I absolutely love this poem by Andy Brown. I am not sure when I read or heard it first. Possibly at one of Andy’s readings in Exeter. Possibly in draft form at the writers’ group we used to belong to.
To paraphrase what Kenneth Koch said on hearing Frank O’Hara’s poems for the first time, there is nothing in it I do not like. Plus, I am a sucker for a good list poem.
There is so much pleasure in this poem. It makes me glad to be alive and to want to continue being so. I think I am secretly jealous of the line ‘birch trees/like Elizabethan ladies/painted white’. I see pallid skin, fragility, the effort of keeping up appearances. Most of all it makes me see both objects in a fresh way. Brilliant.
It conjures for me perfect these liminal not-quite-here days of sunshine, warmth, sudden cold and increasing daylight.
If you do not know Goose Music (Salt, 2008), from which this poem comes, you should get your hands on it now.
There is nothing here which does not read completely freshly. Nothing that does not feel minutely observed, felt and processed from a core of complete respect for the world.
Prayer/Why I am Happy to be in the City this Spring
for creepers etched
across a wall
like the marble veins
on David’s hands;
for the lichen, moss
and granite blocks
of the city’s ancient
battlements;
for the empty paint pots,
loose blue string
and slightly sparkling
bottled water
discarded in the bushes,
its dregs -quite still-
reminding us
we’re only passing through;
for a builder’s skip
of silver crucifixes;
for sunlight on
the golden rooster
of a weathervane;
for a metal dragon
listening
to tingling cash
outside the new cafe;
for students drinking coffee –
their notes taking off
in the wind;
for bird song
when a door slams;
for birch trees
like Elizabethan ladies
painted white;
for the burgeoning stems
of Aloe Vera
in municipal gardens
like chubby children
playing Stuck-in-the-mud;
for water in a concrete pond;
for reflections,
fish
and ripples
over grey;
for buttercups emerging
through drain holes;
for garden planters
standing bare all winter,
now filled;
for distant hills;
for the balm of a snail’s track
on galvanised railings
at midnight;
for this ongoing twilight
over our new home
and through it
the relief of seeing
individual stars.
from Goose Music (Salt, 2008)
Image courtesy of Spacex Gallery
I love this poem too. Thanks for reminding me of it.
Clare Best
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Thank you so much for getting in touch and commenting Clare. Glad you like the poem, I love it. With best wishes, Anthony
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So pleased you saw this, thanks
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