E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

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