Oli Hazzard poem

I first met Oli when we read together at a UCL Bloomsbury event put together by Mark. Oli’s currently on an MA in Poetry at Bristol and has had a number of poems in PN Review, with more due in Carcanet’s New Poetries V, among other places. This poem was previously published in PN Review.


               There are no trees in the yellow foaming

Wheat-fields; or maybe a single, gnarled

Birch that, Lear-like, webs the air

                                             with its waving limbs.

               The pylons stand bow-legged, mercenary.

The wires slither towards the horizon

Bearing whispered prayers. The sky is bright

                                             and taut, bruised with space.

               A man, as naked as if dressed in his own pelt,

Cartwheels in the nest of a cloud-shadow.

I call out to him, but his stride is unbroken.

                                             I read my letters.

               The sun disperses its light like a lozenge: –

Its sediment quivers at my feet. I cannot

Withhold my crazy laughter as my voice

                                             sieves into the wind.

There’s more on Oli here

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