“Lamps in the Dark”

You ask if I am sad
To leave spires
Loud student streets

After four years
The air outside and the
Breath of stones
Must become your home

I don’t feel sad
I smile faintly
All the people except you

Who I have loved and who
Loved this city
Are already gone

I was the last keeper
The last who upon
Seeing streets

Repainted them
With what I remembered
From the past

You tell me you are
Not attached to earthly things
But you would miss the spires

I wonder if it’s because
They are full of dreams
And stand up for fantasy

I sat by myself in
The dinning hall
With the lights half on

Someone forgot
To close it shut
And it was silent

Except for creaks
And a bird finding
It’s voice at night

And I replayed
My nocturnal visits
The guys I slipped in

Some in suits
Some in functional blue
Some in camel coloured coats

And I thought of
The coffee we always had
How I loved the event more than the aftershock

I went in the library
and saw where I kissed
In front of Catullus

And where I slept
One last time in
His hoodied arms

And then of course
All the books I read
And words I typed
And all the various ways
I made myself
Clever enough

And yet him stroking my hair
Is more memorable
Than any flash card
I ever wrote

And I remembered
Sitting on a bench outside
When I broke a champagne glass
In my first week
And was so sad
That it took so little
To be singled out

It’s funny now
There is a dot
Coming up

And soon meetings,
Love, essays,
Existential crisis

Deluges of never ending
Stuff, feelings and facts
Is going to end just like that

And it will be easier
To line up moments
And say this lead
To that
And this was more
Important than that
And my past
Will be given
Meanings anew

And my lips
Will rehearse
Stories for work events
And dinner parties
So that I never was
Who I will say
I used to be in the past

All will be remembered
With more glory
And I wonder if
I would be more lost
To forget that a lot of it
Was rough
And with a nail
Close to my heart
And with blood
Beating in my ears
And I wanted to
Scream
And make out with
The moon
And that there were
Many nights
With my thoughts
Lamps in the dark

Lucie de Gentile (2018, Classics)

“The Waters O’er”

The rainbow always used to come and hang itself
In the back corner of the Heavens above the gas works,
And whenever it did, our Scots neighbour Morag
Nodded up in greeting and said “the waters o’er.”

I was small and thought she was announcing the war was over,
And as my mother couldn’t understand a word
This woman said, I settled for that happy meaning
And took the bow to be an emblem of good outcomes.

It looked the part, this parti-coloured arc of flame
Above the gas stove of the caked and blackened town,
The high dome of a hat woven by the light
In the air’s damp fabric, our sky’s half-halo.

I took it with me always as my eyes’ retinue,
Bringing brightness to my dark head’s backroom;
Saw it in the curve of a bridge over a river,
Saw it in the spoil-tip through the train’s window,

Saw it in the humpback hill behind the town,
Saw it in the single crescent on the street map,
Saw it in the architraves of possible doorways,
Saw it in the promising brows above two eyes,

Saw it in the Britannia Hotel bedroom’s hangers;
See it still in the words “the waters o’er,”
The words made weather whenever the sun is lamping
From its usual loft and the rain attempts a dampener.

Alan Franks (1966, English)

“New Document”

Before you were born – silence
Empty hours and unfilled days
Waiting for you
What were you to me then?
An exclamation at the end of a sentence
Halting the plans I had made
White space, cursor blinking
Ready for you

Then – cacophony, kaleidoscope
Loud cries and little hands
Incubators and supply lines
Page break new line new font
Loving you holding you
But terrified of breaking you
This page is not formatted correctly
The table columns are unaligned

Click clacking fills my days
Gentle rhythm, punctuated by your laugh
Semblance of a story forming
Paragraphs indented
What are we to each other now?
Hyphenated words and pairs of parentheses
Reshaping woman mother son
White space filled with characters

Ctrl+S

Alyssa Fitzpatrick (2023, DPhil Population Health)

“Meanwhile, the Sea”

Please click here to view the poem.

Jennifer Wong (1998, English Literature)

“Child Support from Anchises”

M’lady! M’lday! Fair maid thou cannot be!
For sure enough I never did a finer maiden see!
You must be some nymph sent so that
The gods can punish me!

Good sir, oh my good sir,
How very wrong you can well be,
For neither nymph nor goddess
doth stand right in front of thee.

Nay, I’m the lady Phoebe,
Born of Otreus the king!
Oh come, why art thou puzzled?
Can there be one who knows nothing,

Of such a noble man, who is, indeed,
Esteemed through all the land.
There be neither prince nor sultan,
Who would not wrestle for my hand!

Nay, nay! I may look puzzled,
But rest assured, I’m now quite sure,
Yes Otreus, the King!
I can remember nothing more!

My apologies to you, your highness,
For your beauty says enough,
I mistook you for a goddess there,
When I saw you off the cuff!

Good sir, ’twas naughty Hermes,
Who took me from my folk,
He told me I should marry thee,
Then put me in his yoke.

Thus I am now brought here and,
Although ’twas quite against my will,
You do seem rather charming,
So stay with you, I will!

Yet Anchises was mistaken,
And the mortal wretch would pay,
For neither maiden, slave nor princess
Was the guest he asked to stay.

Nay, ’twas lovely Venus,
Or Aphrodite as they say,
And having woke, he was so scared,
He tried to run away.

But Aphrodite did not let him,
How she laughed at her wicked plan!
For now she was to bear a son,
To this very handsome man.

Isabella Penna (2021, Classics)

“Ode to a Garish Teapot”

Oh, garish teapot, since I saw your shiny spout
I knew I had to take up poetry—I had no doubt!
I was taken in by your curved lip and your alabaster complexion
And your ravishing round bottom in which I see my reflection.

It’s been many-a-year since I dappled in rhyme,
But it is you, oh garish teapot, for whom I hopelessly pine.
I can barely sleep to think of your snaking gold tattoo,
Which encircles your sweet-smelling nut-brown brew.

My love for you would not ever grow cold—
Even when you become chipped, tea-stained, and old.
In old age we’d be warm, oh gorgeous garish teapot,
I’ll crochet you a tea cosy if you keep my hands hot.

So please, oh garish teapot, consider this my proposal:
As I place myself forever at your hapless disposal.
You, a garish teapot, and I… Well, I’m just me—
But to my heart, oh garish teapot, you hold the only key.

Oh, gorgeous garish teapot! I don’t even drink tea.

Emma Jeffries (2022, History)