Genesis F4 3rd Court – a poem

Genesis F4 3rd Court


white hair

dark eyebrows

glasses low on the nose

laptop, open on its side?!

electric book

fragile bird chair nest

black trousers brown jacket white shirt


an African mask of Cornish shells


above vinyl rows of piled books

CDs stacked on records

wooden box, mother of Pearl

a note to self:

“Pushkin’s birthday on 6th

Yeats’ birthday on 13th

John’s birthday —”

tall wooden lamp

top-hat tilted over

students on a white sofa

wooden floorboards


I can’t work out from here what the framed sketch is that sits next to the samovar


small black eyes

the otters’

Simms’ otters


the note wasn’t a note but a birthday card:

“what an auspicious month!

            Love, Kate xxx”


Genesis F4 3rd Court


a learnéd life

living rooms

literature alive

book spines a spindly bind


how many things I’ll never know?


(but)utterly effective, smooth Melancholy thistle

whif(t) of whistle


otters exist outside

the humbling inadequacy of language

or arrogant artifice?


otters; objects; obsessions

a furry-oil pelt


I want to look behind me into the other room




red brick fireplace

blue walls

painted not white wood

another non-bedroom

PhD after all?


his eyes are small

white whiskers

small slinking brown

curled around wooden twigs

slightly sagging

a selkie slipping

into watery words


I want to sit cross-legged and read them all


two hip-height speakers

side-saddle sofa


some bio-art is trash

luminescent lights, language lab


an umbrella rests in the fireplace

the young man with tight jeans

says surprisingly insightful things


the face contorts and the body fails


there’s an actual bird’s nest

before a card of blue felt tip

childish script


MacDiarmid and Bunting

spring otters from a cognate stream

sprung rhythm rhythm sprung


he hasn’t spoken

“some people haven’t spoken at all”

then eloquent courageous

he observed the way our conversation had constantly returned to arrogance versus humility in man’s attitude towards nature



Barry McSweeney’s wine-red odyssey

a tomb on a shelf


all you had to do was ask


well fuck

my only notes are this poem

thought-fox essay


momentary violence is innocence:

the thistle-flower


twice he lifts a laptop to his face and I don’t see the lift

look up from lines

laptop head !


it ends with Maggie O’Sullivan


shouting from an apple on the floor


why are you smiling at me? when everyone else lowers their eyes


he doesn’t pause

but mutes



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