I went to a séance once, out of curiosity. The medium said she was getting a message through from an “Uncle Arthur.”
“Did anyone here have an Uncle Arthur?”
I put my hand up.
It wasn’t my Uncle Arthur. Mine was from Dulwich and used to be a clerk of some sort. This one was from Liverpool and used to be a clergyman of some sort. But I didn’t let on, and Un-Uncle Arthur didn’t seem to notice the mistake.
Once in a while ever since, my Un-Uncle Arthur gets in touch – intercranially of course – and won’t shut up until I agree to write down one of his poems. Apparently he was a poet. My Uncle Arthur wasn’t, at least not as far as I know.
I write down Un-Uncle Arthur’s poems in Ñspel, as a small sign of autonomy.
Call It What You LikeClose ShaveFourteenIfIn Di BigininJUST DESSERTSLife SentenceNEW SONNETNo, No, YesTHE PRESIDENT SAYSRUBBISH SONGRhyming RobotTHREE-POEM PIECETo Whom It May Concern