One day at school

our English teacher

handed out the poetry books.

He made us read

a short, sad story of rejection

by one Wole Soyinka.

It seemed

a strange poem to find

in a place like that:

one of those grubby, hardback schoolbooks

full of poems about animals

full of in-your-face similes

illustrating the power of

the English language.

But then

it was not a poem,

the English teacher said. It was

just prose chopped up and

not a rhyme in sight.

He sucked his teeth, in case

a few stray syllables had lodged

between them.


In A Bookshop

All you can see through the tall windows are

the rooftops of the city, and the sky

(both crinkled slightly by the imperfect glass).

This partial view serves to convey a sense

of stillness in which people linger, drawn

to contemplate the stacks, searching the spines

for words they hadn't thought of, books that might provide

some sort of landmark on a mental map.



I saw no angels:

only the sun

catching the slates

of the wet roof

after the rain.

The stream was full,

coughing its way impatiently

through a concrete pipe.

A skylark sang and,

on the opposite hill, a car

twinkled like a fallen star.

Dominic Rivron was born in 1958. He lives in the North of England. He is a music teacher who composes music and writes poetry. He is a past winner of the Yorkshire Prize at the Ilkley Literature Festival and has had poetry published in Scratch Magazine, Pennine Platform and The Poetry Bus. These days he usually publishes his poetry online. Dominic's blog is here.

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