by Ciar McCormick
“I keep thinking that, finally, poetry is a branch of manners”
– Robert Irwin
My dearest Readers three,
It’s been a while since writing to thee.
First came gravity, now comes grace
A red virgin is buried in a Kentish place
But now for something completely different:
There once was a boy, who
Forgetting to stand,
Sat on his arse all through formal hall,
And set a new tradition for one and for all.
Brunch at the Tick Tock
The patter of rain
The whole world swept into oblivion,
but the spirit remains.
All movements of the soul are controlled by the laws of gravity,
Grace is the only exception.
The inanity of his words,
Is this a nod to the canon?
Oh what a sport!
Take to the Queens lane at a fair clip,
The hollow clack of your boot in the street,
Shine your shoes for Oxford.
Her subtle graces;
I’d rather look at you than anything in the Ashmolean,
And besides I’ve never been.
Never lost in Oxford,
the spires guide the way.
All Souls at the dead of night,
viridian marks the peak for those
of whom the vita contemplativa is the aim.
The ‘T’ in Oriel is shouted so proud,
but, like everywhere else,
beneath lies a Laboriel core.
Beware the call of blood and soil,
because its manners most of all
that make us