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Richard George

Reporter

She isn't / she is
beautiful: all faces are
beautiful concerned

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Small Solace

Despair not. In loss,
after a warm door closes,
a chill one opens

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A Country Of The Mind

In late October,
after the sun has gone down,
a range of blue-grey
cloud has been seen in the west:
the citadel of lost dreams

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A Walking Sadness

The Euston Road. April. Night.
Of all these London numberless
I love one:
my old shoes pound her name,
Lorna. Lorna.
Poet's shoes.
Now I SEE faces pass,
projected on her photoplay
for not being Lorna:
I have never felt this living,
thirty and a day
in artificial light and rain
and windscreen tear-blink.

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Buncefield: The Memory Depot

The roof of dreams crashed on my head,
up-puppeting me to an ash dawn
as my window-frames St.Vitus danced.
By breakfast it was World News
as sidelong the raven plume
smeared like the mane of a scarlet Astarte...
the Marseillaise who lured me,
a virgin, Magellan-bearded,
from her stall of Henry Miller in St.Albans market.
For two nights, smoke-nimbus cast
rust and grisaille
like the pupil of an eye across a waning moon.

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Halcyon And After

It was May or June, I met you:


Business, something or other.
Your study, when you showed me in
Was full of the sun, drenched with gold:
From work strewn across tables, chairs
You turned to me and smiled -
And I was dazzled.
You made me tea with bergamot
And we talked and talked, all the things
Our loved ones dare not hear.

At last, when I stood up to go
I saw your eyes diving back,
Sad and wise, into shafts of light
And I thought: 'She is the one.
I can tell her anything'.

But humid grey clouded the sun

[...] Read more

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