from Spiking the Canon: A Poem
Ulysses The critics give it ten out of ten, the literary equivalent of Zen. Is it Joyce’s folly or his ‘Good Golly Miss Molly’? Perhaps you should…
Enough: A Poem
Poor Catullus, end this idiocy; put a full stop to the story. It’s all over. True, you had days of blinding sunshine when she led you time…
Not Vanity: A Poem
It is not difficult to define the place that physical labour should occupy in a well-ordered social life. It should be its spiritual core. - Simone Weil…
Above Troy
From here you look down On the whole spit that divides The harbour from the coast, And see the long ocean beach, The littleness of buildings In…
After Ithaka
Keep Ithaka in your mind as you head in the opposite direction, Whether by choice or chance or just the way the wind blows. If you are…
Litter: A Poem
A small, billowing, clear plastic bag With a press-strip closure – one Strip yellow, the other blue – now Open-mouthed, accompanies me, Tumbling beside my footfalls For…
The Literary Life: A Poem
The future wants a story, romantic preferably. Dying young, promise snapped: that will do admirably; So, too, will suicide (cryptic note, if possible), or an overdose, a…
One Breath: A Poem
Somewhere in the antipodean blue The old salt sea rustles anonymously Darkened by nocturnal ink Busy and dark the currents, the old fingers Wedge themselves into sea…
The Tombs of Kha and Mirit: A Poem
(Egyptian, c. 1500 BCE, now in the Turin Museum) i Everything you would need and perhaps more: a game of senet, for two players, with its perfect…
Paris Nightlife: A Poem
Paris is romantic, everybody knows, And that may be, but I doubt It could be less so to me, trying To sleep – “Do you hear? Go…
Grief Limmericks: A Poem
My mother is lying there dead. Memories crumble like bread. After the strokes, no more chats, no more jokes. My mother is lying there dead. My mother…
Esprit d’escalier
The Poet stretches out his long legs, looks up from contemplating his elegant, old-fashioned brown shoes, addresses the creative writing class, his voice tuned to channel charm…
Under the Passionfruit
A length of spider’s web startles In thin, shooting brilliance up and Down its fine extent, appearing And disappearing, catching colour In the light, losing it, in…
A Weakness for Westerns: A Poem
Of course there’s almost everything wrong with Westerns: the term ‘Red Indian’ for a start and that, from Fenimore Cooper onwards, noble savages and/or a dying race…
The Oranges: A Poem
So many, mock me in their ripening, Their abundance – singly, in clusters Of twos and threes - bold as nothing Else to see, their globes of…