My God Triangled,
I am indifferent
And entangled,
Enmeshed and mangled.
I am as weak for love
As never was another.
Is there no other human mind
So crushed?
Gathering round me all my Summer evenings
I spent my twilight in the books of men,
And through my perfect window
Watched girls' bodies moving in the wind.
Outside this window only a vast emptiness
Is waiting to absorb me.
All around the house a great silence
Wants to remove my laughter.
Everywhere I feel
A great loneliness happening.
There is a bitter taste in words
And a smell of death on all things now.
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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