A poem that emerged from a memory cloud as I dashed through St Pancras Station – the first draft was typed into my phone on the Underground and read an hour later at my National Poetry Day gig. As I was Tweeting about the pianos a fortnight ago, it seems fitting to publish it online. (And if anyone can explain how to get rid of the double-spacing in WordPress, please feel free to comment!)    The St Pancras Pianos for Paul   Who knew there were two blue uprights at the station? While you caressed the ivories beneath the Eurostar escalier, I was opposite Cath Kidston listening to a bald bruiser with tats and a gay dungeon beard: boogie-woogie jazz sonatas, impromptu ragtime rhapsodies, pouring from his fingers on and on for half hour.   I didn’t SMS because you’d be on the Tube, I didn’t want to nag, and…

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On Advising a Young Man from Galway To Do a Second MA in Biodiversity And evening full of the linnet’s wings — WB Yeats Not sparrows, not dusty summer robins — linnets. Her tidy brown self; His Nibs, top-nobbing the fence posts in puffy pink vest, white epaulettes. Linnets. Not the slender, moth-grey echoes of Inishfree and Jenny Lind I’ve smuggled to Mayo in the rickety cage of my mind, but barefoot ballad mongers, ha’penny paper sellers, three-walnut-shells-and-a-pea players; fancy lads and freckled lasses on a Kilmainham council estate, shadowing a stranger, then like laughter snatched by the wind, whisking away in a riffle of reshuffled cards, the purring flight-path of an arrow. Strutting little linnet, you take a flattering interest in us but we’ve hardly returned the favour: not made you a greeting card icon, just a fleeting emblem of the orchestral Irish air. So, young man at the…

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