In The Poetry

For some reason I have a great fascination with bad taste. This is one example.

In the Meat-Safe

There is a functional greyness
where the banal, but unusual,
has found a graceless permanence
that only the odd can admire.
Those collectors of cigarette cards
and worthless believe-it-or-not facts,
are the antiquarians of corroded
appliances who worship a dullness
as lonely as the fattest man [...]

This is a far-off place in the North of Ireland called Desertmartin.

Desertmartin

At noon, in the dead centre of a faith,
Between Draperstown and Magherafelt,
This bitter village shows the flag
in a baked absolute September light.
Here the Word has withered to a few
Parched certainties, and the charred stubble
Tightens like a black belt, a crop of Bibles.

Because this is [...]

This is a version of a famous poem by Mallarme called ‘Brise Marine’

Sea Wind

(Mallarme)

It’s a sad creature I’m afraid the body
all the classics – every book that stands steady
I on my shelves I’ve read them through but only
to make this wish – oh to walk to the edge of the sea
and watch stints skittering along [...]

For some reason I have a great fascination with bad taste. This is one example.

In the Meat-Safe

There is a functional greyness
where the banal, but unusual,
has found a graceless permanence
that only the odd can admire.
Those collectors of cigarette cards
and worthless believe-it-or-not facts,
are the antiquarians of corroded
appliances who worship a dullness
as lonely as the fattest man [...]

Paul Klee’s surname, translated, means “Clover”.

Klee/Clover

Nightwatch after nightwatch
Paul Klee endured
‘horribly boring guard duty’
at the gasoline cellar
and every morning
outside the Zeppelin hangar
there was drill then a speech
tacked with junk formulas
he varnished wings
and stencilled numbers
next to gothic insignia
a private first-class
with a lippy dislike
of their royal majesties
and Flying School 5 (Bavaria)

he wrote home to Lily
it’s nice this spring [...]

This is a far-off place in the North of Ireland called Desertmartin.

Desertmartin

At noon, in the dead centre of a faith,
Between Draperstown and Magherafelt,
This bitter village shows the flag
in a baked absolute September light.
Here the Word has withered to a few
Parched certainties, and the charred stubble
Tightens like a black belt, a crop of Bibles.

Because this is [...]