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English Poetry

Twenty six fragile poems

grace this chapbook,

its cover all Tudor, expensively

restrained, with wings

that fold bookmarkingly

into its vellumed neatness

so that delicately yawning

ladies may pick up where

they left off some fashionable

time ago


The picture of the authoress

on the flap shows those English rose

frail porcelain rouge features

that one would expect from

a country garden where it rains

most of the year


The poems themselves are all

hints and perfumed subterfuge

that obviously have never

been out in the midday sun-

whatever is left of it these days


So I continue my stroll down

Oxford Street stopping at

a newsvendor where the real

poetry of this country is on

display, all yellow, black and red,

full blooded and robust as

poetry should be


- sexual misdemeanors of royalty

- bloody battles in disputed parking places

- broken bones at soccer stadiums

the real stuff to wrap your fish and chips in

and savor between salty and vinegary mouthfuls


And I leave Lady Snodgrass and

her cucumber sandwich reflections

on a park bench in Westminster for

some more cultured crows to pick at

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© Johnmichael Simon



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