Stuart Miller-Osborne

The Bournemouth Physicians They haunt the hills that surround this coastal town Spiderlike under the autumn trees I am reading from the Book of Hyacinths Which I found on the path that leads to the beach   The Bournemouth Physicians They haunt the thin hills that surround this coastal town Spiderlike under the autumn trees…

I am sitting at a table not far from a small iron gate Two raven haired waitresses flit in and out of the shadows Of the shady terrace They ignore me I am fair of complexion and it is likely that I cannot be seen Against the radiance of the pale flowers Neither of the waitresses are…

The dry autumn leaves are beginning to gather at your green door When I last visited you they were high in the summer trees But are now are scattered on the covered paths Summer has now faded And our once famous months are now nothing more than a shared memory Yet there are still pink flamingos In…

It is said that during the middle of the harshest winter That one still thinks of the sun I have now isolated myself in a freezing hut You may ask me why I have done this to myself I have no answer

When someone close to you is dying You expect the bleak winter wastes of grief But only experience the drabness of the steel autumn skies It is then that you begin to notice the small things A scuff on the readers shoe And a nurse flirting with her sadness In the shadows of the visiting room For…

Jesus Said Come to me all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest I do not know whether these lines give me comfort or not I urgently need rest as only my outward faculties are functioning Yet in this oblivion I feel love Perhaps Jesus is looking after me Perhaps…

I had been swimming for a number of hours And could see the white cliffs in the distance It was then that I saw a man walking On the surface of the smooth sea Due to my increasing fatigue I could only ask him one question Do you still walk on water The man replied…

Do not deny the immortality of the soul, God’s wisdom, the value of life, the order of the universe, physical beauty, the love of the family, marriage, social institutions. Ignore this poet as he is corrupt  His work counts for nothing 

My grandfather was a poet But he never published his work It was left to me to do In the years following his death My task was made more difficult As he once told me I will leave no memoirs

My grandfather bought a copy of Maldoror In this city about ten years before the bomb It was an unusual find or so he told me He enjoyed Haiku and was searching for poems When he chanced upon this book   Ducasse is reported to have died of a bad fever He once told me…