The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 –2178


Volume-2                                                  december -2012                                                Number-2


Nina in Fitzovia

by John Stocks

Come to me

Just as the twilight fades

The rain soused streets

Shining under moonlight.

Come to me

With your jewels

Your tremulous lips

Palms pressed in prayer.

Come to me

With your firs, your cat, your hats

In winter when the stars are hidden

When whatever you know means nothing.

Come and walk the fog clagged streets

From Bloomsbury to Fitzrovia.

Come to me

Unpick the tease of time

And seize with me the future



Last man standing

by John Stocks

We have run out of evening

And this is how the night evolves:

Outside the Lead mill the hoar frost thickens,

Even the late night cafes have closed.

On high bridges, desperation gathers,

We hear the saddening drone of the wind

A voice in my head that sometimes screams-

 ‘You fool; you have wasted so much time!’

Now only the clamour of your silence

The sound of my footsteps will take me home.

Earlier I had turned and glanced to find

You with your head down in the queue

No more than thirty steps behind

Your face distorted by the half light

Like some apparition from a dream

We are what we think of, more or less.

Soon the last black cab will sneak back home

Leaving the streets to Cops and whores

And all the sinister poisonous dregs

The dealers, the lost soul stealers

Muggers and rapists, waiting in the wings.

And I will shiver; still thinking of you

Watch some sinewy fox streak home

A black shadow across the frozen ground

A streak of pure existence, nothing more

Than the lightning fork of the moment.