Sunday, July 16, 2006

Poesy

You know how you can find a piece of driftwood and without doing anything to it beyond displaying it turn it into a work of art? I think they call such things objets trouvés although that may refer to the bags of soiled nappies I find that are occasionally hurled over our fence from the pub car park next door. I suppose given the right institution and hype even these might have some artistic pretensions.
But I think you can 'find' poems too and not just by noticing the occasional sometimes Freudian rhyme that slips out. My favourite I heard while listening to the late night shipping forecast on radio four delivered in the deadpan voice of, I think his name is Perkins, Low ,heading west, slowly losing identity. Not much of a poem and maybe I am relying on the rhythm of his delivery to give it any claim at all but it sums me up.

TWO DAYS LATER ANDI REALISE I HAVE ALREADY SAID THIS BACK IN SEPTEMBER 2005.
I WILL LEAVE IT IN THOUGH AS EVIDENCE OF A MIND CRACKING UP.

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