Thank you, Leveson,
you’ve done us proud.
Now we’ll bury your report
in a newspaper shroud.
Is that lots of love,
or laugh out loud?
If the moon were closer, quite apart
from disasters it would wreak on earth,
how soon before that chiaroscuro,
the light-splashed pores and shadowy pits,
“the oldest submerged townsite”
By then the post boxes were gagged.
Fire was a controlled substance and music
was banned unilaterally. Nobody had a birthday.
First US woman to win beats Geoffrey Hill to the £10,000 prize.
Clappers: quarried flats
laid like tableboards
over stacked supports,
colonised by lichens, moss.
You’re at it again – you’re there at the rail
of that sleep-ballet of yours, that ghostly port de bras
or random flailing of limbs, that sitting up
I cannot claim this land is in my blood
(although my marrow was an almost-match
for someone in Belfast) but I’ve swallowed
the place down; its water and its crops:
Turning the poetry of Ricardo Reis into English.