Poems
poem in support of single mothers everywhere
the utilities the utilities!
when they discovered that they had done it
the dream of all lovers which was once called immanence
we might say it is when you feel you two are one
totally at home and comfortable but without the intensity dying
off you found that it was horrible
horribly so
getting up very early almost before it is light
dressing yourself in practical oatmeals and browns for the passage
the way vapors remind you of their solidity
and all is nested in the ragged canopy it is time
is a phrase you will never hear me say for in my world well
either I am saying I have no concept of it or
born into a state of perpetual readiness
these are details for certain but does that make them or this more
specific problems relating to the build up of cars on the roads
leads down from oblivion to a halcyon numbness around the gills
and if you haven’t got gills then a farthing will do
and the only thing to say about community and our lack of it is
it was always encountered as such as lacking
get your head around that one if you dare
it left their hearts swimming in their otherwise bodies
can you blame them/us?…yes if blame is what you use
ode to croydon #12
fourth golden whirr
the sounds of wings
coming from the work of cranes
{and}
on my way to work I saw
a beach of abandoned/discarded pulleys
hard on the winch peninsular
lapped by the ocean, of ropes, of ropes and of wires
in the old days there would've been also beauty there
later Itried
in my mind
to connect
this noise with this crap
I suppose I saw myself as another
a crane driver
a wing made up of all you other geezers (how are you by the way?)
but, for the sea-bound birds
had never fled their beach-bound nests
it was because they never nested there
because they never flew at all
fifth golden whirr
stops judderingly and sad before it began
the word tarnished knocks on my glass door
but I am outside with it looking in on us
I don’t wish I could fly / way up to the sky
but I do wish I could lift
and hoist and swing and shift
this wing as big as croydon now is
and even twice as lovely
love thyself
I want to reach for the assassination in ME memory
I touch in dread your revolving door
WHOSE CONCIERGE
‘s laxness is a relief I tell you after all those years of intellectual rigour
mortise locks on the scrapbook cannot hold
back the past’s press we surge up to the crush bar-
rier in dreary rainshone Leicester square like a bow-wave for a glimpse of
a celebrity recognisable only by his
smart suit and way with the crowd: William,
William, over here, pleeease! and yet (verso when you most
expect it) I hardly even seem to hear the dist-
ant crack from barely noted London rooftops
IN THE BULLET-LOUD GLADE
take one in the chest
another in the faculty of recollection
to live without affect and recall one is shoved by an invisible hand on-
to the stage, lights blinding, colours fizzing it’s
exhilarating and terrifying you think, this is how life ought to be prosecuted
you say, more tea vicar
(big belly laugh of love)
I took the hand that was extended
out and golden through the crowd of losers no,
a disembodied voice in my ear said, the
pen, signed off with a flourish, to William my
greatest fan, the
best moment of my entire life so far
to cut a long story short
after the accident which it must have been who would kill him, would kill the light of
the world and anyway such people do not really exist, only in the movies even I know
that, well, I fell on hard times my past caught up with me you might say and I had to
flog the whole collection on
E-BAY BROKE MY HEART
yet it is amazing to think what hand and pen are worth
to some which is
otherwise
worth nowt to us rest
there’s a moral to this tale
but there is also a deeper querying of morality and
taletelling tittle-tattle they
never found the culprit but we all knew who it was
this is my last line by the way
William Watkin has been publishing poetry for about ten years now in such journals as Sidereality, Rialto, Shearsman, Stride, Limestone & Potepoetzine. He is currently working on his first chap-book as well as a full collection which he hopes to complete end of the 2007. He is a lecturer at Brunel University, West London where he teaches primarily contemporary poetry, he is also an active participant in the UK experimental poetry scene, organising readings, conferences and the like. He is co-founder of the online experimental poetry archive Archive of the Now and also writes extensively on contemporary poetry and poetics. He has maintained his own poetry and poetic blog since 2003, at williamwatkin.blogspot.com. He has no pets.
