It's Still Life

A Poem Based on Henri Rousseau’s “Myself. Portrait Landscape” (from L’ile Saint Louis) This woman’s name is Clémence.She is Henri Rousseau’s lover. You must, she tells, Rousseau,be frontal, be primitive. Be the lion in your jungle. Dress yourself inbest Sunday’s black, and permit your feet to rise on pavements.Pause semaphores on their lines, and strike…

A Particular Tree (Major Oak, Nottinghamshire) Beyond the iron gatesof the low stone wall,where the view widenson the slow rising hills is a model of serious trees. There amongst the birds, fields and things that arepermanent and unbroken,we look up at that tree as true and honest wisdom. Its limbs stretch out inthe morning sun…

In All seriousness A boy asks the local halal butcher“Are you Santa, sir?” And the butcher rolls two fingerson his bristley beard, as if piecingmyth and faith into a jigsaw puzzle. He spins the rotisserie, fat rendersin long drips from the doner meat,and he slices precisely thin sheets. “No, I am not Santa, but I…

For a Bear Called Cedric You’d poke it with a stickto see if it’s really dead,and if it grabbed the stick you’d not be surprised. He was made from a sock,stuffed with squishy fluff,and had a button in his ear, and you’d not be surprised if he was smiling at the moon, and sat on…