Poetry from Mark Young

Remembrance Day

It is eleven minutes past

eleven, on the eleventh day

of the eleventh month, &

I am driving over the Bur-

dekin Bridge remembering

Proust & wondering if it’s

not too late to start a band

which I might call Mark et

Marcel et Le Temps Perdu.


She was in the foyer. It

was late at night before

she managed to reach her

personal security team. They

would be with her within

the hour. She dropped her

purse on the divan. Coffee

was what she wanted, but

with no power, how could

she make it? Seagulls were

everywhere though the sea

was far away. Her neighbor

was practising for a coming

concert. She played cello.

There were no witnesses.

the second descent

The poor kid needed a

job. We were trying to

persuade her to go to

grad school or sell car

insurance. But then

the siege of London-

derry arrived over the

transom in the mail.


It was a short-lived

thing. She trusted

her instincts. The man

seemed to take stock

of the situation very

quickly. He looked

at her, said: I don’t

have a plan. She smiled.

I have enough for two.

I find it difficult

The Emperor was standing

near my bed. He is plain &

simple, but beautifully made.