Tim Atkins

Petrarch 303

Popcorn dust speckles my deck

Ink shakes at the mountain solvents

On the hooks of your dress

Merging with a line from March

Blue bossa-nova pills and a Schweppes

Coming off to Piers Ploughman

A bright horn in the snow

Twinkles entitled “mystical bread pump poems”

Walking out in the grasslight

Plump green acorns fill my sack

The spine-line is a clear sign

& the fields are covered in moonbuttons

Oestrogen rises on the Eastern horizon at last

I shall ride with the bunnies to Brighton

Petrarch 309

Now that it is 1340-something I am finally without myself & with women

On behalf of my peace of mind I must turn my back on popular culture milk paperbacks blogging & travel without fear of incontinence

Being old is five centuries of tales held together with sellotape

& awaiting urn burial

Content for if the bad guys are asleep & sucking in the cool blue

Smoke of a cigarette’s smoke

It is easy to be in love with a perfect voice singing towards & surrounding love

But for the ones with herpes short ones & cleft palates in 67 sonnets

Silence surpasses everything in the Italian language

It is often but not always enough like koalas or elephants just to live

Without gender looking at the moon like Nat King Cole

Pressing his bare feet into the cool grass of his Hollywood lawn

The point of writing is to sing beyond what you know & to remain awake

This is the notion which feeds & informs me

Tim Atkins is the author of Folklore 1-25, To Repel Ghosts, 25 Sonnets, and Horace. Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing at UEL, editor of the online poetry magazine onedit, and translator of Petrarch, Horace, and Buddhist texts, he is a Buddhist, husband, poet, and father. He is a happy man.

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