The Editor’s Spot

Inspired  by the autumn essay, Sam Illingworth’s  A Sonnet to Science, I have decided to post a set of poems taken from an unpublished collection of mine called The Metal Exchange. I hope in due course that it will be published as a book, but meanwhile here are four poems, all of which are inspired in various ways by science.


Previous Selections in The Editors slot: Spring 2019Summer 2019


Nuclear scientists


There are certain structures
that fall apart when their logic’s
at its limit; and when what might be,
but can’t be, is dreamed up by those
who are bombastic, driven.

There are laws abhorred
by nature, regimes based on fear,
whose fates are pre-determined
when the brave say No
to dogma, tanks and swords.

And in the wake of Armageddon
our sensors glimpsed chimeras
that self-destruct in our world
but still engendered wars
between white-coated alchemists
laying claim to them:
meitnerium, hassium, hahnium,
rutherfordium, seaborgium
in nanograms invisible
to the unassisted eye.

Achieving more than Adam,
when they chose the names
for matter they’d created,
they howled like dogs prowling
around scattered bones.

Note: The title of this poem refers to a series of disputes between American and Soviet scientists as to who had first isolated and had the right to names the unstable elements beyond Fermium, #100 in the Periodic Table.




How fitting  it was that a scientist,
taught by monks in a seminary,
should have been among the first
to see beyond appearances. Unkempt
and bearded, like a desert oracle
he had sensed a scheme while dreaming
and, on awakening, had laid the elements out
like cards in a game of patience.

When others claimed he’d fixed it,
he turned on them and pointed out
the errors they’d accrued from impure
samples, their own inaccurate weights.

Rubbing their noses in it, he left
them gaps that he predicted
they could fill themselves
with substances unknown –
their properties determined,
their places reserved.

Foul-mouthed and foul-tempered,
he had stormed out of labs abroad
and sulked in isolation.
Back home in a backward land
he was lionized by students,
enthused by his asides. The Pied Piper
of insight, he impressed Kropotkin,
the crown prince of anarchists.




‘The difficulty, then, is how far we are ourselves
the objects of our senses.’
David Hume:  A Treatise of Human Nature

Like a flimsy thread my vanity
clings to, it seems that as far
as logic’s concerned what I call
my self’s a phantom and no more
a part of me than skin, hair
or toenails are, shed by the strangers
they started out with.

So where is the screen memory
flares on and who’s the kid
sitting there, spellbound,
as JB in his goggles ignites
the bright metallic strip
he holds in tongs then dips
into the flickering Bunsen?

Of all those hours spent
behind stained benches
what else remains but a few facts
or party tricks, consigned
to the dark for years
until that moment sparks?
– lighting up once more

what I learned but never used
about the alkaline earths
or hyperactive alkali metals:
their symbols, numbers, properties,
and what it is they’re good for,
reacting flamboyantly
when exposed to water.

And then there’s music shared
with friends I’ll never meet again
that takes me back to school.
as now, unaccountably, a teacher does
who prepped his board in break
and signed it: Do not efface! JB –
his aim with the chalk deadly.


for Kevin Mulqueen

A numinous bead
slithering in a world
of angles, it seems
at first composed.
Probe more deeply
and you will see
it weeps elegant tears.
Collecting itself
into itself,
it adheres to laws
of tension, weight,
Devoid of guile,
it has no time
for tawdriness,
displays; and
though you stare
for days, you cannot
see through it,
or amplify
its meaning:
I am what I am –
make of that
what you please.
Breathe it in,
or touch its skin
with your own
you will learn
the price
indiscretion pays.


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Summer 2019

Having been encouraged to do so by a few kind souls, I have decided to reserve one  small corner of The High Window for some of my own poems:


This summer I am posting four poems taken from my fourth collection, A Murmuration, which was published in 2015 by Two Rivers Press at more or less the same time as A Slow Blues, New and Selected Poems, the first book published by The High Window Press. Copies of both can be purchased by following the links.

You can read an online review by Greg Freeman here.


David Cooke: Four Poems from A Murmuration


There’s another city inside the city. It lays
its template of odours across postal districts.

One day, perhaps, you will sense it
beneath your speed: a faint hint of fox piss

that clings to street lamps and bollards.
Leaving its marker, it establishes different laws.

Below our fences there are badger setts
and mole runs, scrabbling polities

obscured by codes, dissimulation, the plunge
of adits into the dark of the earth.

It’s 5 a.m. and a rackety slew of birdcalls
fills in a gap between late revels and the early shifts.

All day the city accumulates heat, hatching
prematurely the high rise predators.

In a colour supplement once I read
about Year Zero in a city called Phnomh Penh

and how the jungle broke it up
when all its people had marched away.



We’re two hours’ flight from a northern spring;
the impassive sky we’ve left behind us
a canvas primed but still awaiting
some splash of inspiration;

the grey pavements underscoring
routines we cling to; but here
our touchdown lights a spark in a town
whose name suggests a beacon

and where all winter, unknown to us,
the orange trees on the Largo da Sé
ripened slowly, revealing now
a constellation of sweetness on a coast

whose warmth detains the storks
that headed once for Africa;
and as if plonked recklessly
on rooftops, ledges, hoardings,

their nests rise from platforms
of branches, twigs and rags,
growing bulkier year by year –
ancestral homes they sublet to sparrows.

But when we get too close, climbing
the bell tower, we find ourselves
in a perfect storm of beak
and wings like loose rigged sails.



A small time hustler, a princeling,
he is on the make and mooching
down along the hedgerows.

His head in the cloud
of each moment’s business,
the world is lying at his feet.

On a whim, his thoughts
a-scamper, he sets off
on a pointless dash

from one place  to another;
then remembers flight.
Climbing raucously

above the stubble,
his song’s in the key
of twisting metal.

And when the time is right
his sex is functional.
It’s all him, his pageantry –

for any drab will do.
Inheriting robes
from distant Asia

does he dream of lives
he’s bred for, or guess
how it will end

here at the roadside
– cast off by
a casual bumper,

his gauds in disarray,
his dark flesh ripening
beneath a perfect sky?



Something is gathering
at the edge of the evening,

a shoaling of consciousness
as light fails,

each speck a singularity,
an occurrence of will,

as the living skein is formed
to twist and glimmer

like a burnt-out image
of the Northern Lights.

One by one,
they will come to roost

in a city of leaves,
a settlement of feathers.

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Spring 2019

Having been encouraged to do so by a few kind souls, I have decided to reserve one  small corner of The High Window for some of my own poems. This is particularly timely as my sixth collection, Reel to Reel, has just been published by Dempsey and Windle. I  will continue with further brief selections in each quarterly issue.


David Cooke: Four Poems from Reel to Reel


When I couldn’t keep up with the cost of music,
I found a solution: the second-hand
reel-to-reel I picked up at a snip –
a Philips most likely or maybe a Grundig,
some brand I thought would last.

Its clickety counter gave no insight
into the digital age. It couldn’t remember
or shuffle a thing. Pre-CD and pre-cassette,
it lacked a remote or any inkling
of the bells and whistles to come.

To make a start you wound the tape
onto the empty spool, then let it
run to take the slack. Engaging
its five sturdy controls
required decisive pressure.

And once you’d hooked it up to the radio,
you only had the space of a song
to change your mind and reset it,
ready for the next one, your dithering clunks
recorded in that seamless stream.

So I gave up on Pick of the Pops
and ‘Fluff’, its pop-picking deejay,
but left it purring quietly to the John Peel show,
his musical taste consistent,
his mumbles, yeah, laid back.



In the Shangri-La of San Francisco
they called it The Summer of Love,

tuning in and dropping out
to a soundtrack of spacey guitars.

Bookish, shy, and too young
for a droopy moustache and sideburns,

I was hothoused instead by Hayes
for the maths I was taking early,

but got a hint of something else
in Scott Mckenzie’s anthem.

Against her better judgment,
my mother allowed me to pick a shirt.

– A bright yellow shocker
with a floppy, extravagant collar,

it didn’t survive the first lesson
before they sent me home

to dream on at the back of the bus
of topless Haight-Ashbury girls,

whose painted bodies sway
to airborne waves of music.



Location! Location! Location! It’s a mantra
the upwardly mobile intone,
who have set up shop elsewhere –
catchpenny merchants with tricks up sleeves,
purveyors of pleasures and deals.

On a street where ripples of boom
and bust have long since subsided
beneath the tide of failure
the footfall of ‘three day millionaires’
kept all the rest in business.

Awaiting turns to land their catches,
trawlers rode at anchor, backed up
beyond the docks. Their crews staggering
ashore to re-establish land legs
lost them again in pubs

where men now washed up at forty
nurse disconsolate pints;
while workless youths hang out,
honing their skills with cues
in a room above the Scope shop.

Marks and Sparks pulled out, leaving
a space filled by Mad Harry’s
discount store that held its own for a while,
until it went the way
of Tony’s Textiles, the Polski Sklep.

Along this windy channel
nothing much survives beyond its lower
reaches, where Asda thrives like a final
outpost. There’s a place that fixes hoovers;
an Alpha course that fixes souls.

From time to time – like a twinge
of conscience – there’s talk
of schemes, regeneration: but who throws
good money after bad? Everything Must Go!
the sign says, when it’s already gone.



He is pissing his life away
– this wayward child
with the face of a cherub,

his back tensed in an effort
to further his arc
of spangled water

toward the basin’s
rim, until one day
his trajectory rises

and recklessness
takes flight, his stream
trickling over

onto the pavement
and down along the gutter …
Meanwhile he’s the age

when all’s forgiven,
in spite of those
who’ve seen it before –

how once indulged
the child is ruined,
his features blank,

his eyes dilated, staring,
out of it, across the shambles
of each wasted day.


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