Poem
Ian McMillan
Approaching those ‘ruddy’ Belisha beacons near the Post Office again
Approaching those ‘ruddy’ Belisha beacons near the Post Office again
Approaching those ‘ruddy’ Belisha beacons near the Post Office again
You can see them from a long way off,From when you pass the half-visible ponies
In the field where the school was
By the bus shelter with the bloke in it,
The bloke whose face is lit by his iPhone
Like a tallow-maker’s face is lit in an old master.
One Belisha Beacon off. One Belisha Beacon on.
Small parcels of light sent first class to each other;
Moons chucking glowing balls across the road’s net.
A car slows by the Post Office and a woman jumps out
And gives me a letter. ‘Can tha stick this in’t box for mi?’
She asks. I will, in a minute. Jogger walks by, gasping-gasp.
First I’ll hold the envelope up to the Belisha Beacon.
Not to read the letter inside, you understand,
Just to gaze at light on paper, light on writing.
© 2014, Ian McMillan
\'Approaching . . .\' will appear in Ian McMillan\'s pamphlet Jazz Peas, forthcoming from Smith/Doorstop in 2014.
Ian McMillan
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1956)
Ian McMillan is a poet and performer from Yorkshire, as well as a playwright, journalist, and all-round poetry whirlwind. As well as writing and performing his own work, for both adults and children, he is a tireless champion of poetry and the spoken arts, and a campaigner for the arts to be for everybody. He has been described by Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy as “world-class – one of today’s g...
Poems
Poems of Ian McMillan
Close
Approaching those ‘ruddy’ Belisha beacons near the Post Office again
You can see them from a long way off,From when you pass the half-visible ponies
In the field where the school was
By the bus shelter with the bloke in it,
The bloke whose face is lit by his iPhone
Like a tallow-maker’s face is lit in an old master.
One Belisha Beacon off. One Belisha Beacon on.
Small parcels of light sent first class to each other;
Moons chucking glowing balls across the road’s net.
A car slows by the Post Office and a woman jumps out
And gives me a letter. ‘Can tha stick this in’t box for mi?’
She asks. I will, in a minute. Jogger walks by, gasping-gasp.
First I’ll hold the envelope up to the Belisha Beacon.
Not to read the letter inside, you understand,
Just to gaze at light on paper, light on writing.
Approaching those ‘ruddy’ Belisha beacons near the Post Office again
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère