Poetry

Eastwood as No-Name in A Fistful of Dollars. The town called Apricots is built of whitewashed adobe. Behind the walls are widows, staring their tragic arias. Nothing here flowers or fruits. There is the ringer of the dead-bell, the sprightly coffin-maker. Something looks through the Stranger’s eyes, looking. It is a secret. It is life…

after Camille Claudel   And in the end it was easiest to let go of all that vigilance, the endless distaff-to-spindle rigor of your compulsions, and allow the silks to snarl. For a while, perhaps, you struggled to escape, snared like an insect in your own allurements. You had never believed that life was what…

And anywhere at all will do To bring it off, to see it through From soup to nuts via the gods And all the other odds and sods Not needed on the voyage, so Fire the sunset gun: let’s go, A positively final tour Of what we know now as before— Not to presuppose an…

Even now, I still remember the pleading bribery in my mother’s eyes as she held out the piece of silver in her palm— A way figured out of the stress of taking me down to Georgetown to see the England-princess in my unfinished dress. “Which you prefer, to see the princess, or a Whole Shilling…

On the outskirts of Reykjavik I find myself slapping the ass of a thick-piled Viking horse, sending up a plume of dust and gas that all but obscures the scrawl on parchment of a jet plane, sending up a pall the likes of which I don’t recall since a ruse I pulled on my mother….

I am downstairs early looking for something to do when I find my father on his knees at the fireplace in the sitting room sweeping ash from around and beneath the grate with the soft brown hand-brush he keeps especially for this. Has he been here all night waiting to catch me out? So far…

           after a title by Gillian Allnutt                       I Because the Dear Lord God is both in me & in His Book, my father said, these two must cross. He tasked me daily, under the lantern-clock, each white- clothed afternoon, with heavy…

Would Jane Eyre come to the Information Desk? The speaker voice at Heathrow airport said. I stood and waited for her to appear, Jane Eyre. And when she came near, she was shouting: My name is Bertha; my name is not Jane Eyre I come from Kingston, Jamaica. Look here. Well, they’d placed handcuffs on…

I’ll never forget the wind the corner whispered, nor the windowed darkness that was more a frame for the world’s highrise loneliness. I’ll never forget the days we lingered beneath our fingerprints and how we were each other’s private sacrament. Brooms and mops hung behind doors like secret agents. The crooks of our knees ached…