News, Words

Poetry with Dean and Michael and Carl

Doncaster Miners in Cork Street

‘Where’s t’ bus? one asked to his mate,
so bought me up short, for this was not Cork
Street talk I thought as I walked towards Messums
ahead, enlightened by its private view
‘Laurence Edwards heads’.

In that dark I recognised a face
as he walked passed a handbag shop.
A face last seen in a Suffolk space
then in clay before the caste.
‘I dunow – let’s  find t’ pub’
Like naughty boys in their tribe
hands in pockets, they strode on
into the London night
A purposeful escape.

Inside the buzz and fuzz of
collectors, artists, friends,
The Doncaster bodies had  left us behind
to look at their immortal heads
and in my head their voices, still.

Laurence Edwards Heads-4Laurence Edwards Heads-3Laurence Edwards Heads-2Laurence Edwards Heads

Carl – what do we do? I’ve got the walk one part.

Paris Grey

French grey, not black
pert bottoms, drain pipe jeans
black to black shoes
in between an offset sock
of pink, scarf to match.

The December city
in soft grey light
lines diffused in moist air
pollarded limes, naked limbs cut
like  hands without tips
in rigorous lines


I once knew how to paint
Ring bob doubles, climb to 6,000 meters
I thought I knew the foolishness of others
politicians, parents, adults in general
before I became one.

Knowing how to hold the thing
to know though suspended in sea of doubt
so that could transport or dissolve that thing
I thought I knew.



Hanging in my garage
nylon cord around its neck
on rusty nail, a bird.
‘Spirit’s long gone’, I say to the child
‘Can I touch’, she asked.

Neck bulging with crop just eaten
lollying head, small oriental
wings long forgotten how to fly
scaled feet for spreading over clay earth.
She strokes the feathers,
soft, layered, I open up the wing.
Are you vegetarian? she asked.


Errata slips of life

(Errata slips corrections in books)

That time I blushed and everyone saw
changed to cool, dark glasses, long legs
and someone saying ‘Who is she?’

The time I didn’t meet Eric under the clock of Liverpool street station
to meeting him, talking and walking a month before he died.

All the homes I didn’t buy, the drawing rooms not lived in.



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