Hi David - there must be multitudes of Mr McKs to answer the call, but in case you were thinking of me I feel the challenge has been thrown out mistakenly, since I've not been in the habit here of saying why people's poems are no good. Rather the opposite, to a fault.
   I met Rick Caddel on more than one occasion in Durham and have a respect for him and his work. Just because we had a drink together I don't presume that the respect was mutual, in fact I rather suspect what I was writing wouldn't have been up his street, but I'd be sad to think I represented the Enemy to him. Or to you.
Best wishes,
Jamie (McK)
----- Original Message -----
From: [log in to unmask] href="mailto:[log in to unmask]">David Bircumshaw
To: [log in to unmask] href="mailto:[log in to unmask]">[log in to unmask]
Sent: Thursday, December 13, 2012 2:44 AM
Subject: Mouldering in my grave

i just thought I'd throw this out, not necessarily for its qualities but as challenge to Mr McK, for him to say why it is wrong, why it is no good. I know things have changed, heavily, but I think it would be only fair if it is formalised, that's the big problem I have with the new government, the bastards won't come clean about their agenda. We have the same problem in the poetry scene, it has been taken over by the Enemy , but they don't have the honesty to admit it. So here is a piece of crap, a really rubbish piece of writing, what can you expect if the urban masses take to the quill, so condescend on me, lets throw away forever the mythology of BritPo. Rick Caddel must be turning in his grave.


Capit due


Is Isis ‘Hi Sis’ or High Sister-Mother-Lover-Moon

or she it Is floating like two feathers in a lift

as thin as waifs, way fare wafers, up

as they falling down, or but mist tracks

running on the wet dawn grass

she a vowel’s breath length


*

It him extra, it him second, it him O Serious

brandishing his monograph on myth.

Ithim Hotstep boy O river riser


*

Is horizon laid wide crocodile bouch open

ingest you no jest each setting sun all you work

boy work ever day be work never done


*

It high mark rise stock I amid pyre

of selibs, selelves, slavz the smoke

of delicate in sense the stubs

of lives burning long into night

‘the thin pinnacle of identity’


*

Is I hiss over his flamed bronze douse

wet inner isIs her hudor corsair curve

‘an oracular cloud assembling ahead’

or repetition to come: finished undone



--
David Joseph Bircumshaw
Website and A Chide's Alphabet
http://www.staplednapkin.org.uk
The Animal Subsides http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/animal.html
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/david.bircumshaw
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blog: http://groggydays.blogspot.com/
Leicester Poetry Society: http://www.poetryleicester.com