The Persistence of Hats

Is it the hat that makes the man

or the man that makes the hat?

We’ll never know for sure.  Cut off a strip

of cloth and paste it to the table.

This is the blocking spot.  Blocking

is essential.  The antique head

composed of adjustable oak planes

originates from the time of Napoleon.

Everything about it is calibrated, the numbers

hand-done, as they would have been

in those days.  Cut off another strip

of cloth.  This is the banding.  Banding

is also essential if a hat is to keep

its shape.  Hats need to be fitted.

Fitting implies stretching, steaming, even

re-blocking if necessary.  People think

a hat’s a hat, and in one sense

they’re right.  But in another,

much more important sense, they’re utterly

mistaken.  The fashion for hats

comes and goes.  Sometimes

they’re tall and cone-like;

other times they swaddle the head

like collapsed soufflés or puddings.

Just at this point in history

we seem to have lost our way

with the hat.  This is nothing

to worry about.  Hats can wait.

Just a Few Questions from the Panel

Why do you want to be a poet?

What sort of work do poets do?

What, in your view, is the difference

between the work of a poet

and the work of a civil engineer?

What would you say

if you were asked to write concrete poetry?

What would you say

if you were asked to build a concrete boat?

Why do some poems rhyme?

What makes a slum?

What is a Found Poem

and where might you find one?

What is conservative dentistry?  What should be done

in the case of an elderly person who steals a bar of soap?

What are the qualities of a sound net-ball defence?

Why do you want to be a poet?

Is there a future in fish farming?

Trouble with the Rat Race

The house is someone else’s, the falling

to the floor is mine.  It happens

sometimes.  I get used to it.

I pointed to a vase of flowers.

I felt it was like me.  I can’t

say how.  I said as much.  I wanted

to but couldn’t.  Ever felt

like that?  When I looked through the window

bits of blue were pasted in

the heavens’ otherwise glum light.

‘Is there a secret to all this?’  I asked

as she lay down beside me.

We stared up at the sky’s immense

archives.  It looked just like a sketch

in ink.  I hauled myself up

like an anchor.  ‘Trouble with

the rat race is,’ she said, ‘that even if

you win you’re still a rat.’