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decades out of date.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...
Monday 12th September 2016 11:20 am
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...
Friday 24th June 2016 9:42 pm
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