Giles Watson Poems
- Willowherb Last winter, incendiaries ignited A bloom of ...
- Forget-Me-Not 'Forget me not, ' I thought you said, and ...
- Morrigan 1. Morrigan There's a way of ripping Roman ...
- A Kind Of Bright Darkness There is a stile still standing in ...
- Kingfisher Leaning over a stone bridge, knowing Daubenton’s ...
- The Butcher's Wife Sometimes the flayed things have ...
- The Blessing Is the moment of sunsplashed brilliance, the ...
Giles Watson was born in Southampton, but emigrated to Australia with his parents at the age of one, and lived there for the next twenty-five years. In addition to poetry and painting, he writes essays on natural history and mediaeval visual culture, is an avid walker, photographer and amateur naturalist, and has a keen interest in theatre. His academic work has included a doctoral thesis on religion and culture in England during the Second World War. As a secondary school teacher, he has taught English, History, Drama, Sociology and Film. Much of his work is infused with his own idiosyncratic spirituality: awed by nature, steeped in history, and inspired by a quiet sense of the ... more »
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Comments about Giles Watson
Last winter, incendiaries ignited
A bloom of flame in your bedroom,
And the gramophone gouged
Through ‘Lili Marlene’ one last time
Before the bakelite buckled
And the window-glass turned liquid,
You lying there on the counterpane
As though asleep. The Luftwaffe
Droned your orisons as the rafters
Turned to ash.
And now, high summer –
Your house a withered flower –
The ruins are rank with willowherb,
Your open fireplace gutted, alive
With a rash of pink. A hundred weeds
Spire skyward, their summits flowers
Unbroken, painted magenta. Between ...