron cloak prior actions 
hung from distant satellites as fractured
 
recall bled into fantasy. With earthly 
burden swallowed by darkness 
planets merged sweeping loss aside
leaving veracity in chains, with new 

horizons opening beyond her guessing. 
There the tide ebbed, leaving the scent 
of salt and weed under gull cry as sun 
peeked between clouds, one white one 

grey like eyeliner, with sand ripples 
and worm casts kneading her feet. She 
Walked into white foam that turned to 
stone along a narrow street of tiny, 

warped cottages. She’d passed an Inn 
whose bricks spoke in Old English to the 
clanking of pewter and merriment of rum. 
Unaccompanied, she wobbled on cobbles, 

past holy ruins to open fields with the 
jangle of church bells reverberating through 
hillside and crags, with sheep providing 
vocals over dry-stone. Unclad in a lazy 

pasture she mounted a bay, clung to the 
neck of a furious ride beyond earthly 
restraint, into the beaming light 
of organised oblivion. Knees locked in 

rhythm with muscle, finally they reached 
the birth of a timeless moment where with 
a shared exhale, a singular coffin bone 
kicked out breaking the glass.




**Thoughts on visiting Sylvia Plath’s grave, April 2023

The Lack of You

I remember the emotion in memory 
though the details are lost 
behind traffic in my mind.

I do remember 
your body moving like water
so much so, it flowed through me
each unchoreographed movement 
a ripple of sensual ease
your eyes like branding irons
that had me feeling in the dark.

These were hedonistic times
when I’d throw you lines 
to see where they’d land
then sink into my collar
afraid of the ripples.

The lack of you was always there
I’d grieved for you before we met
for you were in full bloom 
in a patch of weeds 
me an unripen pear 
seeking sun in midwinter.

Apart Together

Once more, 
I roam the foothills of monotony
looking toward peaks unreached
reliving the unlived life
of someone who’d painted every café in Paris
and sipped cheap wine with penniless artists
sharing tales taller than the nearby tower
we tried so hard to capture.

It is me there on river bank 
at (K De Montebello) Quai de Montebello 
With tourist gathered 
I’m biting hard on my pencil
Like a novice golfer on the first tee
Nervously outlining 
the structure of Notre Dame.

It’s the someone I might have been 
had I unleashed my vagabond spirit 
and risked everything 
in an effort to escape nothing.

Was it the weight of Renoirs brush 
that held me back?
Maybe?
But no matter now that 
the paint has dried
as I look up toward the beret-wearing 
bohemian in me.