Oli Hazzard

Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?

Marge, let’s send a sadness telegram.
I roamed under it as a tired, nude Maori.
No trace, not one carton.

Kay, a red nude, peeped under a yak.
Was it a car or a cat I saw?
Amen, icy cinema.

Nurse, I spy gypsies. Run.
No, I tan at a nation.
Flee to me, remote elf.

Eva, can I stab bats in a cave?
Oozy rat in a sanitary zoo
Loops at a spool.


Martedi Grasso


An infant left unexposed 
                          to linguistic stimulus 
                                         will automatically begin to speak 
Enochian, the language 
                          of the angels. Black 
                                         and white, boy and girl operate
in this language together. 
                          One cries, “Let this length 
                                       therefore be called the Standard; let
one Tenth of it be called 
                          a Foot; one Tenth of a Foot 
                                         an Inch; one Tenth of an Inch a Line.” 
Under this, gently: “un mecanismo 
                            arbitrario de gruñidos y de 
                                         chillidos, so uncommon in its failure 


angels in their tens of thousands 
                            encircled the throne, 
                                          whispering telocvovim.” Soon, flames lamb 
ent wrapped round Tottenham 
                            and wrapped round Clapham. Before this:
                                           “The restra
ints imposed by a mercantile 
                            culture, ruinous 
                                           in effects up
on many who comprised the crowd, 
                            encouraged rapid volatility”. 
                                          (A doctor co
unted very able / designes 
                            that all Mankynd converse
                                          shall.) Everything m


anifesting its own version of fullness: 
                        “Infra thin 
                                    separation betwe
en / the detonation noise of a gun / (very 
                           close) and the apparition 
                                       of the bullet / hole 
in the target.” There should be a 
                           word that can only 
                                        be spoken if  
one does not know what it means. 
                            And these signs shall follow 
                                         them that believe: 
(under breath) they shall cast out devils 
                            in my name; they shall speak 
                                       with new tongues…


OLI HAZZARD was born in Bristol in 1986, and studied English at University College London and the University of Bristol. He is currently researching John Ashbery’s poetry at the University of Oxford. These two poems appear in his first collection, Between Two Windows, published by Carcanet.


Read more by Oli Hazzard:

Poem in The Guardian