Poem
Luke Kennard
Spade
Spade
Spade
Flat-faced clown of the gazebo,Lever that punctures the world,
A see-saw we cleave to and see our fate
Rising on the other side.
Piano of the shed’s orchestra,
A stick fastened to an evil
cast-iron cartoon seagull.
The opposite of a knife:
You cannot be used accidentally.
The force and stance required
Renders us one animal.
When the earth is gravelly
We sound like a distant car starting.
When muddy, satisfying as a new word
Used surreptitiously in the right context.
Once the hole is dug the only thing
I cannot bury in it is you;
Tamping down the sewn earth
Like gunpowder in a canon.
Puppet on a blue-screen,
Dancing like a smug wand,
Suddenly disembodied,
From me, your erstwhile fossor,
Your mortal, flubby ballast,
Your spluttering engine.
© 2009, Luke Kennard
From: The Migraine Hotel
Publisher: Salt Publishing, Cambridge
From: The Migraine Hotel
Publisher: Salt Publishing, Cambridge
Luke Kennard
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1981)
In 2007 Luke Kennard became the youngest ever poet to be shortlisted for the Forward Prize for Best Collection with The Harbour Beyond the Movie. At the time he was reported to have said “I’m on the shortlist with people I studied at A-level” (The Observer, 2007). His first collection, The Solex Brothers (Stride Books), was published in 2005, the same year he received an Eric Gregory Award from...
Poems
Poems of Luke Kennard
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Spade
Flat-faced clown of the gazebo,Lever that punctures the world,
A see-saw we cleave to and see our fate
Rising on the other side.
Piano of the shed’s orchestra,
A stick fastened to an evil
cast-iron cartoon seagull.
The opposite of a knife:
You cannot be used accidentally.
The force and stance required
Renders us one animal.
When the earth is gravelly
We sound like a distant car starting.
When muddy, satisfying as a new word
Used surreptitiously in the right context.
Once the hole is dug the only thing
I cannot bury in it is you;
Tamping down the sewn earth
Like gunpowder in a canon.
Puppet on a blue-screen,
Dancing like a smug wand,
Suddenly disembodied,
From me, your erstwhile fossor,
Your mortal, flubby ballast,
Your spluttering engine.
From: The Migraine Hotel
Spade
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