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Poetry
Related: About this forumAlicia Stallings takes on the men for Oxford poetry chair
http://barneyspender.com/2015/06/04/stallings-takes-on-the-men-for-oxford-poetry-chair/
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Alicia Stallings takes on the men for Oxford poetry chair (Original Post)
Petrushka
Jun 2015
OP
Petrushka
(3,709 posts)1. Clear Media Bias on The Vote: The Oxford Professor of Poetry 2015
Petrushka
(3,709 posts)2. Simon Armitage Wins Oxford Professor of Poetry Election
Petrushka
(3,709 posts)3. Avalon --- by simon Armitage
Avalon
By Simon Armitage
To the Metropolitan Police Force, London:
the asylum gates are locked and chained, but undone
by wandering thoughts and the close study of maps.
So from San Francisco, patron city of tramps,
I scribble this note, having overshot Gloucester
by several million strides, having walked on water.
City of sad foghorns and clapboard ziggurats,
of snakes-and-ladders streets and cadged cigarettes,
city of pelicans, fish bones and flaking paint,
of underfoot cable-car wires strained to breaking point ...
I eat little a beard of grass, a pinch of oats
let the salt-tide scour and purge me inside and out,
but my mind still phosphoresces with lightning strikes
and I straddle each earthquake, one foot either side
of the fault line, rocking the worlds seesaw.
At dusk, the Golden Gate Bridge is heavens seashore:
I watch boats heading home with the days catch
or ferrying souls to glittering Alcatraz,
or I face west and let the Pacific slip
in bloodshot glory over the planets lip,
sense the waterfall at the end of the journey.
I am, ever your countryman, Ivor Gurney.
Source: Poetry (May 2013).
By Simon Armitage
To the Metropolitan Police Force, London:
the asylum gates are locked and chained, but undone
by wandering thoughts and the close study of maps.
So from San Francisco, patron city of tramps,
I scribble this note, having overshot Gloucester
by several million strides, having walked on water.
City of sad foghorns and clapboard ziggurats,
of snakes-and-ladders streets and cadged cigarettes,
city of pelicans, fish bones and flaking paint,
of underfoot cable-car wires strained to breaking point ...
I eat little a beard of grass, a pinch of oats
let the salt-tide scour and purge me inside and out,
but my mind still phosphoresces with lightning strikes
and I straddle each earthquake, one foot either side
of the fault line, rocking the worlds seesaw.
At dusk, the Golden Gate Bridge is heavens seashore:
I watch boats heading home with the days catch
or ferrying souls to glittering Alcatraz,
or I face west and let the Pacific slip
in bloodshot glory over the planets lip,
sense the waterfall at the end of the journey.
I am, ever your countryman, Ivor Gurney.
Source: Poetry (May 2013).