I can be heard reading a poem I wrote for the late Geoffrey Hill here. I’m the first person to read in the open mic session, about 30 seconds into the .mp3 file there.


Should you be interested, you can hear me read a few of my poems here. I’m the one banging on about Pope in his bio. Poems read are titled, in order:

All against all
Vulcanism II: Hieron
Pindaric III (For Creüsa)

A poem of mine is forthcoming in the August issue of the New Orleans Review. The edition is a special issue devoted to Shakespeare (2016 being the 400th anniversary of his death), and they happily decided to include a piece I wrote in reply to Shakespeare’s sixth sonnet. I leave Shakespeare’s original below.

Then let not Winter’s ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty’s treasure, ere it be self-kill’d.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That’s for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur’d thee:
Then what could Death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
…..Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair,
…..To be Death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.

Poem: Out, Out–
Poet: Robert Frost

A quiet metrical armada haunts
Frost’s haunting poem, fleet lurches in time
That ripple o’er the smooth surface of sound,
Faint echoes of a meaning else disclosed.
Hark: as the saw stretches to greet its mark,
A double iamb lights on the boy’s hand,
Or seems to light – perhaps it welled up from
The hand itself, and could not but roost there.
This violent pause, this vicious, snarling halt,
How it rattles the ear, startles the tongue!
And listen for the shift in breath: the lope
Of lines that hold each pause apart gives way
To labored heaves. The poor boy puffs in puffs.
His heart stutters in stutters. Cruel author;
Unfeeling God! You torture the child so.
Listen, too, for the muted rhyme that skulks
About the close, the hint of beauty lurking
In the midst of death and disregard.
And mid this lack of care, the final lurch,
Or rather, regularity: for the last
Of wretched wrenches is no wrench at all.
The others, as they turn to their affairs,
Must leave the dead to death. See: there he lies,
A bed of iambs houses the unstressed dead.