MARGINALIA
Here is a silence I had not hoped for This side of paradise, I am an old believer In nature’s bounty as God’s grace To us poor mortals, fretting and fuming At frustrated lust
VIEW FROM THE INNER CITY
Leeds this silent solemn Sunday Tempest Road is clear of all But wistful birds, parked cars And vagrant trees. The surgery and pharmacy are shuttered tight “Get your medication straight into your bag”, The
TO BRENDA WILLIAMS 'WRITING AGAINST THE GRAIN'
It was Karl Shapiro who wrote in his ‘Defence of Ignorance’ how many poets Go mad or seem to be so and the majority think we should all be in jail Or mental hospital
DEATH OF A POET
for Wendy Oliver, who knew him I am the sick animal you dream you are caring for In the long avenues of night I cannot find a name For the sickness except the despair
WINDSONG
I drowse and dream in this sleeping house Fynbos the cat purring by the curtain Suriya the sun god sharing the garden Where joss sticks burn and my nostrils quiver At the echo of
POEM TO BE PLACED IN A BOTTLE AND CAST OUT TO SEA
for Ken Kesey and his merry pranksters in a bus called ‘Further…’ Dear and here’s where the problem begins For who shall I address this letter to? Friends are few and very special, muses
WINTERLIGHT
Let us, this December night, leave the ring Of heat, the lapping flames around the fire’s heart, Move with bodies tensed against the light Towards the moon’s pull and the cloud’s hand. Arms of
THE PRISM
Through the windows the sun’s light Turns to amber, the moon’s to jade; All night long I lie awake, wondering How much your stunned heart can take. That moment’s ‘sudden interminable splendour’, Our love
TO THE SOUND OF VIOLINS
Give me life at its most garish Friday night in the Square, pink sequins dazzle And dance on clubbers bare to the midriff Young men in crisp shirts and pressed pants ‘Dress code smart’
THE PARIS COMMUNE
From the French of AndrŠ¹ FrŠ¹naud France was born there and it is from there she sings Of Joan of Ark and Varlin both. We must dig deep, o motherland, Beneath those heavy cobbles.
THREE SONGS FOR MAYDAY MORNING
( I ) For ‘JC’ of the TLS Nightmare of metropolitan amalgam Grand Hotel and myself as a guest there Lost with my room rifled, my belongings scattered, Purse, diary and vital list of
TO MY WIFE
I You buy my freedom with your love. With every book you catalogue or stamp My imagination hacks a strand from the hawser That for three years has held it In the grubbing estuary
HYMN
How I love the working-class girls of Leeds, Their mile-wide smiles, eyes bright as beads, Their young breasts bobbing as they run, Hands quick as darting fish, lithe legs Bare as they scramble over
A KIND OF DISTRACTION
You always disrupt me; When I ring you for comfort You wing me, send my Pudding of a mind A-splatter on the wall. You chase me to bed even, Passionately, not-yourself-at-all, You bawl your
TEXTURES
The grain of the exposed boards Speaks through the wall of the years We are back in our cottage On the wind-swathed hills Watching late winter dawns Gather like kindled flame. We are back