Poem: The Angel of the North is pissed off
August 4, 2025
Stretching those flat brown wings
it regards the wattle, sings
its songs from Tyne and Wear
wonders how things are up there
and how it came to Canberra
in the wrong hemisphere, a
flight of seventeen thousand k.m.
and whether it’ll wing home again?
away from pesky cockatoos
and a sky too often unmarked blue
with insufficient sludge and rain,
and heat to fry a maquette’s brain.
It spits copper spit from unseen mouth.
Poor Angel! To be transported South.
PS Cottier
A bit of silliness for this week.
A maquette of the Angel of the North stands in the sculpture garden of the National Gallery of Australia, Canberra. The poem is unseasonal, as it’s very cold in Canberra at the moment, much colder than where the big angel spreads its wings.
Photo by Picnicin. Creative Commons Zero, Public Domain Dedication
PS Cottier 