Empyrean Suite – a homage to my friend Fawzi Karim.

Here is a link to my homage to my friend Fawzi Karim – Empyrean Suite – together with an obituary to this great poet and noble man. All in the Fortnightly Review.

Also, here is a link to the obituary in The Guardian

And for more information about Fawzi’s poetry click on Incomprehensible Lesson


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A New Throne



I have grown heated under my rind;

At rest behind my eyelids,

While the figs ripen, one at a time.

On the edge of being over-ripe,

I’ve cut out drink and drugs

And you could say I’m rationing my cum.


I get up, engage with my work-out

(Health is my new high)

And then soak in the D

From heaven’s oriflamb

By basking at a balmy angle.

What a great big fruit I am!


But shouldn’t I bask

In the moon as well,

Soaking in whatever she releases

Before I fall to pieces?

Might not her more subtle light

Work on the inner sprite


And set off fermentation

So essence might become

L’eau propre de ma vie?

Make of me an alcohol, oh moon,

That bright young figs take swigs from

When immersed in me.


First published in The Spectator.  Now in Songs of Realisation

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Edith Sitwell ‘Face to Face’.

Wonderful interview

by John Freeman with Edith Sitwell. Face to Face is a legendary series of interviews from the BBC and Freeman died in 2014 at the age of 99 years old.  Besides, Sitwell is an author I have always been more than intrigued by.


THUS spoke the lady underneath the trees :
I was a member of a family
Whose legend was of hunting — (all the rare
And unattainable brightness of the air) —
A race whose fabled skill in falconry
Was used on the small song-birds and a winged
And blinded Destiny. … I think that only
Winged ones know the highest eyrie is so lonely.
There in a land, austere and elegant,
The castle seemed an arabesque in music ;
We moved in an hallucination born
Of silence, which like music gave us lotus
To eat, perfuming lips and our long eyelids
As we trailed over the sad summer grass,
Or sat beneath a smooth and mournful tree.
And Time passed, suavely, imperceptibly.
But Dagobert and Peregrine and I
Were children then ; we walked like shy gazelles
Among the music of the thin flower-bells.
And life still held some promise, — never ask
Of what, — but life seemed less a stranger, then,
Than ever after in this cold existence.
I always was a little outside life —
And so the things we touch could comfort me ;
I loved the shy dreams we could hear and see —
For I was like one dead, like a small ghost,
A little cold air wandering and lost.
All day within the straw-roofed arabesque
Of the towered castle and the sleepy gardens wandered
We ; those delicate paladins the waves
Told us fantastic legends that we pondered.

And the soft leaves were breasted like a dove,
Crooning old mournful tales of untrue love.
When night came, sounding like the growth of trees,
My great-grandmother bent to say good-night,
And the enchanted moonlight seemed transformed
Into the silvery tinkling of an old
And gentle music-box that played a tune
Of Circean enchantments and far seas ;
Her voice was lulling like the splash of these.
When she had given me her good-night kiss,
There, in her lengthened shadow, I saw this
Old military ghost with mayfly whiskers, —
Poor harmless creature, blown by the cold wind,
Boasting of unseen unreal victories
To a harsh unbelieving world unkind:
For all the battles that this warrior fought
Were with cold poverty and helpless age —
His spoils were shelters from the winter’s rage.
And so for ever through his braggart voice,
Through all that martial trumpet’s sound, his soul
Wept with a little sound so pitiful,
Knowing that he is outside life for ever
With no one that will warm or comfort him. . . .
He is not even dead, but Death’s buffoon
On a bare stage, a shrunken pantaloon.
His military banner never fell,
Nor his account of victories, the stories
Of old apocryphal misfortunes, glories
Which comforted his heart in later life
When he was the Napoleon of the schoolroom
And all the victories he gained were over
Little boys who would not learn to spell.

All day within the sweet and ancient gardens
He had my childish self for audience —
Whose body flat and strange, whose pale straight hair
Made me appear as though I had been drowned —
(We all have the remote air of a legend) —
And Dagobert my brother whose large strength,
Great body and grave beauty still reflect
The Angevin dead kings from whom we spring ;
And sweet as the young tender winds that stir
In thickets when the earliest flower-bells sing
Upon the boughs, was his just character ;
And Peregrine the youngest with a naive
Shy grace like a faun’s, whose slant eyes seemed
The warm green light beneath eternal boughs.
His hair was like the fronds of feathers, life
In him was changing ever, springing fresh
As the dark songs of birds . . . the furry warmth
And purring sound of fires was in his voice
Which never failed to warm and comfort me.

And there were haunted summers in Troy Park
When all the stillness budded into leaves ;
We listened, like Ophelia drowned in blond
And fluid hair, beneath stag-antlered trees ;
Then, in the ancient park the country-pleasant
Shadows fell as brown as any pheasant,
And Colonel Fantock seemed like one of these.
Sometimes for comfort in the castle kitchen
He drowsed, where with a sweet and velvet lip
The snapdragons within the fire
Of their red summer never tire.
And Colonel Fantock liked our company ;
For us he wandered over each old lie,
Changing the flowering hawthorn, full of bees,
Into the silver helm of Hercules,
For us defended Troy from the top stair
Outside the nursery, when the calm full moon
Was like the sound within the growth of trees.

But then came one cruel day in deepest June,
When pink flowers seemed a sweet Mozartian tune,
And Colonel Fantock pondered o’er a book.
A gay voice like a honeysuckle nook —
So sweet, — said, ‘It is Colonel Fantock’s age
Which makes him babble.’ . . . Blown by winter’s rage
The poor old man then knew his creeping fate,
The darkening shadow that would take his sight
And hearing ; and he thought of his saved pence
Which scarce would rent a grave. . . . That youthful voice
Was a dark bell which ever clanged ‘ Too late ‘ —
A creeping shadow that would steal from him
Even the little boys who would not spell —
His only prisoners. . . . On that June day
Cold Death had taken his first citadel.

Edith Sitwell

Here are William Walton’s reminiscences of the Sitwells and the twenties.

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They muster an irregular yet monolithic avenue
Up the ridge that leads to Loughton Camp –
More than merely trees. The forest exhibits these
Grey entities in its sculpture gallery. We are treated
To a private view in the sense that we are alone with them,
Their surfaces shared only with the Sun, the Sun
Who may well be the artist; for it is the gaze of light
That alerts us to their imagery. Here a stalwart minotaur
Flexes his biceps, torso embellished with muscle,
Just like some Hercules showing off his pack to
The Vatican. Look at the talon-tipped paws on that sphinx!
She sits up alert, guarding the camp, which has after all
Been here two thousand years, lost in the leaves.
The several breasts of this enigma gleam
Where odd suggestive members broach desire.
This is perhaps evidenced by the plump woman
In the blue skirt, who gets up suddenly as we approach.
She has been seated on some moss while leaning, with
Her back to us, against a fallen trunk; gazing, we
Guess ardently, at a daemon wound in self-embrace.
Is this why she rises so fast and hurries off? Why
Would one go walking through the forest in a skirt like that?


Now published in Songs of Realisation

by The High Window Press

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Publications by The Theatre of Mistakes

At last, we have managed to work out a way of creating a sales outlet for the seminal Publications of THE THEATRE OF MISTAKES


Click this link for Publications by The Theatre of Mistakes

My textbook The Analysis of Performance Art  is also available from Routledge, and it can also be found on Amazon, ebay and elsewhere.


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Songs of Realisation

Very pleased that this new book of poems is now published by The High Window Press

This book opens with poems committed to the transfiguration of the ordinary: garden sheds, bus rides, daily life in Tottenham, motorways leading to escapes as urban imagery gradually gives way to the muddled ground just beyond London: woods and marshes, villages on the up and estates fallen into dilapidation.

Central to the collection are the Songs of Realisation. In Indian literature, a “Song of Realisation” is a poem that realises divinity. Here, it is used to describe a poem that celebrates some essential feature of our planet.  The nature of matter on, below and above the earth provides inspiration for a description of Epping forest, the Chauvet cave and the Hubble telescope. These three “songs” draw on mythology, archaeology and particle physics to develop their themes. However, the relationship of poetry to content is complex, and here it is informed by the poet’s desire to mediate between a material sense of language and its informative purpose. A leitmotif is the notion of Shiva as creator and destroyer, conceived as a dancer, on axis. In some analogous way, meaning is both created and destroyed in each section, while the intention is to cause thought to express itself as a dance.

Family history and childhood get explored in the poems that conclude the book.

More on my website posting


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The Young

The poets outnumber their audience,
But then we choose to be gracious,
Mentioning Chinooks. Perhaps we’ve beenx
Out-Trumped by demonstrations.
Not to mention fares. You can’t expect
The young to hike it herex
Unless there’s an open mike.
I say, fuck the young – feeling about them
Like Boris feels about business.
The young, in their myriads,
Basically attempting to recognise each other,
There being simply too manyx
Even for them, and so they settle for niches:
The post-pride, the uber-feminist young.
Settle your teeth!x
Each of us gets up to read,
Bathed in the radiance of our own voices.
And this could be some arbour
Of Penshurst during the week of peonies,
Or some intimate amphitheatre
Within the precincts of the Villa Barberini.x
As Martin observes appreciatively,
The young may lack the nous
To twig who Edward Heath might have been,x
So usually enlightenment outdistances his verse.
But not tonight, tonight he can dispense with it
 – Bringing down the house.
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