Friday, 21 October 2005

Miles Goes The Extra Spacey

Last night Eyewear attended the Old Vic's new production (directed by Trevor Nunn) of Richard II, with Kevin Spacey as Richard, and Ben Miles as the usurper. It was extraordinary. The modern-dress setting was perhaps too busy with the usual tropes of cameras and cell phones as imagos of a post-modern world, but the stark crisis between godly tradition and naked power was well presented even in contemporary fashion (the play partly being about fashion of course). Kevin Spacey has never been better, and lent Richard a few extra layers of pathos and eloquence, as well as suavity and cattiness, beyond the usual ones of self-pity and preening vanity stripped bare like a winter tree.

Ben Miles was a revelation - a bold modernizer out to capture his country like some former-day Cameron or Fox (or Blair). The play itself, delivered with such passion and seriousness, is newly-minted as one of Shakespeare's greatest and most profound essays on being and identity itself - the soul being appeased by "being eased to being nothing" - and Spacey's soliloquies with the mirror and in the cell were arresting and ravishing.

At the bleak end, when the brilliant, poetic king is grossly murdered, one is struck by the play's underpinning subtext: that the poet in society is disposable, no match for a determined forceful march forward - for all of Richard's speeches, which fuse his sense of self with tradition and language, ultimately link him to the royal fabric of spoken thought itself, which is, finally (and finely) poetry.

Causing A Scene

The always irrepresible and informative Canadian literary site, Bookninja, has an article out on the pros and cons of being in or out of a "writing scene". See link below. Warning, may contain traces of TS. ...

Wednesday, 19 October 2005

Review: Playing The Angel

Depeche Mode have a new album out (meaning they now have a 24-year-old career). Bands once mocked now have a quarter of a century under their belts, and serious discographies and histories worth considering.

The new Depeche Mode album, Playing The Angel, is not as good as Violator or Music for the Masses, which arguably have the key songs, and are in fact from the golden middle period (after the early candy-synth and before the portentous slow decline into irrelevance) - but it is a work that coldly, and strongly, references the whole back catalogue with sinister wit.

Depeche Mode are loved by some, and regarded as faintly silly by most others, and for the same reasons: their merger of S&M, biblical allusion, electronic music and ultra-louche posturing (where all behaviour is deontologically challenged) is a brew not all may consume lightly.

I have always considered them natural heirs to the Byronic tradition: there is nothing Byron (or the idea of Byron) didn't do they have done, which includes the opiates and the orgies - with a curious C.S. Lewis Screwtape Letters diabolism. In fact, it is surprising they have never titled an album Screwtape - it would be be the summation of their summa psychopathologica - that is, they take the path of Judas, and celebrate it. They combine Poe and the Pope.

The best song on the new album is undoubtedly "John The Revelator" - a clear homage to their own "Personal Jesus" - which is about as joyous a misuse of American Gospel Born Again rhetoric and music as can be imagined - it is as if a Mormon choir joined Nine Inch Nails on tour and really got into it. This is what Depeche Mode do better than anyone else - desecrate the transcendental like some sort of coy William Empson about to be sent down for having a condom in his digs. That is, if they are of the devil's party, it isn't for want of trying to get into Magdalene first.

The rest of the album sags under the weight of too many dreamy ballads and less than impressive forays into their slow stuff. But it has three other highlights: "I Want It All"; "Lilian" and "Suffer Well" - which basically sum all their tropes up, lyrically and musically, but with valedictory panache, at least. Of these, "Lilian" is the most refreshing - it is rare for a Depeche Mode song to actually celebrate an actual person as subject (if even a fictional one) - too often their love objects are simply objects, and love isn't the right word to use either.

One final note: the James Bond franchise has overlooked DM for their theme song as often as the Tories have Ken Clarke - and this should stop. No other contemporary British band combines European sophistication, real menace, and kitsch as well as they.

Monday, 17 October 2005

Otherwheres In Islington This Wednesday

Otherwheres - "the new anthology from the University of East Anglia’s renowned Creative Writing MA course. It showcases the fresh talent of the Class of 2005 across the genres of prose, scriptwriting, poetry and lifewriting. UEA’s course is famous for selecting and nurturing a wide variety of writers and launching the careers of many well-known names in the world of literature, including Ian McEwan, Kazuo Ishiguro, Toby Litt and Trezza Azzopardi. UEA Creative Writing Anthology 2005: Otherwheres is a fabulous collection that ranges from the military courts of Pakistan to a marshland in France, on to the teeming streets of Osaka via a New Jersey airport, stopping at Tuscany and Siberia on the way and serving up burnt porridge to the Brontë sisters." - as the blurb goes.

What makes it meaningful, to me, despite the to-be-expected-hoo-ha is that my poetry colleagues and fellow classmates on the same year are in it; and we have wonderful, insightful and witty introductions from our marvellous tutors, Drs. Denise Riley and George Szirtes (two of the best poets now writing in the UK and beyond, if I may say so).

It'll be interesting to see how you compare this to the Hallam collection reviewed here a few weeks back.

The London launch is on Wednesday 19 October at 7.30 pm in The Mini Bar @ The Garage, 20-22 HighburyCorner, Islington, N5 1RD, which I shall be hosting.

Hope to see you there.

Sunday, 16 October 2005

BBC Notices Poetry

The T.S. Review is happy to note that the BBC reviewed the recent Citizen 32 reading in Manchester, earlier posted here.

They kindly state:

"2004’s Oxfam Poet in Residence Todd Swift was entertaining as he was controversial".

See the link below.

This photo of me is by the Welsh writer Jo Hughes, and was taken in London in 2003.

One of the poems I read was:

The Shape of Things to Come

Resembles a triumphant trump of doom;
Is like a hollow room; a horn of plenty;
A ballerina’s shoe; a house in Hooville,
Like a devil’s mouse; a bang-
Drum, a pirate drunk on deadman’s

Rum; like a broken broom used to brush
Away the webs from day-dreaming boys
In a math exam; like a rack of lamb;
A donut convention; a depleted pension;
Like the sort of position churchmen don’t

Like to mention; is shaped like a poem,
Mute and dumb; like a big bronze bell
Held by a handlebar-moustachioed strongman
Working for Barnum; like a circus tent;
Like the hole rent in just such an umbrella;

Like a sausage and some French mustard;
Seems to be hoist on its own petard; looks
Like rain; is infinite, so will and won’t come again.
Is shaped like love; is shaped like a question
Mark and also an exclamation mark and also

A period. The shape of the terrible future
Is a sonnet and a no, looks like a Chinese box and
A door without locks, a hairless fox,
A vortex, a matrix, a nexus, a government rope.
Dystopia up around that there bend

Appears to be green soap abandoned
Under an infernal never-ending tap. The future,
According to the latest discovery, is a bit
Like a U-boat captain, or a tortoise neck.
The bad things ahead look like a two-mile wreck.

poem by Todd Swift

Friday, 14 October 2005

Craig As Bond Is An Owen Goal

The badly-cropped image to your right is a picture of the Man Who Should Have Been Bond: Clive Owen.

Instead, the Friday 14 annoucnement, in London (a day after the far merrier Pinter Nobel) is bad news for those who want their Bond dark-haired, and good with a croupier.

Owen, by far the better actor, seemed a shoe-in - after all, he actually looks the part, and has played several Bond-like characters. Perhaps Owen did not want the part, now that he is an Oscar-nominated act-tor.

What we have instead is Dalton Mark Two. Warning bells are already ringing, and the volcano HQ is about to self-destruct, along with the franchise. As soon as I read that Craig wishes to "take the part to darker, more serious places, with more emotion" and that the writer of the screenplay wishes to create a sombre character study without Q or gadgets, I realized that the reality principle was about to burst the greatest fantasy bubble in cinema history. Bond is not Hamlet, nor was meant to be. When Dalton tried to go dark and thespian, it went all pear-shaped.

I hope I am wrong about this. However, rather than getting Masterpiece Theatre on Bond's ass, they should have hired Tarantino or some other edgy, cool director to make a retro classic, updated to reflect the current cinematic trends from Asia and beyond. Retreating to Casino Royale seems like a fallback position. I am shaken, not stirred, today, to reuse the most tired trope in the biz.

Thursday, 13 October 2005

Harold Pinter Deservedly Wins Nobel Prize In Literature

The T.S. Review is very happy, indeed, to report that Harold Pinter has today been awarded the 2005 Nobel Prize In Literature.

Pinter - like Kafka or Beckett - defines the age he finds himself in, through the anxieties of language, and the unease of its uses, misuses and the emptiness (silence is not sufficient) between what is said and unsaid - the dialectic of human speech, and thus, society. In fact, the politics of how we say things and do things to others, surely the core concern of writing.

As a playwright, screenwriter, and antiwar poet, he has fully earned this honour, which is a refreshing surprise, and a bloody nose to both Blair and Thatcher. Coming on her 80th birthday it is a double irony - and a welcome one, given this is also HP's 75th birthday year. There were complaints in the British media not enough was being done at home to fete the great man - now there will be.

Wednesday, 12 October 2005

Review: Siberia

Eyewear is of the firm opinion that the new album from Echo and The Bunnymen, Siberia, recently released in the UK, confirms their 25-year-career to have been unexpectedly crowned by this superb collection of heartfelt yet well-made songs.

Rather than being just another 80s New Romantic band, Echo (see left) have now made a crafted, mature album that argues for their lasting cultural importance. Contemporary guitar-led new-alternative bands need to watch their backs - song for song (and there are 11 of them) this is as good as the last outings from U2, The Cure, Franz Ferdinand or Coldplay, and far more elegantly generous: it actually shimmers, soars, saddens and soothes, savvy and cerebral and shamanistic. As usual, words and music both twist with surprise and still deliver the goods.

Fans of their significant mid-80s work (which inspired aspects of cult film Donnie Darko) - as lovely and haunting as anything then produced, with a slight Lizard King touch of rock-soaked poetic grandiosity - will not be displeased. While there is no "Killing Moon" here, many songs come close to the greatness of Ocean Rain, and in fact the whole is more impressive for being belated.

What this album provides is the sound of young men young no longer, shouldering a kind of manhood, still passionate and cold as Siberia; the album reverberates a sense of melancholy mastery, as if with rue comes great wisdom.

Stand out tracks include "All Because of You Days"; "Scissors In The Sand"; "What If We Are"; "In The Margins" and "Parthenon Drive".

Tuesday, 11 October 2005

Letter To The Guardian

The Guardian has today published an edited version of my letter, sent in reply to Catherine Gander's recent column.,3604,1589090,00.html

Please find the full text below.


October 7, 2005

To The Editor of The Guardian,

Catherine Gander's article "We need a poetry idol" of Friday October 7, 2005 was ill-informed, unhelpful, and ultimately silly. The choice of The Guardian to publish it reflects a sad truth: while poetry flourishes, at hundreds of festivals, public readings, and in journals and blogs across Britain and, indeed, the world, the media fails to report this correctly, therefore compounding the myth which Gander perpetuates: that poetry is unpopular, and needs to be saved by some outside hand.

Instead, poetry has never been a more popular, democratic, or accessible art form, and continues to reach more people than ever before. I was at the Cambridge poetry reading which Seamus Heaney recently gave on October 5, the 10th anniversary of his Nobel win. The auditorium was filled to capacity with awestruck and attentive students and people from the area, and I was told 500 more had signed up on the waiting list. The night before, I attended a Manchester Poetry Festival poetry cabaret with over 250 people in the venue. My own Oxfam events are routinely packed, and the poetry e-book I edited, which was against the Iraq war, has been downloaded (as The Guardian reported at the time) over a quarter of a million times. Anecdotal evidence, perhaps, but compelling.

Gander claims that poets require a celebrity to endorse them in order to achieve name brand-recognition, much as she suggests Bob Dylan was championed by Martin Scorsese. This is ludicrous. Firstly, Bob Dylan's genius, work or person needs no introduction - not since he was 20. 20th century poets such as Rudyard Kipling, W.B. Yeats, W.H. Auden, Robert Frost, Dylan Thomas, Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, Philip Larkin - and even, indeed, the serious and difficult T.S. Eliot - are widely read, and beloved figures. In our own time, Wendy Cope, Carol Ann Duffy, Simon Armitage, and Benjamin Zephaniah are equally known and popular. It is hard to imagine how or why one would want an Ant and Dec, or Bono-type figure to step forward to endorse poets who, in fact, mostly reach the readers they want, already.

Poetry is not a Barnum and Bailey world - it is a quieter, more private, and more long-lasting practice - and as such, is exempt, mostly, from the cheaper aspects of a commodity culture. Attempts to market poetry generations and create instant superstars in the poetry community usually fail, because poets and poetry readers know the real thing when they hear and see it. True poetry is that which cannot be sold - it can only be given, and received. Poetry, after all, offers uniquely rich rewards to those in the know, and they are simply not in "university seminar rooms" - but in all places and walks of life.

Gander states that "publishing houses and poetry societies need to strive towards fashion". This is an astonishing thing for someone apparently "researching a doctorate on modern poetry" to write. Surely she, of all people, should know that poetry has always either been far ahead of fashion, or blessedly disinterested in it. As Ezra Pound pointed out, good poetry is always "news that stays news" - while fashion is that which quickly reverts to being unfashionable. Implicit in her comment is an underlying, and I fear simplistic, belief that somehow, not enough is being done, by either poets or their publishers, to make poetry a sort of "popular" past-time, like Sudoku. However, contemporary poets already write truthfully, entertainingly, and with great skill, about the central issues of our times - love, desire, fear, and fun - just as novelists do, and cannot be said to be out of touch with the times. Nor do they, for the most part, write with more complexity of style and diction than many literary, popular novelists. And their books, when published, are done so attractively.

Gander is right about one thing, when she writes: "poetry is unforgivably poorly advertised". Well, whose fault is that? Most newspapers and magazines rarely list poetry events with the same effort they would film, music or theatre shows; and almost never review them, though often they are no less ephemeral than a one-night rock concert. This is an editorial choice, and the The Guardian, it can be said, rarely pays the same attention to progressive poetry as it does similar movements in other arts, and in politics itself. It seems to have halved the Berliner-size of its poetry review space on Saturday (although adding a few smaller secondary reviews) - and also has failed to mention many significant poets, publications and events, despite its apparently liberal stance (for instance the major Oxfam poetry series in London of the last two years). For example, its article the other day, featuring photos of prominent poets, signally failed to properly represent the many fine Black and Asian poets now writing, and was also imbalanced in terms of region, gender, poetics, and class. Nonetheless, poetry survives, as Auden said - "a way of happening - a mouth".

Poetry is the art and craft of using words to express emotion and thought, and is a perennial aspect of human existence, literally as old as the first fires around which people sat, and talked. Its value is not, unlike newspapers, under threat from multimedia - since it flourishes on the Internet. Instead, poetry continues to obtain in all cultures and languages, despite the cynical lack of interest from the media. It is newspapers which need more poetry, not poetry which needs more newspapers, you could say.

Gander is right to imply that poetry rarely "throws a hero up the pop charts" as music or film or football does - but has nothing to say on why poetry needs an "outside influence" to "get people reading" poetry. It sounds as if she wants a sort of Saatchi figure, to create another bloated and exaggerated movement - a sort of Blairite spin-machine for poetry - a CoolPoetry movement. But people in their tens of thousands already read, and write, and listen to, and most vitally, love poetry, in the UK. The poet laureate, Andrew Motion, does much to assist this, and Gander's comment that he is "a man in a largely wasted position to promote poetry" is ungenerous and inaccurate.

Gander needs to get out to more street-level poetry events. She might find the budding poetry idols of the future where one might have expected them all along - on stage, reading their own work to us, if we would only listen. The true force that drives the fuse of new poetry is always the presence of a great poet and the words they use to move us, needing no other.

Monday, 10 October 2005

The Black Mountain Review Redux

I am pleased to inform you that five (5) poems of mine have appeared in the recent issue (Issue 11 Spring/Summer 2005) of The Black Mountain Review, guest edited by poet Nigel McLoughlin. The editors can be reached at - and base their journal in the North of Ireland.

For this is not the Black Mountain of Black Mountain College fame (see above) but a new incarnation, based in the North of Ireland, and named, one imagines, after the famous Black Mountain there, with echoes of the earlier Black Mountain review and poetry movement.

It is a good looking journal, and long may it thrive.

Sunday, 9 October 2005

Essex Poetry Festival

I am just back from the Essex Poetry Festival.

I have much to relate.

In the meantime, please make do with the info below.

7th and 8th October

at The Cramphorn Theatre, Fairfield Road
Chelmsford, Essex CM1 1JG
Box office: 01245 606505

On Saturday we are delighted to have Matthew Sweeney who will be reading alongside Chris Beckett and Meryl Pugh in a showcase set for Poetry London magazine. Seam magazine will be presenting Canadian poet Todd Swift, Stephen Duncan and Kevin Higgins. Essex Poets Estill Pollock from Mersea and Philip Wilson from Colchester wrap up the afternoon session.

The evening session starts at 7.15pm with Roddy Lumsden introducing the winners of the Essex Poetry Festival 2005 Open Poetry Competition, and their prize winning poems. Then our very special guests: Daljit Nagra, Forward Prize winner 2004 for Best Individual Poem, Jackie Wills, one of Mslexias top ten new women poets of the decade, and Don Paterson, winner of both the Whitbread Poetry Award and the TS EliotPrize for his book Landing Light.

Friday, 7 October 2005

Howl 50 Years Later, Fusion Ten Years On

The following report comes from Heidi Benson, of the San Francisco Chronicle:

"Fueled by various stimulants, fellowship and a near-mystical belief that the world must change and poetry was the way to do it, this group coalesced and staged a reading on Oct. 7, 1955 -- at the Six Gallery on Fillmore Street -- that has gone down in history as the moment of conception of the Beat movement.

No photographs of the evening have turned up, but by all accounts, when 150 to 200 people showed up at this low-ceilinged former auto-body shop in response to hastily printed postcards, the size of the crowd astonished everybody.

Rexroth served as master of ceremonies that Friday night. Kerouac, who had declined to read, brought jugs of burgundy to share.

First to take the orange-crate podium was San Francisco-born Surrealist poet Philip Lamantia, who read poems by John Hoffman, a friend who had just died.

Next up was McClure, reading "Point Lobos: Animism" and "For the Death of 100 Whales," both presaging the animal-rights movement.

Then came Philip Whalen, a friend of Snyder's from Reed College and later a Zen monk, reading his poem "Plus Ca Change."

(On this night, McClure first met Whalen and Snyder.)

Then Ginsberg took the stage, drunk, some say, and visibly nervous. Kerouac urged him on, hollering "Go! Go! Go!" as the poem gained momentum:

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night ..."
The poem brought down the house. Ginsberg and Rexroth were in tears."

The T.S. Review celebrates this important poetry event, which in some ways inspired the goals of the Fusion Poetry movement 40 years later (in 1995). What is to be regretted is that, despite widespread media attention for such historical (and thus relatively safe) movements, the fact that a true current subterranean movement of global poets, driven by the Internet, is primarily neglected, in favour of established figures who represent a fairly mainstream alternative.

If only some more of the Beat spirit of risk, derangement and humour could continue to subvert and impel the poetry now being published and celebrated in the U.K. and elsewhere. Meanwhile, it must never be forgotten that Beat poetry mistakenly relinquished its hold on form, craft and the sense of tradition - all necessary aspects of the poetic art.

Hence the need for Fusion, which is an attempt to merge The Beat and the New Critic (both sides of the poetic psyche) approach and thus establish a fertile rapprochement that can enable poetry to find its force in both chaos and craft: full-bore passion and a blessed rage for order wrestling together to create inseparable dance-beauty.

Thursday, 6 October 2005

Legion Wins Forward

David Harsent, pictured here, has just won this year's Forward Prize for best collection of poetry. The T.S. Review heartily congratulates him for his most-deserved win, and all other winners (as well as those on the short-list).

The book is called Legion - a poem from which appeared in 100 Poets Against The War, which David Harsent kindly supported - he has also read for the Oxfam series I organize.

The Forward poetry prizes are "the most vaulable" in the UK and are widely respected among poets.

The prize for best poem of the year (published in a UK journal) goes to Paul Farley (who recently read for Oxfam as well in a brilliant show of mind over wine and codeine).

Please see the poem below.

Liverpool Disappears for a Billionth of a Second

Shorter than the blink inside a blink
the National Grid will sometimes make, when you'll
turn to a room and say: Was that just me?

People sitting down for dinner don't feel
their chairs taken away/put back again
much faster than that trick with tablecloths.

A train entering the Olive Mount cutting
shudders, but not a single passenger
complains when it pulls in almost on time.

The birds feel it, though, and if you see
starlings in shoal, seagulls abandoning
cathedral ledges, or a mob of pigeons

lifting from a square as at gunfire,
be warned, it may be happening, but then
those sensitive to bat-squeak in the backs

of necks, who claim to hear the distant roar
of comets on the turn - these may well smile
at a world restored, in one piece; though each place

where mineral Liverpool goes wouldn't believe
what hit it: all that sandstone out to sea
or meshed into the quarters of Cologne.

I've felt it a few times when I've gone home,
if anything, more often now I'm old,
and the gaps between get shorter all the time.

poem by Paul Farley
(as found on The Guardian Internet site)


I had the most extraordinary evening last night.

My friend, the distinguished poet and writer, Tamar Yoseloff, is currently writer-in-residence at Magdalene college, Cambridge. She kindly invited me to Seamus Heaney's reading, which coincided with the tenth anniversary of his Nobel prize being announced, and began the year-long Literary Festival.

We sat at Head Table near the Master, and dined with the Fellows of the college, and then enjoyed candle-lit conversation over claret, regarding theology, the history of Christianity, and poetry, including Eamon Duffy, John Mole, Jane Hughes, Goethe's biographer Nicholas Boyle, and the former Bishop of Coventry, Simon Barrington-Ward, whose book on The Jesus Prayer I look forward ro reading shortly. It was especially moving to meet someone so interested in Dietrich Bonhoeffer's work.

It was a superb evening, and I am very grateful to those who welcomed me with such grace and warmth.

Wednesday, 5 October 2005

I Read in Manchester Last Night

I read with Aoife Mannix, Chloe Poems and Helen Clare last night at the Manchester Poetry Festival, for the Citizen 32 magazine launch at Matt & Phreds Jazz Club - a trendy place with friendly staff and very good pizzas.

The magazine, edited by Dave Toomer and John Hall, is a crucial vehicle for bringing poems concerned with politics, social justice and progressive ideas, to readers, locally and globally.

It was a great event - filled with perhaps 150-200 people, seated at round tables - and the stage and sound was good. Aoife was particularly impressive. My own 25-minute set was very well received, and one of my most openly political and performance-oriented in some time, which brought back memories of my work in cabaret poetry in the summer of 1995, ten years ago.

Tuesday, 4 October 2005

Portrait of the Artist in Budapest

The artist (writer and photographer) Tony Kostadinov (as he was known to me then) took this photo of me presumably praying in Budapest sometime around the summer of 1999.

One of his portraits (in a similar vein) of me was used in my first collection, Budavox: poems 1990-1999, and his cover image graced the, well, cover. Fans of the Budavox sign will be glad it was captured for such a publication.

Below, find a poem from that rather gloomy and lascivious book (and both things are possible at once, especially in Bp.).

My math is poor, but I suspect I was about 34 then, I should add. I am now still in my 30s, but you know how time is about such things.

You may wish to check out the artist's website at and read his thoughts on the artist and creative health, as well as take a peek at his other portraits, some of very fascinating and beautiful people.

Endangered Species

Under inspection by a group
of anti-ghosts, they stopped me half-through
the fade routine, at infrared, with a spray
sent finely over the air to find my general form,
looped thin titanium from skull to heel, pleased
well with their delivery. The young, thin scientist,
eager to be cruel, caressed his find, asking
if I needed anything else. I tried bolting,
scrutiny held fast. I could feel my eyes drying
as if they were paints. The technician
in his green coat scratched my iris
for results. He predicted I was
the last of my kind. This meant release.
The electric band glisters at my throat.

poem by Todd Swift

Sunday, 2 October 2005

Interview With The Poet

The American poet Adam Fieled has interviewed me and the text can be found by going to for the Philly Free School- then clicking on his name.

The man to the left (if you will) is Ezra Pound, who is mentioned in the interview.

I am neither Adam nor Ezra. I think biblical names for poets rather a good idea, don't you?

Saturday, 1 October 2005

Get Sad

If 60s and early 70s TV was a formative part of my childhood - and it was - and if this has somehow affected my poetry - and it has - then no single show was a greater influence than Get Smart.

I loved Max(well) Smart, and his eventual wife, 99 in the way one does when one yearns to become the object of desire. Beyond the comedy of their relationship, I saw the erotic humours that made it work - he bumbling, but good, she sexy but competent - and I think this has shaped my onw private life to this day.

It is therefore with much sadness that I learn of the recent death of Don Adams, who portrayed Max.

Adams himself never amounted to much after this one great role, somehow unable to escape the watertight chamber of his own curious blend of daily suavity and screwball voice - as if KAOS itself had designed some far-fetched trap his life and career could never extricate themselves from - a giant magnet holding him back.

Those who collect my early chapbooks will know that my second pamphlet, The Cone of Silence, was named after a running gag on the show - the start of my many buried homages to popular film, TV and music in my poems. Now Max has gone to a cone that will be forever silent, unless the Chief lifts it on resurrection day.


A WORK IN PROGRESS... I am writing this first part on the eve of New Year's Eve day - and as new remembrances come to me, I may well...