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
Eclipse: A Haiku Sequence
Imperceptible at first, sunlight changing; then dusky, or faded,
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.
A Walking Sadness
The Euston Road. April. Night. Of all these London numberless I love one: my old shoes pound her name,
I am a clever enemy. I am always one step up on you: when you say two, I am three, and four. I always have the right excuse,
After An Exam
Finished! So has she, With ages left to go: We sweep our desks, and chase each other
Hogg And Hanlon And Me
Three mature students in decrepit Barbour jackets; Judes obscure, each with an implausible route to Oxford.
On A Dead Cat In A Skip In Luton
Not a cream saucer to top to the tightrope- brim or a bowl for Supameat.
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
Halcyon And After
It was May or June, I met you: Business, something or other.
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,
My father lives in my dreams now: In death he is half a stranger, Professional, like my doctor. He has left me behind, moved on.
Step-trip - 'Molly! ' -
but she's not a scathe, swaddled
in her parachute of lovat
to the mantelpiece of grandam
she frail-smiles, snug
in the cribbage-notch of gravity,
her world still spinning.
When she dies, she will stumble but