Pat Condell

Still Life

this poet is serious, his verbs are
metaphors, his adjectives precise
& unnecessary; he writes in perfect

three line stanzas like this, he
teaches creative writing, there is
a right way & a wrong way, he teaches

the right way; he brings up a collection
every few years before arriving at
middle-age where he has always belonged

poetry should not be trivialised
being his only reason for breathing, no
never trivialised, it has a noble heart

& function; he has never heard of Bob
Marley; he likes the occasional archaic
turn of phrase, calls it his poetic

licence (you buy it at the post
office & wear it around your neck
in case anyone finds you wandering

in reality); the torn bough, the black
wing – his images are delicate, precise;
when you see him he’ll be crouching

at a door marked posterity hoping
someone comes to let him in before
the pubs close & the skinheads arrive

Pat Condell
From the first issue of Tirane Thrash, November 83.

Pat Condell ranting-at-the-audience-1983


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