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Synopsis
The North 35 contains poems by 28 poets; A conversation between Paul Violi and Martin Stannard A conversation between Paul Farley and John Stammers An appreciation of Thom Gunn's poetry; and several articles on the work of Michael Laskey 'Ozmosis': extracts from an Australian Journal, by John Killick Reviews of recent books, plus 'Blind Criticism', 'Poets I Go Back To' and 'The Collection' Paul Farley 'Liverpool Disappears for a Billionth of a Second' (This poem has been short-listed for the 2005 Forward Prize for the Best Single Poem) Liverpool disappears for a billionth of a second Shorter than the blink inside a blink The National Grid will sometimes make, when you’ll turn to a room and say: Was that just me? People sitting down for dinner don’t feel their chairs taken away/put back again much faster than that trick with tablecloths. A train entering the Olive Mount cutting shudders, but not a single passenger complains when it pulls in almost on time. The birds feel it, though, and if you see starlings in shoal, seagulls abandoning cathedral ledges, or a mob of pigeons lifting from a square as at gunfire, be warned, it may be happening, but then those sensitive to bat-squeak in the backs of necks, who claim to hear the distant roar of comets on the turn – these may well smile at a world restored, in one piece; though each place where mineral Liverpool goes wouldn’t believe what hit it: all that sandstone out to sea or meshed into the quarters of Cologne. I’ve felt it a few times when I’ve gone home, if anything, more often now I’m old, and the gaps between get shorter all the time A poem by Glyn Hughes MILTON'S TAP-ROOM I’m in the pub taproom where Milton did his ironing but mostly Mrs Buckley’s and hung it on a ‘maiden’ by the fire that he had lit and polished the brasses. A tough and self-contained ex-farmer fallen on bad, or was it good, times, he hand-washed and ironed the undies of his dumpy odalisque and served her in her hidden place (their teeth in mild bleach by the bed, fancy that) then fetched beer in a jug where Buckley dared not enter and Mrs didn’t among starched underwear and blouses. He swept it, scrubbed it, ruled it, choosing never to leave his bed and board except to bring warm eggs in from the grass or hang out washing above the roaming hens. I catch it fortunately in its near-silence and warmth of embers trapped from last night. An hour like those of their endless honeymoon; that time when calls of poultry, curlews, larks and Buckley’s grumbles invaded their window. One pint of beer in the early evening and I could almost live again here – just as I almost did in the past, like Milton with ‘my feet under the table’ as welcome as any for my wit and my money. The moor outside, and this taproom-kitchen – ‘the poor man’s study’, as one dialect poet said – is still the same; a stone floor, and a flagged ceiling, and through the peephole window a damp green light where crows tossed in the breaths of thermals over the wood are dancing but are really just blown on threads of air. They have nests to steady them somewhere and I, a pint of Lees dark bitter in my hand, hold a dim thought of not being chucked out at eleven, of not being chucked out ever – Milton’s ghost.
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