John Hartley Williams

John Hartley Williams died on 3 May. His last collection, The Golden Age of Smoking, was published in April.

Poem: ‘My Real Name is Stanley Kubrick’

John Hartley Williams, 9 April 2009

It was Thursday and the skeletons were out dancing as was their custom in the beetroot and the wintry sun shone down on their fragile paleness and the earth crunched under bony feet.

No film made by actresses with bad breath could rival their dialogues of ‘Boo!’ and ‘Gotcha!’ In this film scripted by a weather forecaster everyone misremembered their lines.

What ought...

Poem: ‘The Blind Dog’

John Hartley Williams, 3 July 2008

In the Hotel Egalitarian the taps drip, here are containers to catch the water, the bath tub is big enough to hold a dog, but the dog is blind and bumps its nose against the taps and the beds are too short.

In the Hotel Egalitarian the grapes festoon the balconies from which it is forbidden to make wine. don’t make wine from the balconies it says in large letters. The liquor is lethal,...

Two Poems

John Hartley Williams, 7 June 2007

America

O America, I feel like Superman going weak from proximity to Kryptonite Something has spread a small Donatello of urine Over the tessellated floor of the execution chamber ‘It’ll all be over in a flash,’ they murmur Be quiet this morning, America, be quiet Is this the telephone call of my last-minute reprieve?

‘In America when someone says “I feel...

Two Poems

John Hartley Williams, 16 November 2006

Near Luton Airport

Its crest should bear a drinker kneeling, weeping in an hourglass: The Wigmore Arms is not convivial; its smeary panes admit October sun. On the wall, a picture of a tree whose earth is ceiling.

Was it spite? Revenge? Or for a laugh? Simple inattentiveness? Or was his face on upside down, the man who screwed it there? frown! you are on camera! ‘A member of our...

Two Poems

John Hartley Williams, 7 September 2006

Interview

Why do you write poetry?

Petals, aardvarks, goulash – there is no end to it.

I’m sorry . . . ?

I, too, am sorry. I am sorry for Petula Misericordia, her unrequited love for Dan Splendid, the mishap with the steam traction engine, for the question that comes next.

Obviously poetry is a passion to you?

By no means. What is it, after all – a collection of...

Out of the blue

Mark Ford, 10 December 1987

So characteristic of Paul Muldoon’s poetry as to be almost a hallmark is the moment, unnerving and exciting in about equal measures, when his speaker is suddenly revealed to himself as...

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