Lindsay Oliver

How to be a feminist poet 1. Be a feminist
2. Write a poem

Not as simple as that
No
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Confusion Dear Uncle Carl,

I have a few questions for you, if you would be so kind, if you wouldn’t mind, if you’ve got the time

If my configurations of self all got together could they beat my internal objects at cricket or ping pong?
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The Devil Slakes His Thirst The devil dons his mask
and casts our children from the land
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Not My Child Not my child
Laying limp in the sand
Face down in the sea
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Lines written in appreciation of Lord David Anthony Freud, Baron of Eastry Ma breeks are bauchled.
Ma sheen are shauchled.
Ah've no food ava in ma hoose ti eat.
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Wake up, my son A father, his pain, a dead child in his arms
A face, then a blank empty space at the back
Blood on that face then a hollow concave lack
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Mourning Colours Why stop the clocks?
When time itself stands dead.
Far better halt the fallow lie
of sunlight. Cull all green.
Staunch the bright pulsing flow of red.
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Mr. Kurtzke’s Scale Zero: how does it feel to be a zero? You see I forgot.
I knew it once, but time marches on, and I do not.
One, two, three, four, five, I skipped them all
and landed hard on five point five, not my first or only fall.
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I Won’t Stand For This I will not stand

I will not stand before you
I do not stand
I am bound to this chair, by the unseen wires
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This Scar This scar is not of the physical kind.
Neither can it heal, nor can it bind.
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