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i.m Lee Harwood.


I was sorry to hear of death of Lee Harwood, one of the country’s finest poets. A copy of his collected is never far from my bedside table, and it is a joy to revel in the light, space and air of his poems. Their warmth, their wit, their deceptive simplicity, their intelligence lightly worn. He’s one of the many poets for whom I owe my MA a debt of gratitude, would probably have found him in the end, but it saved a lot of time to be shoved in the right direction. Robert Sheppard’s description of his writing as “at once distanced and intimate” is a better summation than I can manage

I often dislike to read tributes to poets by poets. So often an egotistical tone creeps in: “here’s how he influenced me” as if the tributee existed purely to provide grist to the poet’s mill. I’d be lying of I said he didn’t, but it seems unbecoming to bang on about it, so I’ll just let Lee speak for himself. RIP

Brooklyn

Lee Harwood

The city isn’t necessary to our elegance
It’s not a matter of going back
‘to the land’
but ‘that kiss’ on the forehead

The wind is so strong and yet soft
almost tender
At night on the ferry - the lights of passing tugs and freighters

It is hard, I know, to live without this,
‘out of love’ as they say.
What can I say? we kiss
with all the need and hope that
comes from this ‘lack’

You are beautiful the whiteness of your breasts

We have this

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