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Rhythm in the Heart
I used to enjoy the shapes of words
And cracking them into line;
But most I enjoyed the roll of them,
Most I enjoyed their rhythm:
The heart that beat
At the heart of my words.
Bloodmud
I'm standing in a field,
Opening up my heart...
Or rather...
I'm opening up my chest,
And taking my heart out -
Holding it in my hand,
Tender.
Feeling the failing beat and pulse
As the blood drains from my face,
Out through my soles and
Soaks into the friable earth -
Making bloodmud.
I scoop up a handful of bloodmud
And sculpt a man.
I scoop up a handful of bloodmud
And sculpt a woman.
I breathe the word into their mouths
And they come alive.
They stare into each others eyes,
For ever and ever.
Then reach into each others chests
And pull out their hearts.
They hold them in their hands,
Tender
The blood seeps out of the bloodmud.
The man and woman, returning to dust,
Are caught by the breeze and
Scattered about the field
Making more bloodmud.
I scoop up a handful of bloodmud,
And sculpt a dog.
I scoop up a handful of bloodmud,
And sculpt a bitch.
I breathe the word into their mouths
And they come alive.
They look inquisitively,
Turn their heads to one side,
Ears pricked,
They tentatively sniff,
Then turn away, pad into the world
Forever unaware of each other
Until the time of heat.
I scoop up a handful of bloodmud
And sculpt a tom.
I scoop up a handful of bloodmud
And sculpt a queen.
I breathe the word into their mouths
And they come alive.
They stare into each others eyes,
Until one yawns,
Then they slowly turn away,
Slink into the world
Forever unaware of each other
Until the time of heat.
The bloodmud
Is drying out, and
I need my heart to live.
So return it to my chest.
Tender.
Driving
The night is a thick dark tangibility
That flows around the warm, smoke-filled
Interior of the old Rover.
Night flows across this unstreamlined slab
As the noise of wind scrabbling at the
Broken rubber window seals.
The headlights try to pierce the thick,
Slow-moving river of night,
But the beams are swallowed, contemptuously,
A few yards from the imposing nudge bar,
The last, solid cylinder of which appears,
Reassuringly, in my line of sight.
In the hedgerows grow, unordered --
And yet with a regularity that matches
The dull, hypnotic flow
Of cat's eyes and white lines --
Scabrous, hobbled, anonymous trees.
The Avons whine on the road.
The vee-eight reassures,
Presses on, eager,
Home.
Fragments
of a Proth
For
Angela and Mark
1
It is late spring,
Balanced delicately on the cusp of change.
The stock hangs heads heavy with scent,
A reminder of childhood when its sweet smell
Would ride on the breeze through open windows.
And the tractors labour fitfully through sweet hay,
The cut smell of it hanging thick in country air.
At this cusp,
The world finds focus in a ritual,
A ritual of nexus: wedlock.
The ritual finds focus in a ring:
A symbol of unity and a symbol of the world,
A symbol of endless continuity and rebirth,
The circularity of symbol and substance
Sucking in still more power,
And breathing it back into your blood.
The purpose and result of this rite
Is enthralling for you both,
To hold you by powers unseen, unheard of
Outside of lives normally free of such magic.
2
A rite of life, signified
By a symbol on the left.
But for the ring,
Your joining leaves no physical evidence,
You look, smell, taste just the same;
But your blood beats a new rhythm,
Each breath snakes around the other's
And your skins, unnoticed by the congregation,
Become shared, cell and cell.
By this ritual all is changed.
Embraced by the gentle fold of countryside
You are three times blessed:
Once by the country itself,
Twice by your own conjunction.
1976
There was nothing between us
Except my desire to meet you
In the middle, translate us to we.
The burning sun of that summer
Burnt down on me, shackled my
Freedom to decide to those moments
When the clouds obscured the sun.
Which was hardly ever.
The hot sun burned within me,
And the words I longed to say
Died in the hot desert,
The arid land of my mouth.
We stayed close as a binary,
Influenced each by each
But still on separate paths.
We both were suns
And warmed the other.
But the one sun over us
Blinded us.
It took cool nighttime,
White moon time,
To spiral our orbits
Closer, bring our still
Seperate warmths to unity.
The night air was cool
Empty but for the night jar's cry,
Until you ran your fingers
Through my hair,
Filled the night with
Your simple words:
"You are nice."
Which warmed me.
I began to melt.
The heat of the day
Was from me.
The oppression
Of that one sun
Was lifted.
I looked at you
And all the things
I'd wished to say
Over each and every
Long hot day
All rushed to speak at once.
My mask was nightime cool.
The warmth for us
Burnt within me,
But my mask you
Translated as ice.
You smiled at me and turned away.
All my words burned inside,
Like dry sand, would not cohere,
I forced a smile. You smiled -
And turning you walked away.
Airliners over
London
Winter sunset.
And to the west the dying sun
Burns the fringes of the clouds,
Burns the ragged sky red.
A red stained river flows
Past offices and flats,
And on past sterile, static,
Immutable, graying concrete,
And on and on past shops,
Warehouses, hospitals,
Service stations, computer centres.
I do not know how many
Terraced houses.
The houses huddle close,
Side by side, back to back,
Their order broken only by
Worn green squares, dumps
For crisp packets, paper bags,
Newspapers (dirty and torn),
Used needles, take-away food cartons.
I do not know how many
Used condoms.
Roads order the houses,
And offer a place to breathe.
They are out there,
Breathing now, the
Mods and Teds, ravers,
Old punks and skins,
Old hippies, older beats,
Grungy kids, travellers,
Mothers pushing push-chairs,
Pulling shopping trolleys,
Old men reminiscing,
Tired workers returning home,
Whores, pimps and junkies.
I do not know how many
Alcoholics, tramps, nor how many
Sleep beneath the arches
Of bridges tonight.
And on these roads,
Cars spit noise and smoke.
See their glittering chrome,
The shining paint-work.
Hear the tyres squeal,
Racing from junctions.
See the Fords and BMWs,
Vauxhalls and Hondas,
Mercedes, Nissans.
I do not know how many
Cars envelope drivers,
Intent on their tangled
Ribbons of road,
Isolated from the London cold.
The tyres touch the runway.
The runway lights blur.
Soon, the passageways,
Lounges, Customs, automatic doors,
Soon the exit signs, taxis,
The cold night. London.
I do not know how many
Nightmares.
Helicopter over
London
The black helicopter
In the London sky
Waits, always watching:
A sleek black fish
Rippling through the gray
Above the gray city.
Inside are men dressed
In black: watching always.
The black helicopter
Is sometimes still
And the streets echo
With the hollow sound
Of a thousand coffin
Lids closing.
Mystery compounds mystery.
No blackbird raises
A bright yellow eye to look at it,
No black crow heaves itself
From the cold brown earth,
And the sparrows are silenced.
The black-barked pollarded trees
Are hard iron columns that would
Pierce a sky they cannot own.
The sky is owned by
The invisible men in black,
Wrapped in black,
Carried in black,
Who paint the sky black
With their black exhaust,
Their black helicopter
Weaving twilight into the sky.
Good Evening Mr
Woden
A breeze slipped between
Our ankles as a cat would.
The branches of the trees fanned across
The orange street lights, whipped back again.
His skin reflected back
The orange of the lights.
"Did you know," he asked "That the world is a
Perpetual ball-bearing in the great machine of space."
I confessed I did not. He laughed,
"It's just the nonsense that I talk!"
He grabbed me by the arm,
Led me into the bright lights
Of an amusement arcade.
He slipped a shiny coin into a slot,
Immersed himself in a pinball-table,
His eyes becoming liquid pools of
Concentration as the ball-bearing
Crashed from the bumpers,
And bells rang, fragments of
Melody chased and crossed
Each other as the digital numbers
Racked
Up.
Occasionally there was
A lounder crack as the ball
Jumped from a bumper into
The toughened glass.
Mr Woden didn't flinch,
Kept the ball rolling,
The digits increasing,
Until a loud clack
Signalled a replay.
Eventually the game passed on,
As everything does. Mr Woden
Desultorily flicked the flippers,
Flapped them as the ball
Headed down the centre-slot.
He offered me the replay: I declined.
With an airy flick of the wrist
He declaimed "Ah, some kid
Can have it," and took me
By the arm again.
I could see he was almost tempted
By F-17 and Combat Trooper
As we headed for the door.
Outside, the breeze caught
Mr Woden's cape. I looked away.
I could hear the faint slap
Of the sea against the breakwater.
Mr Woden gambolled, climbed upon a fence,
Balanced with grace along its top,
Bounced down with a smile.
"You can't keep a good man down,"
He said, and suddenly
Waltzed me around a bollard,
Singing the refrain to
Tom Traubert's Blues.
He stopped then,
Looked up at the moon.
"I am two people," he said
"One half of me faces the light,
The other faces dark emptiness.
I have two faces: One of which
Looks toward the centre,
While the other looks elsewhere."
The moon seemed cold and
Laughed in some standing water.
"And I have two states, one of which
Flows, and melts, and flows,
While the other is cold and hard."
Small wavelets slapped gently
Against the harbourside.
I coughed gently, asked:
"You seek reconciliation
Between these uncomplementary faces?"
He nodded. I took a bottle from my pocket.
"Here, then, drink this potion."
Wild Night
Here among the storm-tossed trees
Hear the wind-buffeted leaves
Rub and scratch their song
Amid the wild night's howling.
Rough winds tear and lash
The black on black fat-bellied
Clouds that race and rip
Amid the wild night's howling.
How short the spring and summer.
Too soon the leaves and seasons
Have turned again, and dazzling
Autumn colours hide the cold's return.
The dark dull days
At a year's bitter end
Speak of gray in gray,
Of cold ice snapping shut
The waters of lakes and
Slime bottomed puddles.
And now how long the nights?
No promise of the spring's return.
The hard, cold earth,
The shattered ice,
The rotting leaves,
Beneath the wild night's howling.
I can see no end to these
Windblown winter nights.
But for a moment
The wind was hushed,
The trees stopped their screaming,
As you reached out your heart
And hand to me
Amid this wild night's howling.
Puck Bird
Puck bird, scissors grinder;
You stoop and wheel
On silent night-time wings.
In the dark you glide and twist,
Snapping shut your jaws on moths,
The jaws that have closed
On the teats of suckling goats.
I have heard you speak -
"Jug, jug" - in a monstrous little voice,
But I have never seen you.
Do you obscure the stars,
Interpose your form between
Myself and the moon?
Was it you I heard chanting
Faint hymns to the cold, fruitless moon?
I have never seen you,
Except perhaps, fleetingly.
And
then
I'm not sure it was you.
Youth
The muscles of youth
Are nerved to breaking point.
A moment's inactivity
Is a quiet death
Which does not suit
New bloomed skin.
So into the quiet morning
Filled with sunlight,
Insect hum, the acrid smell
Of rotting pears and grapes,
Comes the scratch of voices,
Cracking and screeching,
Insistent, energetic, piercing,
To fill the void that the silence
Of a moment's silence brings.
The Bridge
There is no star-light
(How dark it makes the night seem).
The river tugs my soul
(Shall I toss a copper coin to you?).
And the other bank draws me
(The undergrowth is dark there).
This is how it is:
The old wooden bridge crosses the river
But I cannot see the rotten boards;
Gaps disclose the dark and laughing river.
I slip on rain-wet slime;
I stumble on boards.
It is not safe.
But it is a way.
"Is this bank?"
And back I go again.
Upstream,
The swans eat bread,
A baby doll
Lazily circles
And drowns,
Ignorant of my vacillations.
The Wind
The wind sings in my bamboo chimes.
Stars chase the ripples across the lake.
When the wind howls, it brings its knife.
Waste
Look at this wasteland.
What are these ruins?
The dusty yellow air.
Motes in the sunlight.
Broken colonnades,
Broken windows,
In the shopping mall
Dead mannequins
Arms open wide
Asking to dance.
What would we dance?
A fractured waltz.
Watchfield!
In 1975 the man moved
The Windsor Free
Festival to Watchfield.
Watchfield? Where the fuck?
Still, we thought we'd go,
Terence and Colin and I,
And some Welsh guy we had
Discovered during the night,
Skywatching on Cradle Hill.
We idled with the other freaks,
Under a sun that was Californian,
Drifted past spice islands
Scented with patchouli and
Sandalwood, joss-sticks and sweet hash.
The irritating bluebottle of bad music
Followed us wherever we went.
Then: A long, drawn out, squeal cut through it,
My name held on a dotted breve
Somewhere above the C above middle C.
And suddenly my arms were full of Mary,
Her arms around my neck, her legs
Around my waist, her smiling mouth
So close to mine, our faces hidden
Behind the penumbra of her long curly
Hippie hair, her brown eyes sparkling.
Then: She kissed me.
I still have the badge.
A
Photographer's Eulogy to Westbury Cement Works
What is the dark plume that your chimney spews?
Steam, CO2, toxins? Controversy
Rages. But we photographers love you,
It seems - a subject for photography.
Tall stack and smoke provide the thirds to frame
A glorious sunset's last burning flame
Or fat grey clouds heavy with unshed rain.
Though Wiltshire provides us hills, downs, and trees -
Our aesthetics demand starker geometries.
On Inshaw's 'The
Badminton Game'
Two women weave a shuttlecock with
A catgut twonk into the twilight.
Lissome in their Laura Ashley, light
On their feet, fleet, they flit
Between net and nowhere, night and
The last dying rays of day's dead end.
I could love both badminton players
As Inshaw did, inspired by their
Long-limbed grace to limn
Them immobilised in a moment
In which we too can love them
Careless, carefree, in our twilight gardens.
Watched Pot
I sometimes watch a pot
And despite my grandmother's
Assertions to the contrary
It never fails to boil.
Many times I've stirred
A pot with a knife and,
After the contents have
Boiled (despite my watching),
No strife has overtaken my life --
Much to my aunt's surprise...
And many times I've plucked
That knife from the watched pot
After stirring and, finding its handle hot,
Dropped it to the floor,
But have yet to open my door subsequently
To find a tall dark stranger there.
But from Mum, and auntie and gran there is
A truth that certainly lingers --
That we aren't as old as our teeth,
But are as old as our little fingers.
But -- "Bugger that," as Dad would say.
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