Sinister: The Monday Poem

[poetry place2]

With the shock departure of Northy from the list, I think we are all in
need of spiritual succour. So in honour of the dearly departed I've decided
to inaugurate the "Sinister Poem of the Week". Basically, drawing on from
Tag's idea of the list as a daily fanzine, and also the fact that
Sinisterines seem to be astonishingly well-read, I thought it'd be fun to
have a regular feature every Monday. One of the frustrating things about my
job is that I get to read lots of fantastic contemporary poetry, which I
know lots of people would enjoy if only they had access to it. So in a
spirit of "literary home-taping", I thought I'd choose some excellent new
poems, in the same way that you might make someone a tape of a fantastic
new group on a tiny label that no-one would've ever heard of otherwise. And
of course this helps me feel slightly better about sending private email
from work...
Of course, it doesn't have much to do with B&S, and if enough people regard
it as spam, I'll stop...

But anyway... Paul Farley is from Liverpool. He's just won the Poetry
Review New Poet of the Year award, and has a new book, "The Boy from the
Chemist is Here to See You" out soon, published by Picador. For those of
you who are either too young, or not British, Keith Chegwin is an ex-kids
tv presenter who turned to the bottle. The poem deals with his early
teenage appearance in a Roman Polanksi Shakespeare adaptation... 

Stephen
xxxxxxxx
--------------------------------------------------

Paul Farley
Keith Chegwin as Fleance

The next rung up from extra and dogsbody
and all the cliches are true - days waiting for
enough light, learning card games, penny-ante,
while fog rolls off the sea, a camera
gets moisture in its gate, and Roman Polanski
curses the day he chose Snowdonia.

He picked you for your hair to play this role:
a look had reached Bootle from Altamont
that year. You wouldn't say you sold your soul
but learned your line inside a beating tent
by candlelight, the shingle dark as coal
behind each wave, and its slight restatement.

"A tale told by an idiot..." "Not your turn,
but perhaps, with time and practice...", the Pole starts.
Who's to say, behind the accent and that grin,
what designs you had on playing a greater part?
The crew get ready while the stars go in.
You speak the words you'd written on your heart

just as the long-awaited sunrise fires
the sky a bluish pink. Who could have seen
this future in the late schedules, where I
can't sleep, and watch you die on the small screen;
on the other side of drink and wondering why,
the zany, household-name years in between?
---------------------------------------------------------------------

The Poetry Society Website: http://www.poetrysoc.com
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
.     This message was brought to you by the Sinister mailing list.
.        To send to the list please mail "sinister at majordomo.net".
.  For subscribing, unsubscribing and other list information please see
.            http://www.majordomo.net/sinister
. For questions about how the list works mail owner-sinister at majordomo.net
.    We're all happy bunnies humming happy bunny tunes.  Aren't we?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------