Powis

A poem about my grandmother's gardener, Bill Pierce. Looking at his hands, so gnarled and permanently soiled with earth, I used to wonder how he made love to his wife. And the 'she' in this poem is, of course, his wife, who I always knew as 'Mrs P', being born in a Welsh village. 

Louis's Tea Room. Is it still there? One of the poems I based on an overheard conversation one day. Mother and daughter, and the daughter doing all the talking. 

Very personal and probably needs some explanation by way of context. This was a visit to the house where I used to live as a child. My mother died there and my adult self had the feeling that the 'me' that witnessed it all as a child was still there while I had moved on, reconciling myself to her death. Also 'sloping field' and 'weathered stones' refer to the graveyard across the road from the house and her funeral. The apple tree stands in the garden. 

I wrote this after a brief stay in the psychiatric ward of the Royal Free Hospital, Hampstead. The 'cure' in my case was seeing others in a far worse state than I. The cure, in fact, was compassion, towards myself and my fellow sufferers. 

i.m. Raymond Carver 

I wrote this poem after going to see one of those clairvoyants who claim to be able to 'see' your past and future by fingering an object you have on you most of the time, like a wedding ring.