Peter Porter was, I have written below, a master craftsman, and particularly good at writing of loss and the temporal. This poem is very humbly offered to him, and his memory.
In Memoriam, Peter Porter
Your death happened on the BBC
At six, on Radio 4. A sunny
Day, and my listening to Kate Nash
Now, which I know, Peter, smashes
Any sense of decorum this might
Have had. Then again, literary nights
We met by accident with white wine
You always spoke of music; fine
Talk, and warm, as well. I replied
That I liked popular things. Died,
Porter? Impossible. He lived across
Canvasses, or scores; in a note’s loss,
In colour’s fading, also. He wrote of
The world, as if to form is to love,
As if to hold a word true to its place
Was to rise in a chapel, kiss high grace.
23 April 2010, London
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