I’ve come to terms with it now: my half-intended lapse
into a realm of almost sinister beauty: a spectrum
of diktats and car insurance quotes, weird tweets
and watercolour thoughts. We call it England, this pig
which splutters at our feet, whom we’re obliged
to flatter and caress. “No I’m afraid
the 700 isn’t operating today. On the screen, sir. Tap it on the screen.”
Still there’s poetry
in grime, bare druids
in these hills, real ale and winding regicidal streams
squat unwholesome trees bent witchy by the wind, serrated rain
and condoms by the swings.
And that’s just Sussex! (Or is it
Kent?) Your card has been declined.
“No here sir. You have to tap it here.”
A sign in the jewellers’ screams
EVERYTHING MUST GO
and it reads
more like a blessing.
Joshua Blackman is a poet from Bognor Regis. His work has appeared in the “Rialto”, “Poetry Review”, the “London Magazine” and various other publications.
[See also: Help Yourself]
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This article appears in the 16 Jul 2025 issue of the New Statesman, A Question of Intent
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