by Michael Kalisch
Those fierce young men
High-collared, hollow cheeked,
Courted chaos
With a proud and wretched despair
Sitting slim-hipped
In hush-tight huddles
Mackintoshed shoulders squared
Smoking dimly over candled tables, over coffee cups.
And what do they come home to?
Full shelves and empty beds
Floors unswept and a chattering cold
A pregnant silence and bills unpaid
To a prostitute Muse,
For a few dross lines.
Michael Kalisch is 18 and from Devon. He was an overall winner of the Foyle Young Poet Prize 2008.
The Pygmy Giant 