A sort-of-review of Marie Marshall’s T.S.Eliot Prize nominated ‘I am not a fish’

You’ll never believe me…I was waiting to Skype God. You can imagine the anxiety! I mean…the Almighty, the Alpha & the Omega, Tetragrammaton—YHWH. It was buffering his end, ringing out. There was a lot of eeking & blare. The postman dropped his delivery. I was gripped on what God was going to look like. I [...]

Advertisements

Marie Marshall (3 Poems)

Very glad that my 1st act as Underfoot’s new guest editor, is to publish a handful of Marie Marshall’s poems (no relation).
Put succinctly, Marie Marshall is the bee’s knees, legitimately one of the finest poets i have discovered during my forage of the Internet, finest poet FULL STOP. Never a word wasted nor misused, never a thought wanting, always impossible to anticipate, & at times full of humour; Marie is my kind of poet. Enjoy.

To read more of Marie’s work go here, spend the afternoon, put a pot of coffee on, set a plate of biscuits, maybe, a mix of Garibaldi & Custard Creams.

 

marie marshall

Underfoot Poetry

104

The river’s in constant re-set mode,
sighting by its hand against the banks
what’s up and what’s down. It has
the tattoo of the sky in its eye. Two
girls, leaning against the wall, ignore
it, choosing instead to contemplate
:
hills and the warmth of each other’s
shoulder, but each has plashed puddles
that have (since) closed up, that eye
winking out. The river’s voice is
understated, catch some in a bucket
and it’s abated. Call by to see brother
:
Perch in his green-and-silver suit, to
maintain a plastic pot for washing
your brushes, to extract and filter.
Renew! The sun turns you to molten
copper. The river’s dare is born of
hills and ephemeral daymare tails.


from Potty Poetry
(a handful of poems printed on cards and left in the toilets at Burning Man 2016)

1.
We met right here,
but this is no sleazy…

View original post 1,219 more words

Body-hairomancy

A grim poem from the Charlie Malurkey cohort of capers & general peculiarities. In short, Charlie reads prophecies in the pubic hair that arranges on his bathroom floor, taking it to be a message from Godly God. Sorry, so sorry. Body-Hairomancy Last night he bothering the audience with messages him got from Godly God, It [...]

Austerity of furniture…

Been reading Rolfe Humphries' translation of Ovid's Ars Amatoria, which is an excellent translation. He sticks to the hexameters, often employing the anapaest & using internal assonance, which makes for a pleasant music. i have broke with that in places, letting the line run to heptameters or longer, making it a sort of Blakean love [...]