Marek Urbanowicz poet
Marek Urbanowicz recently completed an MA in Voice Studies at Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. Attended the first Becoming a Poet with the Faber Academy. A qualified acupuncturist since  1979.

 

Good Friday

I wake with a whole day to waste,
rising late from my doubling bed,
sleep still in my eye, to lounge long
in a deep, hot lavender bath.
Then a leisurely breakfast: eggs,
scrambled or poached? Plus the trimmings,
tea, toast, more tea, more toast spread thick
with marmalade (made by myself).

Perhaps a paper, sport, obits
(no-one I know) or other bits
of interest as if it were
a Sunday, my antennae tuned
to Radio 4, or else 3
to skip politics, the God-slot;
or, sin of sins, daytime TV .
Oh, I’m the king of frittering!

I might stroll by the river’s ooze,
snake slow and indolent, or stay
at chez moi, feet up, suede-slippered,
lounging listless on the chaise longue
listening in a reverie
to Dylan, jazz or Van-the-Man.
The fire’s lit; twigs ache, curl and twist.
I wait for six, a first whisky

This is how I drift, spin my time,
clocking off the un-faced hours, half-
hearing the numinous minutes
ticking at the edge of my I,
sensing the bones of a poem
ghosting through, and almost feeling
the braided weight, death’s epaulette,
his feathered breath stroking my throat.

 

To Tango ?

How
do we
begin to
start this foxed dance ?
A tentative step
in a slow waltz or quick
like a tango, all arms, legs,
hearts pistoning, eyes bright and fired ?
Or will you dance alone, pure, aloof,
balletic as a swan on your own lake,
while I watch you pirouette and arabesque,
close for a moment then distant in an instance,
as you dance my heart through its paces, my eyes held still
by the long arc of your arm. Oh, I could samba, rumba,
do the fandango, trot foxily on a glass floor with you
my guide, while we glide our lives through their wherefores, their whys and their
hows.
 
 
[‘To Tango?’ was previously published in Agenda’s Celtic Mists web supplement and morphrog 5.]
 
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