Two lovely poised poems from Michael Brown
It crops up in some out-of-date stuff
and I want to give it the time of day.
Year 9. Lesson 5. A word writhes
and fidgets to be up and off the page,
mothballed to some vague, undefined space.
They don’t want to know.
I contextualise, draw a diagram.
They watch the clock from half-closed eyes.
I try to catch myself in full flight,
hold on to that sepia note,
its stifled Greek root,
something out of mind.
She’s learned a thing or two from him.
I wonder at her self-absorption, her lack
of tact . But now she’s got a taste for this.
I want her wildfire spell, her body’s
dialect. That flow. She’s quick
but not quite yet on top of it —
a child still to think her skill apart.
She’s got Merlin where she wants him:
mesmerised. Takes in what she…
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