‘Take a poem, Miss Smith.
I will call it The Ploughman.
“The ploughman wearily follows the plough,
The dust that lies upon his brow,
Gnarled as the dead oak tree bough,
Makes me think of how… of how…”
How nice you smell, Miss Smith.
Is it Chanel? I thought so.
But to work: “The ploughman wearily follows…”
Ah, but I am wearied of ploughing.
File it away under “Nature – unfinished”.
‘Take a poem, Miss Smith.
It is entitled Belfast.
“Along the Shankhill Road, a pall
Of smoke hangs, thick as… thick as…”
Hair, something different about the hair.
A new style? It suits you.
But where was I? Oh yes:
“Along the Shankhill Road…”
No, I feel unpolitical today.
Put it away in the file
marked “Wars – unfinished”.
‘Take a poem, Miss Smith.
It will be known as Flesh.
“The flesh I love to touch
Is soft as… soft as…”
Take off your blouse, Miss Smith,
I feel a love poem coming on…’