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La Nudité de Matin
You sit there safe in your own detail as the morning silver illuminates you. are you at the end of a journey or the beginning ? SMO 1998
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The Whit Girl
Do not, my whit girl crush this grape in your hand it will build you many houses as you change colour
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Haiku (the Poetry of Mathematics)
Simplicity + 1 Simplicity, Simplicity -1 Simplicity + 1
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Mr Gory’s Shilling
Far from home on these northern roads he admires the metaphysicks of the silver moon. In 1773 as part of their tour of Scotland and the Hebrides Samuel Johnson and James Boswell visited Lord Monboddo at his house in Mearns Shire. Upon their departure they were guided to the high road by Lord […]
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Islands in an Azure Sea
There were two islands Only a few miles apart In an azure sea On the one nearest to the mainland Lived a rich merchant His wife and three sons The merchant was proud Of his eldest and middle son Who were resourceful and good businessmen And much respected by all on the island But he […]
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In Praise of Falcons
When stars explode Do not bathe In the light of fountains There is no goodness In the velvet skin Of my language. The flight of the essential being in search of enlightenment is linked in Sufic terminology to that of a falcon. SMO 2003
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Juvenilia
Old Photo’s Last night quite late I looked though a book A book of photographs Of sepia stares And monochrome smiles And children so nearly dead Of charabanc trips To unknown sands With nameless boats arriving Their distant lives Unknown to me Once gone, now seen, surviving. My earliest surviving poem written in 1967 […]
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Poems of Mistral
At a civil ceremony I wrote Pasmas On a wooden door When in Eaton Constantine I became thirsty So I brought the baker a drink I never write obituaries Of great men Only their birth notices I am quite fond of gravel pits But do not care for the colours Of mechanical diggers As I […]
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Henry V
The sun flits behind dormant clouds it is nervous today The waves will crash onto the beach this is my theatre My mother holds me we have discussed nothing I will confess to the fish and sail on their fins Seas will not taste of salt but of honey We will not bury the dead […]
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Forgetting Armenia
The wanderers will forget their travels and curse the streets of the new world for the roads to the homelands are now the colour grey. c 1975