is a man who emailed us quite some time ago with a few poems to feast our eyes upon. Sorry for the delay in posting them but we've been pretty busy in Clinic Towers recently, but, finally, here they be. I for one find his use of language as theme and impetus for this poetry really interesting and it's certainly something I aim for within my own work; I also happen to know Roy is a massive fan of referencing football players, so without further ado I'll let these babies speak for themselves.
The South Bank Show
‘I have often compared myself
to Anna Karapetyan, the women’s
footballer. You’ll know her: the Armenian.’
He crosses his legs. Deals with another
moment. ‘Like her, I had the fortune
of being born
in a country where my talent,
though unappreciated, is
exceptional. One thinks of genius
as a Mozart, or a Caravaggio, as if
somehow, more so, even than
me, they can broach the human condition.
I’ll tell you now: no one is genius as I
when it comes to comparing myself
to Anna Karapetyan.’
Turning
So when you turned to us and said ‘Bolaño
has died’ it’s not that I didn’t believe you –
but that ñ you’d developed, as in piñata,
that came in for as much stick as Julio Arca
when you finally returned to Boro, too
tanned and with a taste for Argentinean
oranges (I imagined you spitting the pips
at the end of your siesta: you’d up
and peel from the sheets like an onion
in a sore and rubbery nakedness, then
half-dress to listen to me on the phone;
the juice sulking on your fingers, your tongue
leaving as much to imagine as a tango) –
you see, I just thought it was the same as Belgrano.