Three poems by me published in Spring this year by the unspeakably brilliant Poetry Review Salzburg, to which all poetry lovers should subscribe. Find out more about it here and here.
Scrolling over the electric erotic
can sometimes take hours from your humdrum life,
wouldn’t you agree? And not a bad thing
perhaps you’d also agree. A teasing
of the priapic, a showering of dream
from the numina. It must be a blessing
at our age, in our age. Think what Catullus
would have made of this, or Martial: watch them
grinning, gurning, stressing, recomposing
their togas, stretched on their sofas, stylus
in hand, making the world, exhausted.
THE FUNERAL PEBBLE
Black as new asphalt
Smooth as an earlobe
Round as a pill
Given for courage
Kept in the pocket
Held in the palm
An ember of love
In the chill of the church.
JIM CLARK (ACROSS THE HALL)
The boy runs from the room with awful news,
awful thrilling news: a hero is dead.
“Jim Clark is dead,” he tells his mother
who is doing something in the kitchen.
He has dashed across the hall, and now
decades later only that moment remains:
you can see him fly from the green study
where all the books are, across the hall,
and disappear into the kitchen. The rest
you must imagine: the breaking of the news,
the telling of the news. Grey school shorts
flash across the hall.
But it was a Sunday.
And all at once history flattens into lie
the only truth remaining our mortality.
Jim Clark, considered among the very greatest racing drivers,
was killed in an accident in Germany in 1968