I haven’t had time to stand and fart recently,
and you’re wanting me to work on a relationship?

That silence gathering in the front room
like a crowd waiting for a drunk to fall,

it’s something to do with you, isn’t it?
Some kind of comment, some kind of rebuke?

Poverty appears like steam, after growing
invisibly, takes its shapes when it meets the cold.

I’ve been spinning on the spot like a mad dog
trying to make two short ends meet, and I don’t

need advice on how to feel happier
on less, thank you very much. Passing

on the street, no-one would know, except
that I am hurrying, from one tired place

to another, wearing out cheap shoes faster
than the rest of town. I’m struggling.


Mark Robinson, from How I Learned to Sing (Smokestack Books, 2013)


In between working and crashing out on the sofa from too much screen time and sadness (are they the same thing? Discuss) the other day a line of a poem I have not read in twenty (?) or so years came to me: ‘I haven’t had time to stand and fart recently’. I first read it in the late and much missed poetry magazine Smiths Knoll, jointly edited at that time by Roy Blackman  Michael Laskey. I am guessing this must have been sometime in the early 1990s, when I was heroically trying to read everything I could get my hands on (a feat which I am very late in the day coming to realise I failed). Still, there was Smiths Knoll and The North and The Rialto  and Tears in the Fence and this thing I took a punt on one wild day called Scratch.

Links were being made. Tentative, pre-internet-and-email friendships, with things we still call paper and envelopes and stamps. Janet Fisher rang me up once about a poem and it was like a visit from Royalty. (I had to lie down then, too.) It turned out Mark Robinson was editor of said Scratch, so his name jumped off the page at me as I read about farting and love and poverty and anger and struggling. It appeared a few years later in one of my all-time favourite collections of poems, his debut with Stride, The Horse Burning Park.

Not remembering anything about the poem except its first line, I took down Mark’s New and Selected (Horse Burning is in my office at work…) yesterday and spent a very happy hour revisiting some (very old) favourites as well as making some startling new acquaintances. His tone, subject matter and political concerns are amazingly consistent. Reading the poem again now I am struck by how prescient it feels to our current moment: ‘spinning on the spot like a mad dog’; ‘Passing / on the street’; ‘I am hurrying, from one tired place / to another’; feeling ‘happier / on less’; and that remarkable couplet about poverty.

Now, in spite of what they told me at school, I am not stupid. This is a poem written nearly thirty years ago. It isn’t ‘about’ coronavirus or the lockdown any more than my left foot is. But what did happen is that it appeared when I needed it to, just like that, and that felt like a good thing in a week in which struggling has been the main thing. Years and years later, another connection, unasked for as Seamus Heaney might say. Another way of feeling and being alive.

Which brings me to the video below of my hero Michael Laskey reading poems nearly a decade ago in London at the Poetry Library. One day he and Roy allowed ‘Struggling’ into their magazine and the world began to turn in something like my direction. For that and everything else you have done, Michael and Mark, thank you.




With thanks to Mark Robinson and Peter Carpenter


  1. Those serendipitous events when the page you are reading suddenly speaks right to you, the words express exactly what you feel right then … For a beautiful moment it seems the universe is unfolding as it should, that it’s personal, that you are understood and maybe even loved. Thanks for reminding me of the important things poetry can do.

    Liked by 4 people

  2. I love how context changes meaning; how being in love or having your heart broken changes every tune that comes on the radio and how it seems to amplify the voices of the dead when you’re in mourning. And then there’s those quiet moments when the collective unconscious seems to speak to you, and you can hear it, it’s like the universe reflecting back on you.

    Or, I could just be really tired and rambling incoherently. Thanks for the great reads, anyway. 😉


  3. Thanks for this Anthony – good to know lines echo through the years. It’s funny as about the same time you wrote this I was pulling Geoff ‘Wide Skirt’ Hattersley’s books off the shelves to locate a line that was echoing in my head. I was just catching up on your blog when I saw this – didn’t even need to google myself! Hope all is going well as the viral weirdness morphs again, and that the next phases for your mum go kindly. (If I am reading things correctly, my apologies if not.) A few in the book relating to my own experience. All best wishes, Mark

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Hi Mark, so good to hear from you. Thank you again for your great poem. How you describe looking for Geoff (is he still writing?) is how I was looking for you, the opening line running round my head like the proverbial. My mum is hanging in there. But it is hard. Thank you again, with very best, Anthony


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