Skip to main content

Poem by James Midgley

Eyewear is pleased to welcome James Midgley (pictured) this Friday. Midgley was born in Windsor in 1986 and now alternates between Henley and Norwich. A few months ago he completed his undergraduate degree at UEA, where he will be studying for an MA in creative writing next year.

His work has recently appeared in publications such as Fuselit, Magma, The Rialto, Stand and Stride, among others. He was a runner-up in the 2007 Poetry Business competition, and this year received an Eric Gregory Award. He edits the poetry journal Mimesis. He's one of the younger British poets now worth reading and watching over the next decade (at least) to see what happens.


"Something circled the house while we slept"

Something circled the house while we slept.
Here are the prints in the snow.
I don’t think we pay enough attention to silence,
the way you cradle a bauble of whisky
snug in your palm. These winter nights
I feel that glass could be my shrunken skull, and you
swirling a lantern’s afterbirth against my skin.
Something circled the house while we slept,
I know – I already said. It bears repeating,
like the habit of these ice-locked days, the bats
filling the rafters with whispers –
I am certain, though when I pull the bulb’s cord
there is only the wind making its presence felt
and the white noise of rain. Amnesia
must sound like that. We wash ourselves at dusk.
We wash ourselves in dusk. And something
circles, stops to watch its breath fan
against the pines, the village windows
summoning blanks to its retinas –
before moving on at a quicker pace,
wearing my eyes like wedding rings.


poem by James Midgley

Comments

Anonymous said…
Thanks very much, hoey d.

J
Anonymous said…
Woo! A James poem. How exciting. : )
Brooklyn said…
James Midgley makes me feel like an old lady. I always love finding his poetry, though.
Anonymous said…
James is such an old soul. I swear he was 40 at birth and has been about 85 since he reached puberty. This is a great selection. Lovely feature.

Popular posts from this blog

IQ AND THE POETS - ARE YOU SMART?

When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart?  A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional.  Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were.  For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ?  Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets.  But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ?  How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular.  John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se.  What do I mean by smart?

"I have crossed oceans of time to find you..."

In terms of great films about, and of, love, we have Vertigo, In The Mood for Love , and Casablanca , Doctor Zhivago , An Officer and a Gentleman , at the apex; as well as odder, more troubling versions, such as Sophie's Choice and  Silence of the Lambs .  I think my favourite remains Bram Stoker's Dracula , with the great immortal line "I have crossed oceans of time to find you...".

THE SWIFT REPORT 2023

I am writing this post without much enthusiasm, but with a sense of duty. This blog will be 20 years old soon, and though I rarely post here anymore, I owe it some attention. Of course in 2023, "Swift" now means one thing only, Taylor Swift, the billionaire musician. Gone are the days when I was asked if I was related to Jonathan Swift. The pre-eminent cultural Swift is now alive and TIME PERSON OF THE YEAR. There is no point in belabouring the obvious with delay: 2023 was a low-point in the low annals of human history - war, invasion, murder, in too many nations. Hate, division, the collapse of what truth is, exacerbated by advances in AI that may or may not prove apocalyptic, while global warming still seems to threaten the near-future safety of humanity. It's been deeply depressing. The world lost some wonderful poets, actors, musicians, and writers this year, as it often does. Two people I knew and admired greatly, Ian Ferrier and Kevin Higgins, poets and organise