Baint an Fheir
Poem: Plod. Poem: What's left of your bones.
There, see. Poem: 'Blunder follows blunder'
he wrote, (tapping the floor) beginning again to
take note, and grow up. Little incidents connect
to make a afbric where air meets in its heat cold
too to the lip tangible in its flow, woven through,
walled in. The verb: gathering. The verb: locate.
The verb: stop. Acumen, praise. White is the colour
of your true love's hair — Wood Angelica, Butterbur,
Purple Loosestrife — now. Yes. The verb: to see.
The verb: to know. This then.
Shearsman, UK, 2014
Even Maurice admits it's been years & years and it has been years & years since we have been in touch, but poet's have a secret weapon, are you listening? they have books no one wants to read that they can send as gifts, and they do, and we who receive many of these books must be thankful. Often they will be the best books you will read all year, and the worst. Be thankful. Someone is sharing. Sharing has disappeared if you haven't noticed. Sharing now means something on computer stupidity and that's not what I mean by sharing. Maurice has sent his most recent book from Shearsman, that fine fiddle of a press in the U.K. Maurice won't believe me, you won't believe me, but I had been recently wanting to read something new by Maurice. No doubt he read my mind. I opened his new book that he sent as a gift and came upon an opening word by Frank Samperi who really never did anything wrong with a poem. No failures.