Summer poets season - Bill Greenwell
July 30th, 2008
The PRSD summer poets season continues with a piece by the incredibly prolific Bill Greenwell.
Writer, poet, teacher and journalist, Bill writes every day (!), and has been doing so for 30 years (!!).
His work has been been featured in pretty much everything and pretty much all over the place, most notably (for us anyway) a regular slot in the New Statesman.
Here he is reading his poem, Imaginary Friends. And below the audio, is the text.
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Imaginary Friends
1
I sit next to you. I wear
your off-cream vest and pants. I like
whatever you do. Give me half.
Give me your half.
Now. Or I will tell on you.
2
My face is a mitten.
I read your secrets in the vacuum of blackness.
You turn in your sleep
like a burning page, and suffocate
under my touch. I have six thumbs.
They taste of bitter aloes.
3
The tree hangs at the edge of the garden,
braiding the stub-grass with shade.
A swing. The delirium of flight.
The taste of trouble, which is
like quince half-bitten by frost,
or a hard green crab.
4
They say you will grow up, like a tree.
I say, you will never grow up: like me.
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