Poem

I am in Louisiana with the dogs,
my lost generations of dogs.
How I got there, what budget tour I’m on,
whether my papers are in order,
my visa credible, is a total mystery.

The sky is silent. All the planes must keep
Clear of the fine volcanic ash that drifts
Eastward from Iceland like a bad idea.
In your apartment building without lifts,
Not well myself, I find it a bit steep
To climb so many stairs but know I must
If I would see you still alive, still here.
The word is out from those you love and trust –
Time is so short that from your clever pen
No line of verse might ever flow again.

Son-biography: which are deft or lived things
which have jumped from him without genes.
Passions, eccentricities, duty? I don’t believe
Lamarck, but I left his Quiet for her Talk,
nagging the life out of things, worsened it
word-wise, garrulous, and then heavied it
because Saloms drink, his side, but genes,
though he didn’t, and she offered her whole
life to the sobriety of wives. He voted sober
but gave me his black-sheep toss-the-world
bushiness, which I took as city, and poetry.
He said I was a fraud, which meant I didn’t

In an essay on the poetry of George Crabbe, Peter Porter wrote, ‘It is a great pleasure to me, a man for the littoral any day, to read Crabbe’s description of the East Anglian coast.’ Happily, there is by now a substantial and various array of writings about Porter’s work, and I would like simply to add that his being, metaphorically, ‘a man for the littoral’, with all its interfusions, is one of his distinguishing qualities, and something to rejoice in. Coastlands, and marshes, are essential to his intellect and to his imagination. He may never have had one foot in Eden, but he did rejoice in a plurality of territories.

Always an afterthought, last thing left
in that mad dash to spit and polish
before visitors – rare here, so I forget
how others might read you if they looked up:
weird residue of disuse, proof of slackness, antisocial.

   ‘It’s something like learning geography,’ thought
       Alice, as she stood on tiptoe in hopes of being able
       to see a little further.
                   Through the Looking-Glass

Our mob was fond of Tweedledee
Because it was cutely seen
That he would rustle up the tribes
And thump the old Red Queen.

Taken as Required

by Ynes Sanz

An age ago, ill-matched,
ignorant but willing,
we set the rules.
‘Step by Step’, we said. ‘No Bullshit.’
Today, thinking of something else
I stumbled across the grey metal bracelet
you looped over that stick of a wrist
where your thin blood stained the skin
to resemble an antique map or a bad tattoo
(like the one they inked on for that photo shoot in the ’50s).

Wait. Sometimes the waiting seems interminable
But that is the trick with water. The dark
Gathers up your apprehension and you seek ...

He polished his car to a shine, he kept
a ‘clean machine’ inside and out, but down
from ‘up north’, the red dirt would stay
in the seams of doors, around the fittings.
A detailing of distance. A truth unto itself ...