Graham Burchell
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I started to write my first book when I was seven and some forty-six years later I finished it. In between I had written village pantomimes, school plays and even dabbled briefly in performance poetry, but it wasn’t until I stopped being a teacher in 2003 that I took to writing poetry seriously. Since then I have moved on to publish two full collections and have studied for an M.A. in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University.
I was living in the United States when I started writing poetry as a career rather than as an amusement, and not surprisingly two of the four poets who have influenced me most profoundly are American - Billy Collins and James Wright. The English poets that have had similar influences are Ted Hughes and John Burnside. I am always up for new ventures in poetry and to have something with the potential of Poetry Teignmouth virtually on my doorstep is very exciting. |
TWO MINUTES SILENCE
At school a boy was allowed to climb the caretaker’s ladder,
clamber to a classroom’s flat roof, step carefully to a corner,
test his vertigo, and wait, trumpet in hand.
The chill snatched his trouser legs, pulled his hair, tugged
a colder place inside while a hush happened and watches
were checked. The headmaster’s was the only one that counted.
Like a bird in a tree and one on the ground each eyed the other,
until the tension would stretch no further.
An exaggerated nod: a hand gesture, and the boy blew,
slipped and slid around the first haunts of The Last Post
until he calmed and his breath brassed music; a sad calling
that stunned even the most unruly child into a chess pawn
on a plain grey board, ground, that for two minutes
would lose its play. It had stiffened – stiffened tighter
when a far off canon underscored. Imagine all their thoughts
spooling from a fax machine in the secretary’s office
for the adults to read about how much so many had yet
to learn of inner reflection, life and its Chinese burns.
At school a boy was allowed to climb the caretaker’s ladder,
clamber to a classroom’s flat roof, step carefully to a corner,
test his vertigo, and wait, trumpet in hand.
The chill snatched his trouser legs, pulled his hair, tugged
a colder place inside while a hush happened and watches
were checked. The headmaster’s was the only one that counted.
Like a bird in a tree and one on the ground each eyed the other,
until the tension would stretch no further.
An exaggerated nod: a hand gesture, and the boy blew,
slipped and slid around the first haunts of The Last Post
until he calmed and his breath brassed music; a sad calling
that stunned even the most unruly child into a chess pawn
on a plain grey board, ground, that for two minutes
would lose its play. It had stiffened – stiffened tighter
when a far off canon underscored. Imagine all their thoughts
spooling from a fax machine in the secretary’s office
for the adults to read about how much so many had yet
to learn of inner reflection, life and its Chinese burns.