About the poet
Jo Shapcott (b.1953) is from London but traces her family roots to the former mining communities...
This poem features in guided tours by:
I can't pretend to a golden parabola,
or to the downing of many pints
for making magnificent water.
I can't begin to write my name, no
not even my pet name, in the snow:
except in pointless unreadable script.
But I can print a stream of bubbles
into water with a velocity
you'd have to call aesthetic.
I can shoot down a jet stream
so intense my body rises
a full forty feet and floats
on a bubble stem of grace
for just a few seconds
up there in the urban air.
Unpublished, used by permission of the author, copyright © Jo Shapcott 2006
Sponsor this poem
Would you like to sponsor this poem? Find out how here.