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The Grammar School

He turned up pissed, fresh

from the pub: glazed face,

breathing beer, gazed at the boy

in the front desk, stroked

his blond shock of hair.

It was all such a hoot.

About him flew books,

duffel bags, hockey boots.

 

The ale wore off, he growled

for quiet; clutched

with nicotine fingers the Penguin

book of contemporary verse,

decades out of date.

He coughed a...

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The poetry of Art Garfunkel

Pimms in the palace gardens

before the concert, sun soaking

the evening crowd, reluctant

to leave their picnics

and champagne for the music.

One half of a famous duo, the one

that arranged the harmonies

but didn’t write the songs.

 

Great reception, nevertheless.

Patience even when he craved

our indulgence  to read a few

so-so ‘prose poems’. Now in his 70s,

e...

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