Rachael Allen’s ‘Kingdomland’

...the black/and emergent pool...
...the black dog rolls...
...small white socks bob...
...purple and mystical...
...a black little finger...
...a long blonde hair...
...the yellow breeze...
...your purple name...
...a steep white cliff...
...so green...
...a pool of white plants...
...a silver dish...
...rots to black...
...blue bow...
...painted blue...
...whitely...
...pinkly...
...rose gold rings...
...one black leaf...
...short lines of blue...
...Lilac keys...
...lilac crystal...
...lilac leaves...
...purple period...
...plain yellow wallpaper...
...pink dungarees...
...the familiar cream ceiling...
...pure white dove...
...plain black dove...
...brown squares...
...its yellow fat...
...the large blue carcass...
...the large blue sea...
...black pennies...
...a black well...
...the indigo field...
...The green bank...
...The white ocean...
...bullish and red...
...with blue veins...
...poor white/blood cells...
...good white blood cells...
...a hot blue steam room...
...my mint deli uniform...
...my face was grey...
...the bastard black legs...
...a bright yellow crud...
...brown toxins...
...blinding white...
...the green and white striped awning...
...green parsley...
...green eyes...
...Blue expression...
...the forest blue...
...black leather skids...
...black cloaks..
...black and blue...
...lean black weeds...
...pale blue pinstripes...
...the pitiful rabbits'/eyes yellow...
...the water's grey...
...blue whales...
...blue breath...
...a blue ghost...
...a grey sheet...
...red door...
...the black and/emergent pond...

I WAS A RICKETY HOUSE

A Commentary on ‘Hennecker’s Ditch’

 

In 2013 I went to Oxford to see Kate Kilalea read at the launch of Bloodaxe’s anthology Dear World and Everyone In It. She wore round glasses that made a heavy noise when she put them on a chair. Of the few people on many empty seats, there seemed more poets waiting nervously to read than people there just to listen, which I took as indicative of poetry generally, although I’m not sure this is the problem it’s made out to be. I felt conspicuous, as if my part as audience carried unspoken responsibilities, more weighty considering we were few. I gripped my notebook, as if writing things down would help, as if it would account for me and turn the moment to some purpose, as if it would placate that hot, pricking question which rises again audible from the background at such moments: what am I doing here?

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Maggie Smith’s Good Bones

In 2015 the population of the US included ~73,783,981 children. There were 1,093 murders of children in that year. The poem would perhaps be more accurate to say:

For every 67,506 loved children, there is a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake.

When the poem says the world is “at least half terrible”, it would perhaps be more accurate to say that it is at least 0.0014% terrible.

I don’t have any data for violence against birds.

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RIP @williamempson

In 2012 I created a Twitter account in the name of William Empson (@williamempson), mostly in a fit of enthusiasm that his work should be seen by all (having spent some time at university writing about him). Not that his great reputation needs my promotion or care, but I feel generally that his poetry deserves as much esteem as his criticism enjoys. Like his prose, his poetry is idiosyncratic such that it has, now nearly a century from its composition, had to stand on its own or not at all; it is too knotty and esoteric to appeal to formalists, and too formal and often grand for the experimental to claim as their own. Helpfully, though, its concision and density favours the brevity of a tweet.

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