Monday, 23 January 2012

The view from Alun 201

I suppose this one reflects my fascinations with what lay through windows in my first semester. Written while staring though the window of my poetry classroom, this chilling poem almost gives me those Victorian chills I so enjoy.

The view from Alun 201


Lamp. Black. Debutant Plaths, Larkin’s and Audens alike.

One stops to appreciate my eye. Tree. Leaves.

Like Children’s hands reaching towards me. Averted eye.


Old mortar stares me down. Its ancient lines cry wisdom.

There’s nothing funnier than its misery.

To its left, a seemingly gross tumescence.

Engorged Mortar Member. Why no one cringes is beyond me.


Victorian lamp. False garden. How the two are

Forced together fascinate me. No one else – just me.

The Children’s hands reach out. They are my hands.

No wonder, I’m home.

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