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Mortifications and Lies (forthcoming);  |
The Pen these days I write like you with your pen your ink your stiff illegible hand perhaps I am seeing you after all I try hard to feel betrayed or unlucky but somehow we're closer now your hand is mine the worm is in the heart I miss your knowledge your calming scent your anger your self I can only suppose it was I'm no pained Plath it's harder to be alone with a vowel brittle tongue now harder to speak harder to feel the rough stones abrade your eyes stiffen your fingers you who fought in the wars respected the official secrets act floated out to sea on government command cleared test sites obeyed but did not believe in anything but the simple emotion of the simple emotion. You who let me wear your sailor's hat on my feet who brought home silk pyjamas from the war who never went to marches who slept under the reveille and last post and blue flag while my mother stroked the coffin with her over-ringed hands
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Biography | Poetry | Essay: Poetics /Kinetics | Résumé | Copyright |
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