Thursday, 31 October 2019

George Steiner

George Steiner has died. Among other things, he wrote 'The Portage to San Cristobal of A.H.' about Jewish Nazi hunters who track down Hitler in South America, which I read fascinated. An extremely erudite man, and one I was rather thrilled to meet, he scolded me for failing to inform The Times of a lecture he was giving, one I'd organised as part of an American Festival, at the Royal Society. 'Your father would not have forgotten', he told me. He seemed extremely put out. I was embarrassed, though I thought his barb rather cruel. He was a genuine intellectual, rather than an academic, his audience the public; his writing was always engaging.

Tuesday, 29 October 2019


I don't write much poetry these days.  Here's a short, simple one.  I don't seem to be able to set it in the lines in which it was written, so I've run it together, separating the lines with a slash.

What is your book about, asked the critic / and she said running.  Running? He frowned. / Yes, running.  But it’s set in 1950. / We ran in 1950, she said. But - / But nothing, she said. It was 1950,  / and it was our turn to be alive.


Saturday, 5 October 2019


There are no pigeons.  There are crows.

They cycle on the pavements.  The metro in Tokyo is splendid.

They have drink-vending machines on every corner, but no fizzy water

Wires.  They have a lot of wires.  They don’t care how they look.

They put quails’ eggs into the heads of small octopi and eat them.

The lavatories (electric) are equipped with provision for enema and bidet.

Beer is more expensive than whisky.

The rivers are straight. The gardens are exquisite.

Fucking futons. Fucking, fucking futons.

Talking on the phone on public transport is really not on.  Bumping is fine.

Mount Fuji does not actually exist.