D r a f t f o l d e r P o e m s
Tessa Whitehouse
26/3/11
Just venerate
that one
saluting relic of
Margaret
Clitherow / 'a
martyr not a
virgin' / her hand
miraculous her
being crushed
by a door
heaped with
rocks her lying
on a sharp
stone. Later
rescued from a
dunghill,
the hand the
relic
30/4/11
This lithely the
blur of April's
last day south
down at
Hassocks / with
Lee Harwood
whose Sussex
lying in ships
and notebooks
Cable street
even / insistently
sounding behind
the words hear
'this was all so
long ago what
are you
making?' only
frightened by
how dreary a
London summer
is looking to me /
the 15.21. (pulling
in: Brighton's
eaten its down)
6/5/11
Luknor! Ten or
down or turn or
lumme or Letsby
Avenue / that's
what they
share, that urge
to jokes that
work by groan
high up white
spatters to see
the trees
through / M40
park and ride to
o-town /
what about
jokes that work
by grey in
nodding shades
of verge edge
low?
26/5/11
Radiant clusters
fucking
allegorical and
chandeliers
cascade into
your ears the
windy piping the
opposite of sawdust
pamphlets
enormous
goitred vicious
gasps / an
unruffled
soprano for
imagism with
similes like
you're waiting
for the ice
cream not the
shakuhachi
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