Close and gathered, close and crowded, flowers in vases, Writers crowded in the corner, books on crowded cases. Hardy, Milligan, Dickens, perched above the stairs, More Dickens, Fry and Shakespeare in dozens and in pairs. With pictures of Holland and trinkets in a museum to select, I sit in a different Durrellian Corfu where bugs are my books And the trinkets are the many creatures I collect To sit on a shelf or to hang on the wall on hooks. Little creature at my feet, on my seat, Breaks the run of words. Little creature at my feet And on my knees. Little creature barks and breaks my  concentration, Four legged frustration, Chasing noisy miners to their trees. They chirp, she yaps at every noise and vibration – God help creation, While Shakespeare sleeps and countless others gather dust They draw me up and up, as though I must Take them down;  they, void of voice, and only one or two might be my choice. If dead authors could feel jealous, they might despise me That I have one or two earmarked for attention. Then there’s distraction that invites me, words I need to see, A quaerere scientiam, or some phrase that deserves retention. Against the clock I fight. Ignoring place and time, Fixate on meter, fixate on neatness, fixate on rhyme. But time is like a river that cannot be dammed Or grass that will not cease to grow And above the fence the green tips reach, The cracked footpath breach. Then place and time are all too evident for me and just in time for tea, And like Kubla Khan, in Xanadu, I’m interrupted by decree. Tired but still with voice, the wife and the growing daughter, Present their tales, while the still afternoon sun is wasted inside the house But shines on garden water As it permeates the pumpkin and the parsley plants And magpies dance And chase for worms. Though still it might feel, still the sun races across the sky And afternoon and evening become night, With the smell of cooking chops and the increasing sound Of children as they fight; Who’s rules are to rule, who is the eldest at the school, Who, in court cricket will be the one who shone. All of you must be home before the street lights switch on. Across the evening breeze, across the trees, the delicious memory has flown to Brunswick And the house with the cooking chops has washed its dishes. The street lights on and the sun is gone And children lay in bed with their wishes.

So up I creep, step by step, tread by tread, I creep

Up the steep, stair to the reading chair, The daughter asleep in her room without care, The wife in her meditative screen induced trance She watches celebrities dance, or clerks fight for survival in the arctic outdoors. And I must turn the pages on Hardy, Milligan or Dickens, or contemplate Ulysses Or quote Plato with a phrase and photo on Instagram, instant ideology. Here I sit with the books in the reading chair Seeking solace, seeking sacrality, sitting in the upstairs shadows With the books at the top of the stair. Critique by Alexis Ingram This poem paints a vivid and introspective picture of a moment in the speaker’s life, exploring the intersection of literature, domesticity, and the passing of time. The setting is richly described with images of crowded spaces filled with flowers, writers, and books. Literary giants like Hardy, Milligan, Dickens, Fry, and Shakespeare are present, perched above the stairs, creating an atmosphere steeped in intellectual and artistic presence. As the scene unfolds, the poet takes the reader on a journey to a personal sanctuary—a “different Durrellian Corfu” where bugs become books and trinkets transform into collected creatures. The poet grapples with distractions, including a little creature, perhaps a pet, that interrupts the flow of words, adding a touch of humor and humanity to the otherwise scholarly environment. The poem delves into the concept of time, with the speaker fixating on meter, neatness, and rhyme, only to be interrupted by the inevitable passage of time. The mention of “time like a river that cannot be dammed” underscores the inevitability of temporal progression. The poem touches on family life, the routines of tea time, and the chaotic energy of children fighting. The final stanzas bring the reader back to the present, with the speaker climbing the stairs, finding solace in the reading chair amidst the evening shadows. The upstairs shadows symbolize a quiet retreat, a sacred space where the speaker seeks solace and sacrality with books. The closing lines evoke a sense of quiet contemplation as the world outside continues its activities, and the speaker, surrounded by literary companions, turns the pages in the reading chair. The overall tone is contemplative, introspective, and filled with a sense of appreciation for literature and the quiet moments within the domestic setting.