The bird that sings in winter – a Review of Antony Owen’s ‘Margaret Thatcher’s Museum’ by John Davies

I am not a silent poet

A review of Antony Owen’s Margaret Thatcher’s Museum.

(Hesterglock Press 2015)

by John Davies


That black leg Easter you wept,

Thatcher glided by in a Daimler,

Like spit on union coats.

The little things destroy us


A weight of history rests on Antony Owen, not just in this missile of a pamphlet, a real sett of poems, but also in his name.

“Mark Antony’s family traced its origin to an otherwise unknown son of Heracles named Anton.” Paul Zanker writes in The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus. “He used the identification with Heracles to best effect as the macho soldier fraternizing with his men.” The name was spelled without the ‘h’ until the 17th century as in Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. According to “an Antony is someone who deliberately says or does whatever it takes to piss you off.”

Owen is…

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