At The Coffee Shop(Saturday 2 February 2008, 10am)

Women mostly.  Serious shoppers: arms full of bags already.  Mothers and daughters, both young and old.

A girl catches my eye.  She half-smiles and her eyes hold my gaze for a second as her face turns back to the conversation.

A couple of young guys reading the sports pages.  Nursing hangovers perhaps, while they wait for their partners to finish their shopping?

A tired-looking young couple fondly, jealously, watching their baby as she sleeps serenely in her buggy.

A barista clearing tables.  As he bends over, the curious toddler at the next table reaches from his booster seat and gently touches the proffered buttocks...

                         One coffee shop,

                         one americano -

                         so many stories.

A Lipstick Feminist Addresses Newton

                         To see further who
                         needs the shoulders of giants?
                         I wear stilettos.

The Ghost Of My Father

I'm haunted by the ghost of my father.
He stalks a parallel universe that
I glimpse occasionally in shop windows.
I say occasionally, but, honestly,
It's becoming more and more frequent now.
And I’m slowly having to come to terms
With peripheral images that once shocked.


Dad was there when my new passport arrived,
Staring at me from pages two and three.
And in all the latest holiday snaps
He is standing, smiling, there at the back.
Worst of all though, every morning when I
Look in the mirror, it’s him there, not me.
I am simile become metaphor.

Three Oncologists

Three figures though the blur of tears;

Peering at you over their shoulders.
An X-ray.
Indistinct mass:
Soft edged but tumour-dense.
The streaks of blood vessels feeding growth. Carrying off cells to      metastasize elsewhere?

Three oncologists conferring quietly,
Regardingly, confidently.
An X-ray.
Indistinct mass,
Visibly shrinking at the margins.
The streaks of blood vessels carrying drugs to their target.

Three scientists fading into the background,
Their work done.
An X-ray.
Indistinct mass,
Fading fast.
The streaks of tears on joyful cheeks.

Richard Blanco chosen to read Inaugural Poem

I was interested to read today that Richard Blanco (a poet of whom I had never previously heard) will read a poem (presumably an original composition of his own) at President Obama’s second inauguration.

Richard Blanco will become only the fifth inaugural poet (after Robert Frost in 1961, Maya Angelou in 1993, Miller ­Williams in 1997, and Elizabeth Alexander in 2009).

What's wrong with the Republicans?  Do they think poetry is only for Democrats?

Oh, and Beyonce will sing the national anthem!