Carol Anne Duffy

Carol Anne Duffy Is not at all huffy Although if I met her I'd prob'ly come over all lovey

Like with Phillip Pullman When at the Ashmolean I stammered and blathered and felt like a fool in front of my children

I would like to see her Perhaps not to meet her In case my star'philia drives me to utterances sillier and sillier.

I can't do celebs, Feeling either contempt, Or I figure they have to be sick of continuous scrutiny by plebs.

For just one or two I will break that taboo Where their genius hits me for six or expands my perception of truth.

I'm so bloody English, The stuff lip inhibits A flood of emotions, distorting my thinking, so speech is reduced to, well... gibberish.

So please dear Dame Duffy (Does that sound too stuffy?) If we ever meet, in the heart of my wittering please see a deep and unwavering gratefulness, borne on a wave of profound and respectful affection and trust in your work, which I value and hold in the highest esteem and...

Oh bugger I've done it again.

Speechless

I cannot find the worms.

Looking

A man. Looking. At a woman.

There's the woman. There's the man. There's a look. Peripheral second sight, senses A line, a light, or a tip-tap. He looks past, gives a glance, A double take, maybe a following look? A recognition, and a greeting? Or is it that look? Abstracting biology, Transmuting the personal to the illusory. An appraisal, an assessment. Mirror-me, looking back at me, Projecting clichés.

Are the eyes a surprise? Is there Awareness, a feeling...? Feeling... Alarmed, resigned, amused? Powerful, ashamed, abused? Irritated, friendly, accused?

All in a second. Their eyes ricochet, A reflexive look askance.

As many looks and responses as there are cats in boxes, raindrops and roses, men and women. And others. Biresponding reflexes, Fractal feelings, Layered like silted instinct. Or not. Nothing.

I see you.