I was never a film buff, give me Widmark and Wayne any day
Saturday matinees with Margaret Gardener still hold sway
As my memory veers backwards this temperate Boxing Day-
Westerns and war films and a blurred Maigret,
Coupled with a worn-out sixties Penguin Mallarme-
How about that mix for a character trait?
Try as I may I canít get my head round the manifold virtues
Of Geraldine Monk or either Riley
Poetry has to have a meaning, not just patterns on a page,
Vertical words and snips of scores just make me rage.
Is Thom Gunn really the age-old sleaze-weasel Andrew Duncan says?
Is Tim Allen right to give Geraldine Monk an eleven page review?
At least they care for poetry to give their lives to it
As we do, too.
My syntax far from perfect, my writing illegible
But somehow Iíll get through, Bloodaxe and Carcourt
May jeer but an Indian printerís busy with my ĎCollectedí
And, Calcutta typesetters permitting, it will be out this year
With the red gold script of sari cloth on the spine
And whuck those dusty grey contemporary voices
Those verses will be mine.
Haslamís a whole lot better but touchy as a prima donna
And couldnít take it when I said heíd be a whole lot better
If heíd unloose his affects and let them scatter
Iím envious of his habitat, The Haworth Moors
Living there should be the inspiration of my old age
But being monophobic I canít face the isolation
Or persuade my passionate friend to join me.
What urban experiences can improve
Upon a cottage life with my own muse!