[Philip Quinlan]

I bought a book the other day (as usual in a charity shop because I like the prices and the serendipitous finds) called "Laurie Lee - A Many-Coated Man". Basically a series of reminiscences and such by his friends (including John Mortimer).

Among other delights it contains the following, almost eponymous, Laurie Lee poem (and, of course, he always thought of himself as a poet first and foremost). I think this is dark and lovely:

My Many-Coated Man

Under the scarlet-licking leaves,
through bloody thought and bubbly shade,
the padded, spicy tiger moves
a sheath of swords, a hooded blade.

The turtle on the naked sand
peels to the air his pewter snout
and rubs the sky with slotted shell –
the heart's dismay turned inside out.

The rank red fox goes forth at night
to bite the gosling's downy throat,
then digs his grave with panic claws
to share oblivion with the stoat.

The mottled moth, pinned to a tree,
woos with his wings the bark's disease
and strikes a fungoid, fevered pose
to live forgotten and at ease.

Like these, my many-coated man
shields his hot hunger from the wind,
and, hooded by a smile, commits
his private murder in the mind.



Lee's poetry is hard to come by (at least the full oeuvre) and some editions fetch silly money, as I found out when I googled.

But I must have more of this.

Philip