The poem
On my desk, a set of labels or a synopsis of leeks, blanched by the sun and trailing their roots
like a watering can. Beyond and below, diminished by distance, a taxi shivers at the lights:
a shining moorhen with an orange nodule set over the beak, taking a passenger
under its wing. I turn away, confront the cuckold hatstand at bay in the corner,
and eavesdrop (bless you!) on a hay-fever of brakes. My Caran d'Ache are sharp as the tips of an iris
and the four-tier file is spotted with rust: a study of plaice by a Japanese master,
ochres exquisitely bled. Instead of office work, I fish for complements and sport a pencil
behind each ear, a bit of a devil, or trap the telephone awkwardly under my chin
like Richard Crookback, crying, A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse! but only to myself,
ironically: the tube is semi-stiff with stallion whangs, the chairman's Mercedes has windscreen wipers
like a bird's broken tongue, and I am perfectly happy to see your head, quick round the door like a dryad,
as I pretend to be Ovid in exile, composing Tristia and sad for the shining, the missed, the muscular beach.
The third one now on the list. I'm starting to see his style. It's ok, I guess. Seems good, I wonder though what might make it great. The techniquie is good but themes seem too trivial. I'd like to read what he's written about something deep.