Biography of Richard George
I was educated at Oxford University, reading Latin and Greek at The Queen's College. The college's outstanding poet is Ernest Dowson.
I was awarded a Doctorate on the Roman epigrammatist Martial in 1994.
The following year I had a breakdown and had to abandon the academic life. The year after that the Muses came. Nothing has been the same since.
I have been published in nearly 50 different British small press magazines and have two full-length collections of poetry. More than half the poems on this website are new and will belong to a third.
I am also working on verse translations of the Roman satirist Juvenal and Greek epigrams from the Palatine Anthology.
I live in St.Albans, near London, with my widowed mother. We enjoy feeding grey squirrels.
Richard George's Works:
Vertigo Swimming (Baikal Press, St.Albans; 2004) .
A Pocket Of Mice (Baikal Press, St.Albans; 2006) .
Richard George Poems
The Food Chain
My mother hung out seeds for the endangered sparrow... and whatever eats its chickballs. Pluckings, in a semi-circle.
Awake hours before Mum and Dad, I'd tip-toe down to see him: Early riser, old man. I sat in his snug, watching his hands,
First Aphrodites have a raw deal. The Angevin blonde in my village Sirened every yeoman with a pitchfork: lush and lithe seventeen,
Sylvia Plath's Cats
Their breath was clean, or harsh and sour according to her moods: and when they sensed a coming storm they crept into corners.
Now I may never see you again I can think of no one else: I wait on platforms, hair in the wind But trains all leave the past
Lilac clouds, a wash of green At daylight's end: When west is dark, to northward A heat-haze aurora
After An Exam
Finished! So has she, With ages left to go: We sweep our desks, and chase each other
Hilaire Belloc's Mice
His son died in the war: his beard grew unkempt like the High Chamberlain's ('The kindest and the best of men')
A Walking Sadness
The Euston Road. April. Night. Of all these London numberless I love one: my old shoes pound her name,
Before we were men and women we drank morning milk in a chalk mine. It smelt, and we raced from kissing. In the playground, I gazed up
Listen To Me
I died on 9/11. I was outside - a miracle! - floating, not flying, in the plume of smoke you could see from space
The Marilyn Monroe Doctrine
The Iraqi boy was twelve when he lost his hug. Napalmed by testosterone, straitjacketed, he smouldered.
The Amniotic Briny
Glaucous eye of Homer inscrutable, then turquoise shoaled violet, wink of the wisp, down the man-mountain she draws
It wasn't to be. You knew, wiser at eighteen than my ten years of beard-weed.
It wasn't to be. You
knew, wiser at eighteen
than my ten years of beard-weed.
But you told me the way plants
moved was one of the wonders of science;
a gift from you, ever since,
light as the down
on your new petals.