Antony Osgood | Mediterranean Poetry

Antony Osgood lives a skimmed-stone’s bounce from Margate. His first non-fiction book was published in 2020 and a second will be out in 2022, both through Jessica Kingsley. His story Haus des Meeres appeared in BlueNib, September 2020, while the prose-poem All My Darlings Waiting was published by Literally Stories in May 2021. A poem written in a bread queue, called Barrier Nursing, is in the 100 Words of Solitude anthology by Rare Swan (Switzerland). He is completing his third novel. Retired early from academia and psychology, he passes his time with little to show for it.

Antony Osgood’s writing on disability and autism can be found at http://tonyosgood.com/

Sunset on Kefalonia

Captive birds with pointless wings
Sway shopping bags
Through cream sett streets
In time to harrow-rustled words
Of virgins riding candled floats
Listless
Upon broad-shouldered Spain
And how
Once
They candied brim-full eyes
With blue
Votive tobacco
               ‘Do you remember?’
                              As if I can forget
                              The sea-shaped places we have kissed.
The island towns shred memory
As the foundry of a citrus sun
Waits out this rusted afternoon,
Beneath deep years of olive bark
A child defies
The bleeding hours
               ‘He reminds me how we were.’
                              Anyplace other than here,
                              Anytime but now.
On she goes, let her get on
While I am stopped,
Soliloquised not monologued,
This day is furnace-dry as then,
She echoes through my cavern chest
               ‘To be so new, not dulled.’
                              Disappointment
                              Being the colour of her eyes.
On she goes and on,
Until at tasteless nine we sit
To gnaw away the evening,
She purrs, ‘The sea is fallen sky,’
The swell of words binds me in her leather,
Scissors my turbid book of uncut pages.
It is her turn of phrase I love.
               ‘Shall we see what next summer brings?’
                              This, her always question,
                              Not meant for me.
Spending sunset
We tabulate silence
Sweat it out for food
That does not come forever,
Wait for all things to be named,
A tablecloth unbought, a souvenir unsought,
First ill-born star of evening, night basil without meaning,
Lanterns coming home on patterned boats,
A harbour alive with dying fish
And cobalt evening squid
               ‘You have to feel for them,’
               She says yet swallows.
               Brutal is my bondsman.

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