I’m very excited. My pamphlets are back from the printers. I’ll be seeing them for the very first time on Thursday. The collection’s called Where The Oyster Was. Here’s the title poem…
Where The Oyster Was
(Her Serene Highness Makes A Shell Border In Her Hayling Island Garden)
A chap called with a barrowful, wanted
sixpence for the lot. We sealed the deal with
Tio Pepe, toasted Canada’s prince.
See how the outside froths, like my Papa’s
cuffs did once, before they shot him – and rough
as the storm last week. But stroke your thumb here:
inside it’s silky as a pulse. These lines
are tidemarks in a zinc tub (do you see?)
Or horseshoes of cheap seats, up in the gods,
in a tiny arena, where I’d give
recitals. I’d be exactly there, where
the oyster was. And this cream cumulous,
marble-white and Quink, is my lungs’ shadow.
They’ll make a pretty edging, n’est ce pas?