William Watkin


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


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


‘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


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


yet it is amazing to think what hand and pen are worth

to some which is


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.