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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