Poetry

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I am making a window on the world,
A stained-glass window through which to look at things.
It is very much my own creation,

Wound

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Take a butcher’s red by Goya
And an arctic blue by El Greco.
Gently fold in an agonised beige by Grunewald

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St. Francis in the Slaughter-House

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He left his sparrows waiting at the door
And entered like a draught, his bare feet treading

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Studio

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Always the same old silence
And the same old,
Always different,
Northern light.

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Tuesday Poem: Old Timer

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You see me now as what I have become again:
Chromework like mercury

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Tuesday Poem: There can be few things…

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There
Can
Be
Few
Things

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Tuesday Poem: Thoughts of a Bicycle

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Of course I am only a machine
And full of natural frailty.
My tyres go soft,
My chain drops off,
My brake blocks wear out

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Tuesday Poem: Hospital

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Among the many roads we have to travel in this life,
Nothing prepares us for this:
The one we will one day travel every Sunday afternoon –
Or every Saturday afternoon,
Or even every evening –

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Tuesday Poem: Motel

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Never quite empty and never quite full,
The motel car park ebbs and flows
With vehicles that suddenly all look the same.

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Tuesday Poem: Prostitute and Madonna

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A smudgy, smoky blonde, she stands alone
Before the alabaster statuette,
Her gaze filled Pre-Raphaelite regret,
Her fleshy body still as holy stone.

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