(Listen to the poem here) Swaying in his walking mother’s arms The two-year old is studiously Extracting strands of moonlight From her long and precious hair. Phillip Hill 2017
Hey, History!
(Listen to the poem here) Some people tell me that they feel compelled to read books to the end, no matter how brainless and repetitive the plot, how many unattractive characters, or how nobody ever seems to learn from their mistakes. Me, I’m not like that. If I’m fed up (and it could... Continue Reading →
Blue Lemons
Blue lemons, Prickly guitars, A cat in charge of all the icicles.
Disparitions Mystérieuses des Civilisations Méso-Américaines
(Listen to the poem here) Après le repas à Oaxtepec le patron du restaurant nous dit d’un air de satisfaction agaçant que toute sa viande vient du Texas. Je trouve que ce n’est pas normal de manger tellement hormonal. Au Mexique on trouve partout des traces olmèques, toltèques, aztèques, mixtèques, mais qu’en est-il... Continue Reading →
Yaute-no-pec
(Listen to the poem here) The sticker on the window tells us YAUTEPEC although the rope-haired lad who is jutting from the bus’s door into the foaming crowd, much like a figurehead in stormy seas, is shouting, “Yaute, Yaute, Yaute, Yaute.” Perhaps it’s lexically Mexican to chop the end of place names when you’re touting... Continue Reading →
The Art of Conversation
listen to the poem The art of conversation isn't rugby, I must remind myself at times, or even shooting grouse, deer, moose or peccaries If anything it is a bit like dominoes with tiles you didn't know you had, whose shapes do tricks with space and time .Lay down a one and six, and see... Continue Reading →
Baristi d’Italia
(listen to the poem here) Sometimes arriving time-zonked, tweedle-kneed and nearly dumb in Frankfurt or in London or in some other airport where people seem to have been stranded many months ago on strangely molten furniture, I stumble into a counter which claims that it provides espresso. As I go grimly inching up the North... Continue Reading →
But Soundly Sailing
Listen to the poem Last night, down in the street, the kids were there till after three, singing and shouting till they’d had too much to drink and disappeared. Not near enough to keep me up, the noise lapped at my bedclothes all the time, tugging so that I felt I wasn’t quite in bed... Continue Reading →
Chiflador
(Listen to the poem here) Gringos don't know how to whistle, the bus driver tells me on the way to Puebla. Once in North Carolina, I whistled at a dog, the owner told me off. He said “It's got a name, that dog, you oughtta call it Chuck”. But we in Mexico, we have forty-eight ways, or more, of whistling. There's one to say hello, one which... Continue Reading →
Somewhere in Sichuan
(Listen to the poem) Whenever youngsters out from school catch sight of me, they cry, “Hel-loh, hel-loh.” I smile and stop, pick one out with my gaze and ask, “Nǐ huì shuō yīngyǔ ma?” Can you speak English? It is as if, for them, a dog whose head you'd scratched had answered, “Hey, just cut... Continue Reading →