Mango, magnet, mange-tout, mange -
through the letterbox and down the phone,
across hushed waiting-rooms they come:
the mangled names.

Manager and manger, Maigret, margarine
and Margaret and magnify. . . most misprints in-between.

Magnesia, mangero, mongoose, manganese -
marginal I almost like (where writers ought to be).
There's a funny side to Manfred, I'm used to man-goat's turn
but mangrove stinks, a manhole sinks and maggot makes me squirm.

Just yesterday an envelope arrived for Mr Manifest
and straightaway I saw it blur to Manifold.
Which leads me - Messrs Brown & Smith & Co - to courteously suggest
you treasure those no-nonsense names. They're rubies, diamonds ... purest gold.


LE BATEAU

March 4th, 1935:
Dali awoke with a knife
through his head
(siempre, siempre...)

pulled a pillow over his face
wondered (again) if he weren't perhaps dead,
what his dream on the plains
of La Mancha meant

till light broke in waves
through the skirt of the curtain
and past the foot of the bed rose
a tattered green galleon

the flap of its rigging
aground on his canvas.
Ugh, la vida...es loca
he groaned (certain as ever

no god could create it)
but hauled himself up with the thought
that he could do better -
and started to paint it.

André Mangeot



In addition to poetry, André Mangeot has written two novels - both shortlisted for new-writer awards in the 1980's - and a collection of short stories. His work has appeared in the Times Literary Supplement, London Magazine, Blade, The Dark Horse, Pearl (USA), Red Lamp (Australia) and many other magazines. He lives near Cambridge UK, working as fundraiser for a large charity.