ULSTERMAN Frank Ormsby reflects in The Parkinson’s Poems (Mariscat, £6) on suffering from that medical condition. In writing the poems, he says “I felt little inclination towards the morose, the lachrymose, the sentimental or the elegiac.” Readers can judge his admirable positivity from these samples.

AGITANS

My left arm is jealous of my right,

the one without a tremor. When Right

pours a glass of wine or throws a ball,

Left stifles a mild shiver of reproach.

I can him Agitans and let him take charge

of the big jug of water, so that the ice

tumbles into the glasses like a subsiding glacier.

He peaks in the football season when Arsenal play.

If they get any better, I’ll have to snuggle him

tightly to my chest,

strait-jacket style.

Meanwhile, his brother Right is undeterred

by his burgeoning duties. And once, once only,

has released his own answering tremor.

TREMORS

Not the tremors themselves

but what the tremors portend:

craters swallowing the city,

the mine collapsing,

the cliff-face toppling into the sea.

Also some fault in the self

that will go on opening

for as long as we live

and cannot be repaired.