A Murdered Poet

Man charged with murder of poet found dead at farm

(from write out loud)

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A 48-year-old man has been remanded in custody after being charged with the murder of poet Anne Cluysenaar, aged 78, who was found dead at her farm near Usk in Gwent on Saturday.Timothy Jackson, of Sheffield, appeared at a hearing at Newport magistrates’ court on Tuesday.

Anne Cluysenaar was born in Belgium, and her family moved to Britain just before the outbreak of the second world war. She has lectured in literature, linguistics and creative writing at the universities of Manchester, Dublin, Aberdeen, Lancaster, Birmingham and Cardiff. She founded two literary journals, Sheaf and Scintilla, and her books include Timeslips: New and Selected Poems (Carcanet, 1997). Batu-Angas was published by Seren in 2008. She had lived in Wales for the last 20 years, running a smallholding near Usk.

Police named her on Monday night as Anne Jackson. She lived at Little Wentwood Farm with her husband.


f.f.i. check this free press link

a poem for Anne:

The Poet of Usk

He turned to the idea of the Higgs bosun, a stitcher of time that would not save the murdered poet.
He turned all the same, driving the weave of all things underground, calling gravity the mafia, mass – a conflict of interest, and anger a veil over all perception.
Having trowelled through the dirt of creation – dreadlocked trustafarian-like in the manner of his cowardice, he struck at himself a thousand times and missed with each sortie.
Ducking the while between that which exists and does not between the tick and the tock. Murdered…? There were bellows made of breath inside his him/her rib cage, nose twitching witch-like outside suburban salons.
Stepford wives style cleansing, rotarian sponsored rubber plantations, and rain forest airports for cheap flights to spread the comfortable everywhere at once.
She was dead, the killer like a boy dressed in knife sharp scissorhand halloween costume, blaming government for immigration in the underworld.
A tempest against which to cry.
A tide to command, a feeling of loss to drop into the clockwork alarm.
Alone, with the humour of a cliff.
Last words, Anne: “And here we are!”




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