Brandt works hard, an asset to the law firm.
He used to teach German in Nottingham,
his whiskers are waxed and faux Edwardian;
talks Sherwood Forest and Robin Hood
but gives exclusively to the rich.
I should be a diplomat and say he suits
his Homburg hat but it's faintly ridiculous,
another case of boring mid-life crisis.
I suppose we all end up superannuated,
the wheel is turning too for him.
I love my city, but, like Johannes Brahms,
I'm not considered for the post - so, let the choir
sing on without me. I'll leave the office cage
in Hamburg, and fly away! Be a musical dame,
no Ibsen ghost, but a diva, centre-stage.
Each person is but a grain of sand resting beside the sea. This thought sets the tone for Jill Eisnaugle’s latest poetry collection, Beside Still Waters.
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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