As you may know by now, since our move to Shropshire nearly ten years ago, I have been making a point of seeking out and reading authors with a connection to the county. Yesterday, someone tweeted an old Peter Reading poem about a farmer from Onibury, which I remembered from years back, long before I even knew Onibury actually existed, let alone where it was.
I went upstairs to interrogate my book-shelves. I have over 200 poetry books but none by Peter. I'm currently self- banned from buying any more books - until I get one of them wage-paying, job-type things - so my usual solution of clicking on everything on Amazon like I'm playing Candy Crush Soda (update - been stuck for three days on level 733) is currently out of bounds.
Luckily, much of my existing poetry collection is made up of anthologies, and Peter is well-represented, albeit nearly always excerpts from longer poems. I've asterisked the following poem in, not one, but two anthologies, a commendation I don't hand out willy-nilly, you know. I'd apologise for the language used, but I'm damned sure Peter wouldn't, so I won't.
Soiree
One funny thing about loving someone
is how much you'll put up with - her parents'
conversazione for example,
or being sweet to these fools she works with
who smoke inferior cigars and think
it's savoir vivre, and drag me back to drink
inadequately and long past my bedtime,
and put on records (God!) stuff like Ray Conniff.
And all their damn fool questions 'tell me Peter,
what do you write about?' (cunts like you mate).
'Peter, you interested in history?'
(Mate, I ain't even interested in
the present.) Still I'm here because I love her.
(Peter Reading)
I went upstairs to interrogate my book-shelves. I have over 200 poetry books but none by Peter. I'm currently self- banned from buying any more books - until I get one of them wage-paying, job-type things - so my usual solution of clicking on everything on Amazon like I'm playing Candy Crush Soda (update - been stuck for three days on level 733) is currently out of bounds.
Luckily, much of my existing poetry collection is made up of anthologies, and Peter is well-represented, albeit nearly always excerpts from longer poems. I've asterisked the following poem in, not one, but two anthologies, a commendation I don't hand out willy-nilly, you know. I'd apologise for the language used, but I'm damned sure Peter wouldn't, so I won't.
Soiree
One funny thing about loving someone
is how much you'll put up with - her parents'
conversazione for example,
or being sweet to these fools she works with
who smoke inferior cigars and think
it's savoir vivre, and drag me back to drink
inadequately and long past my bedtime,
and put on records (God!) stuff like Ray Conniff.
And all their damn fool questions 'tell me Peter,
what do you write about?' (cunts like you mate).
'Peter, you interested in history?'
(Mate, I ain't even interested in
the present.) Still I'm here because I love her.
(Peter Reading)
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