About the poet
Fiona Sampson was born in London, and grew up in the West Country, on the west coast of Wales...
Slim as a nun, I lie along
the margin of a borrowed bed
whose springs are texting through my bones,
Abandon hope. Abandonment -
ecstasy of fall. I gaze
up into the godless dark
as if it might disclose some way
of getting right back, to the start
of that unselfconscious wish
for (old-fashioned diction ...) joy.
And dark stares back. True, I'm pissed
again. But must the old alloy
always split along these seams -
is this, then, what incarnation means?
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