3 poems by Nick Power

    To Nancy

    You are sleeping now ferryboats are pulling into port

    weary at dusk scintilla of the sun’s closing fight

    dances on ebb tide like a flock of silver osprey

    to the asthmatic fishermen

    in this dock café your silence is wiser than any cycle of the moon

    they blow cigar plumes toward the window in quiet respect of your slumber

    when you are old enough

    to understand, know, as you read this-

    that the world, as was ours then

    now belongs to you

    Andrew Taylor's Appendix

    High as a pylon here I am, the apparition again

    floating through town gargoyles watch from Cunard building

    there are voices all around me

    I mill into Waterstones

    to steal my millionth book

    (one day I pledge to pay back

    this debt) it is a huge anniversary edition

    of Gravity’s Rainbow

    as I make my escape,

    sweating on the escalator

    from somewhere near my

    frontal lobe, I hear the faint sound of Andrew Taylor’s infected


    it is recommending me

    albums to listen to in my enlightened state!

    Low Spirit of Eden

    Double Negative

    Moonlight Drive

    The Marble Index

    Tracks and Traces

    having left no track or trace

    of myself I vanish into the subway

    a momentary waking

    as the train approaches

    before a 10mg blackmarket


    takes possession of me again

    M6 Toll Diary

    There is water beneath the surface of Mars. They are sure of that now, it is said.

    That line from Orpheus: The role of the dreamer is to accept his dreams. I am dreaming about being among the audience members at a televised stand-up comedy show. I am the camera operative. Moving up and down the aisle, I choose who to film at the moment the comedian drops his punch line. I zoom in on a fat woman in pearls, who is doubled up with laughter, red lipstick smeared across her teeth. Her laughter is phonetically the exact sound of my mother’s name.

    One hour ago I swallowed 2x10mg Diazepam tablets in a motorway service station, because the endless, expanding road on this journey is appearing to me as the spine of an infinite demon, and I would like for that vision to ease somewhat (which it has).

    I’m riding drowsily in the back of a seven-seater people carrier. There is the faint sound of football commentary from the radio on the front dash. In lucid moments, I watch the beauty of green England blurring by. When I look skyward, I’m navigating faint star maps that appear slowly with the encroaching dusk. I am moving toward home.


    Nick Power is a musician and author of four books- Small Town Chase, Holy Nowhere, Caravan and Into The Void, and the co-author of Lowdeine Chronicles. His favourite poems come from the subconscious and he thinks they should be allowed to speak for themselves.