Bill Manhire

In Sweden, they whispered all winter, counting the frozen minutes. In France, they branched out. Tips of experience. In England, they dreamed of Ireland. In Ireland they seemed to be lonely. Germany was Belgium then was Spain. Italy was something else again. Portugal, Portugal, Portugal: they said that a lot because they never went back. Later in Hungary, he lay on his back and watched the clouds — so few of them but each one big and fluffy. In the first dream the angel was having a dream; in the next dream the angel still clung to his story.

End of the day. A bar where you ought to leave a tip. The green bird was saying pretty pretty pretty, loved ones were walking home across the city. I waved at the girl who waves her whip    ... but please be certain I’m a citizen    ... I take stuff to the dump    ...    or maybe it’s the tip? I’m where the nitty really meets the gritty. I know I find it hard to listen. I read too much. I often need a drink. It isn’t the world that makes us think, it’s words that we can’t come up with. Sure, I can work up fresh examples and send them off to the committee. But the poetry is in the bird. And in the pretty.

Evening: the nervous suburbs levitate. Height does us no harm, now we are high above the mineral pools, above the flash hotel whose only use is treachery. Someone knocks on a door and you crouch behind the bed. Down in the bar, the small girls toast their parents, the brother breaks a large bone for its marrow. I’m thinking of a challenge for us all. The star in the sky has traveled all the way from home. Now follow that!