The Lie of Horizons
Desmond Graham’s first full collection of poems, these poems take on subjects as personal as his parents and as public as ‘Mrs Thatcher’s England’. There is a series of incisive satirical poems where street people become Shakespearean characters. Self-portraits by Rembrandt feature in another series and the author’s travels inspire moving poems set in Europe: ‘Kristallnacht’, ‘At the Jewish Cemetery’ and ‘Poems from Poland’. The poems about cities in Britain point to Graham’s fascination with the way history and politics affect the culture and character of the people. Refreshing for its clear-eyed and sympathetic look at the world, ‘The Lie of Horizons’ is a thoroughly enjoyable debut from a fine writer.
‘This is an impressive collection. Graham’s careful use of rhythm, of incidental, never forced rhyme and of understated emotion create a lyrical voice which is refreshingly ironic. He invigorates phrases which hover on the verge of cliché as he does the clichés of his native society, intent on broadening their scope, proving their lie’.
Sinead Garrigan, POETRY OXFORD
St. Paul’s
The echo in the dome
reaches the far listener
faster than the tic tac
found the eye, on the floor
of the old Stock Exchange.
After the Big Bang
the cathedral, not shrouded
in smoke this time,
survived. Press your ear
to the stone that Wren
so finely proportioned
and the poor of London
hauled up to this height
with bare hands, and you
will hear a whispered whirr
of millions passed from one hand
to the other, out of reach.
Dear Wren, in your day
all the cries of poverty
had to pass through stone
to gain a hearing,
now they could fill
the vault of heaven
and be turned off with a switch.
***
Under Peggoty’s Boat
(i.m. H.E.Graham)
Proving the lie of horizons
we could be under Peggoty’s boat
shipwrecked on childhood
turning the pages together
all on the good characters
with a bit of sadness
a lost sweetheart
always a good George
or upright sergeant
like your father,
making the most of it,
life what you breathe out
as pipe smoke, gather
in passing as rings
under the eyes:
your childhood was Oliver’s
not asking for more, knuckle rapped,
shoved from behind, head knocked
against walls, at twelve thrown out
to a world which didn’t care
whether you arrived or not,
but, by jingo, if you were late…
then a dead father, a mother
to hold up, fifty odd years
of glancing past your shoulder
to an Agnes who might just possibly
have waited in the window
or was it just in case
he caught you out,
or did you look
to your own young face
in make-up, fee-fie-fo-
fum giant with a leather club
and a hollow corner
to your smile, proving
you heard your Jack
climb up though he was quieter
than ivy, and would pretend
for years you had not heard
even when he hacked down
in one blow the beanstalk
and from its leaves the little
Emilies and Davids flew out
like shock-faced divers –
you caught them as you fell,
in your warm, beautiful hands.
