"Angle" has gone

"Angle" has gone. Here are 2 of my poems from it -

Musée des Beaux Arts From Belgium's pre-war fields he saw a boy who fell through centuries, his technique failed, not finding love while Jews, unnoticed, died. The weary ploughman's pleats, unruffled, match his measured furrows not the puffed-up sails, old masters pleased young Wystan thought to rhyme. His craft sailed far from Europe's tumbled myths, conversion in its wake. Invited back to Oxford, limestoned wrinkles deepened, touched a crazed belief that prayer, not God, would help him suffer, slipper-shuffling from the bar each night to find his cottage in Christ's grounds. He left Kirchstetten farmhouse one cold day, his life's sole purchase. We know only that he found a Gasthaus, somewhere to go. Clocks kept ticking, heaven harvesting the gold, a blinding influence that makes us fail to see young stowaways thrown overboard.

The Poetry Channel Once more we sail beyond dawn's harbour walls, pose laughing in the prow's romantic spray; our site's not shown on any chart, and yet our winking, wine-breathed pilot knows the way. Our masks prepared, we dive into the wreck, set on our course. We talk in signs, defy our age, rise heavy to our craft. They want to see us stripping off - we can't be shy. No mast-tied hero - we're all equal now, we all have lines to change, the licensed power to dream. By setting good examples we achieve our 3 cliff-hangers every hour. Of course there's no surprise - back home we'll add addresses to our lists, unload our cache which later polished up in workshops is revealed - but gently so - as last year's trash.