Poetry

Paul Muldoon

What did I expect of Paul Muldoon?

A man in skin-tight lycra,

descending from the domed ceiling to

a John Williams soundtrack,

or a rakish figure, gripping the lance of

metaphor and the shield

of correct form, come to wrest

our stolen freedoms from the neo-cons

and restore them to us?

What did I expect of Paul Muldoon?

He’s sat in the audience now,

all gentle dishellevedness,

bearing the gifts of corduroy,

pot belly and dodgy ties,

parting as he moves the

churchy whiff of damp stone.

Chris Goding