in his Clouseau-era. I want to get home knowing at any minute I might karate chop Burt Kwouk as he comes flying round the corner or trap his trouser-tie in the fridge door or flip up the fold-down bed on his head — basically I want to triumph frequently by freakish misadventure. And I want
Drake, the clot, missed it by a mile. That hook of rock failed to snag his sails into the only gap for a thousand miles and the Ohlone breathed easy in their skins unaware of the Great Inevitable whilst the dew on the antelope’s nose lay undisturbed. Salmon knew the river would not deepen. The
In her, oily tongued Hughie found his perfect foil: a cockney sparrow, whose pixie cut and skinny frame won the hearts of millions in the age of monochrome. Her money more than doubling as she made the ratings soar, bringing with it a rags-to-riches change. The sky seemed the limit, yet something in her ached
I skate because the streets are made of ice, because I have to learn, I skate because the river’s hard and green, because the birds are crows or magpies but could be vultures overhead and in the trees, I skate because the men are home from hunting with just one fox across a shoulder, because
Our liege Of jewelled gravity Set free Has roped the breeze And saddled him To ride through winter’s mind, Inconstant spring, All summer’s Fabergé, To find a season Greenest green, Demesne Past altering.
A restaurant paper placemat is the best place to compose a poem. There’s nothing venerable about the surface, slightly rough, perhaps a stain of sauce or tea. You can try yourself out on a paper placemat, not take things so seriously. Thoughts fill the squares and dimples while a meal fills the stomach. The pen
I’m convinced he would like a quiet wife. One who would sit on her chair and eat granola and sip carrot juice wearing a ring on only her wedding finger. How peaceful to be concerned by nothing more than juice, dried fruits and nuts, and natural yoghurt! The mind like a quiet seed in
We all need to someone to watch our back, says the man on TV. Yours hunches at the wheel as we sail through vineyards dense with straining vines. Our cases bulge and scrape as we lift them from the boot. You’ve drawn the short straw – the orange one with a dodgy wheel, a
Half through his third bottle of red, he took the keys to the gun cabinet, unlocked it, loaded a rifle, stepped out into the garden, wet grass beneath his feet, breath cloud- plumed in cold air, scanned the organic darkness above, sighted a target, fired, then swung his gun around the night sky, aimed again,
I waited and I saw a bird go winging slow across the sky how slow it flew I couldn’t know how slow because it was so high the sky more pointless than the sea where there are rocks and there is land through which a being flying slow as far as I
under the arch of the Shiraz Palace round to the kitchen tradesman’s entrance young girl walks in her long loose trousers early perhaps for the evening rota does a little shimmy in her long loose body nobody near her nobody watching
for A.J. and N.C. An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman walk into a bar… cheap joke, how it began one ancient evening on the lash in Leeds. Three likely lads, fresh from writing degrees, thinking they knew it all and next to nowt at once, as if the margins of hope and doubt
Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change… Down there the fathom worker Cleans a universe of sand, Whitening bones, blurring wood With weed and merhair strands Our assiduous, unfailing tide Washing the island away And flooding Prospero’s cove. Now all who were shore-born Will leave in their boats. ‘Good sea’
They’ve taken down the trees round Keeper’s Pool. The water’s lifeless, bright and calm, the only creatures left are two white swans, their nest a circled heap of twigs and litter a few yards from a park bench looking at the view – the golf-course, flagged and sweatered. Forever symbols in some poem; what
You told me that you’d read, And were struck by That night in bed, A sermon on the naked limbs that lie Inside your soul, And as you told me so, Our youngest son, whose loud voice cried, rushed Usurpingly to climb Inside our sheets and quilt, with soaked
Her grief is like the shadow play of bones snapped in an old X-ray unsleeved to show what love had done to her and her bright skeleton. Lit up, half-cut, she starts to flag still clutching her green shopping bag of gin and ashes as she weaves through deep, midge-haunted silences exhausted to this break
‘To arrive at the place you know not, you must go by the way you know not.’ – St. John of the Cross How many times the bloody GPS led us astray. It pointed us down stairs, over a cliff, into a pathless field barbed-wire barred and pocked with curious cows. Castel Gandolfo,
Neutral as a wheel it is not culpable for what it picks up. Shock jocks, phone-in bigots, ministerial lies and bleating celebs. A cup cannot be blamed for what fills it. No judgment. No fear of offence just submission to whatever is snatched out of the air by chameleon range be it war,
The gardens are in bloom your mother loved. A jazz trumpet blares – ‘Stormy Weather’ – to a girl spread with her laptop on the grass. Delinquent for a day, you came to catch the last of summer on these paths or the bank grown perilous with out-of-control, knotted weeds, where your father fished at
Richard Judge, Whitstable RNLI I was brought up on boats. Trawling, potting, netting. The harbour was very active at the time. We were using claxons and maroons so the whole town knew – there’d be quite a crowd, watching people running down. It’s more discreet now, the crew can click an app.