Sad news. One of the greatest of contemporary fashion designers, Alexander McQueen, has been found dead at his home in London.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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A bit of additional sad news: Poets in North London and elsewhere have been mourning the deaths, within days of each other, of Phil Poole and John Rety. Phil was ill for a number of months and has written a wonderful collection of poems that will be published posthumously next week. Phil was a lovely man, a talented sculptor as well as a poet, with a delightful skewed sense of humour.
John died very suddenly of a heart attack. As you may know, he ran the Torriano Meeting House with his partner, Susan Johns, for 23 years, and also the publishing house, Hearing Eye. He had a huge, complex, extraordinary personality. His life was truly dedicated to peace and poetry, and I very much miss him.
All good wishes,
Leah