Category Archives: Poetry

A little recycling

I wrote this three years ago – look, you can see it in situ here. It’s not bad. Blimey. OK, it’s not Wallace Stevens, but I, astonishingly, don’t hate it. So you’ll have to read it again yourselves. I insist. … Continue reading

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The shadow of his equipage

It has been snowing, here in the Southern end of Blighty. A mere couplet of inches, and yet the public transport system is staggering about in hiccups (it took me more than two hours to get to work yesterday morning, … Continue reading

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Thus in winter

I was pootling about the internets, as you do, looking for decent sonnets written after 1700 [as you do - Ed.], and I found Edna St. Vincent Millay. Why did no one tell me about Edna St. Vincent Millay before? … Continue reading

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I wrote something.

Poetry Friday was yesterday, obviously, and there was no poetry, because I am on holiday and days of the week do not apply to the holidaying (unless they are trying to buy stamps in a very small village), and anyway, … Continue reading

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A little silence

Yesterday was Armistice Day. At the eleventh hour, I snuck off into the stacks at work, so I could stand for two minutes in silence without being interrupted. My first year working at the Current Place of Employment (affectionately nicknamed … Continue reading

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Friday is still for poetry

Funeral Cortege Grey water stilled by the turning tide, All things bated between the inbreath and the out But us, and a dozen paper boats Strung along the water where the river Lifts itself over the grey sand, wet stones. … Continue reading

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Friday is for poetry. It just is. I’ve decided

Holy Innocent In Spring this old magnolia puts forth White hands held up in prayer, is One hundred saints on one worn trunk, And passers-by lift up their faces. Oh birdie, I would have shown you it, And you, just … Continue reading

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Still here. Still busy.

January Daylight Is cold one day in five, is wet, Is kept awake by gales, Is astonishingly still by dawn. Is grey as a tupperware box, is clear, Is an arctic glass-cold summer, Is thick with salty water, Is shrunken, … Continue reading

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The Apple-Thief

(Photo courtesy of Ramson) At dawn of day the apple-thief Comes dancing in her leitmotif, Slotting each foot in a previous slot Made yesterday in the orchard plot, Returns again to where left off she – The leafless, branch-bent apple-tree … Continue reading

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New Year, at last

Dearest Readers, all best wishes for a thoroughly charming 2008. And hello! First post of the year! Only four days late! Posting on the first of January was naturally out of the question, as I only got home from my … Continue reading

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