About and by Dr Bob Pintle Associate Professor in Professional Creativity, Peterborough University and for Dr Andrew Taylor, who did not inspire it
His end-of-term Zoom seminars were fine. Students logged on, saw that he was there but no-one else was, then logged out again: their logos would appear then disappear and then he’d go and make another tea or gin, watch girls on TikTok on his phone. He flicked through Plath. Pound. Georgian Poetry. And then came summer, time to write his own. He couldn’t quite make ‘Covid’s shit’ sound good in verse, he found. On all else, he was mute: becoming woke was not his strongest suit and marked the age. He trudged off to the wood and sat ’neath bosky leaf-lace o’erhead, unclicked his fountain pen, withdrew a pad, furrowed his brow to summon up the dead and filled a page with every thought he had: The tit comes fluttering helpless to the ground, Pecks a worm and knows not where she goes, Then plays the bees his cheerful chirping sound. It’s like the world’s not mad. We make it so. Oh fuck off birds, you happy little twats Feeding, fucking, frolicking round the trees, Beyond the reach of wind farms, or my cat, And more loved, somehow, than my poetry.