Rob
----> who

----> work

----> contact

----> links

Robert Selby
----> links

the guardian

bedford square 3

mangopeel.com

mark selby artist

simonarmitage.com

succour.org

The TLS

andrewmotion.co.uk

myspace site

poetryarchive.org

poetrylibrary.org.uk

----> sample of work
Hark, the doors are opened, and the silence
is a riot of history and consequence.
Red lines on baize carpet divide the teams
under oaken-dark, lacquered beams.
Green leather shines the length of a cricket square;
how tight the place, what an atmosphere.

At each other's throats since democracy's start,
the left and right two sword-lengths apart,
restrained in pews of shipshape majesty
by Scout's honour, shadow's integrity;
the despatch boxes facing each other down,
ink-flecked, decorationless, dull brown.

Beyond, the wardrobe-like Speaker's chair
where once, it goes, a TV chef and a peer
had sex whilst a ball waged on the terrace,
and there, lofted above all frowsty office,
the public gallery with its transparent view,
a reminder of who is accountable to whom.

Fated to lounge here forever in session,
a fantasy frontbench from the pantheon:
Gladstone, the upright prose, chewing his nails;
Disraeli, the poetry, in velvet coat-tails;
Derby and Rosebery, more noble than able;
Balfour, reclining, his feet up on the table.

Loaded silence under low lamplight, tetchy,
like a card game where the hand is infamy,
keeps honest any entering congregation;
till whispers become chatter, the chamber fills,
and the living replace the ghosts in sitting,
making a din only the call to order quells.

[The Commons]