they shoot and shoot and run after people don’t they. she pulls the pig’s head and bum apart, the head part just something that makes a pig run, sets these horrors loose. death is only imaginary, the trodden path to the wattle fence, the squabbling and killing. it was a fine wool clip, from the care of horses and cattle to the long bow tribulations of men. those who took the cross, so be it. unchidden to the last scruple of pain or love, he was yet able to capture what bird-watchers call the bird’s ‘giss’, its essence, and that was enough. animate you coat hanger aerials, wrecking yard doors the wrong colour, on your own oil stain, flash of doozy dudgeon ecdysiast, the stripper iridescent on rainy days like today. things that swarm should now withdraw forgetful. we yet us bingo sing play let decay and composition, the protosemic protosemantic in his essay, the cherry trees he promised, becoming the clinamen epistemes; particularly then from where do they get their souls erroneous. you did not actually fly did you; you were too wide around, and far bigger than the average cow – interferometry, memory stick. the behind. to carry you to said final ferocious ecology, evade the plummet towards absolute zero, laugh. ontological mainstay as network of signification, but not of accessible reading habits. we have scilla siberica i think
….and why the cover of Stuart Ross’s latest book at the top of the post??? you ask. Because I really, really, very much really like this collection! The title of the book also fits the theme somehow (whatever theme there is…) that of the ‘we yet us bingo sing play’,
is winter immediate past
a daffodil unfolds sun
and shadow in frost
we are so happy
talking problems on and on
and your solution to all
now i have everything
all the usual things to have
and to be upset about
finally i changed
can’t we just be friends
well … … yes!
and we never spoke again
at least a goshawk lets you know
both owl and snake die
the squirrel i fed
lily bulb in its paws
proffered tim horton’s cup
clink of looney on looney
yes she says
there is somebody else
surprised by impotence
and for the she-merlin
a sparrow as a gourmet meal
while the male keeps
his talons spread and relaxed
there in the apple
the flesh, the juice
the heart-shaped ovaries
burgeoning seeds of too much
never seeing the dark something
that struck and missed
in the long grass
was it for real
that love scene
all the earth tones
siddhartha’s woman dies of snakebite
his thousand faces/voices
… being … the river’s … OMMMMM …
Again from Southword Magazine, Ireland, via Riddle Fence, a poet I’d not read before but for whom I’ll be on the lookout: Carmelita McGrath: http://www.munsterlit.ie/Southword/Issues/21A/contents.html#riddle
Adam and Eve on a Winter Afternoon
Adam comes in from sawing wood
with a chip on his shoulder.
And grunts. And heaves the wood down,
a heavy drop filled with creeping, unsaid things,
to the woodbox.
And Eve is trying to imagine it not there,
that slow and trembling thing within his breath
that lives between inhale and exhale. This
must be just exertion, and yet it feels
like a weapon, not quite secret but concealed.
She has words for such days – wood hyacinth,
aurora borealis, Harley-Davidson – either
ethereal beauty or a fast-flying escape.
But the kitchen is a trap baited with supper cooking
and the imminent arrival of children.
And Adam says, “Whas for supper?”
And Eve says, “Soup.”
And he says, “Any meat in it?
I hope you’re not off meat again. Growing
children need their protein. And this
is no climate to be eating like rabbits.”
And then the old clock rescued from a house
where pouncing bargain hunters drove deals at a death sale
hammers four o’clock home.
And Eve thinks that four o’clocks are old-fashioned flowers,
and she stirs the soup and plunks down
in her bentwood rocker with her seed catalogues,
thinks branching tulip
thinks Apricot Beauty
And the ragged thing between breath and breath
is there again, just for a second, a thing of air
with claws and teeth.
And Adam goes out for another load
before the early dark sinks in on him,
and while his saw buzzes
the language of massacre on wood
thinks tomorrow’s Friday
thinks pint of Guinness
thinks at least she dyed her hair
thinks I can hear the children
Their footsteps saw over frozen grass, their voices
high, inadvertently calling everything back together,
one of them playing a blackbird’s call on a recorder.
A response to yesterday’s conversation, from Grant:
Maybe what we’re looking for in poetry is a needed homeostasis. In biology: a return to an established norm. May not be the best state for you but it is what is biologically comfortable for the indiviudual. All biological development is a struggle between the tendency towards entropy vis a vis the need for and tendency toward greater and more organized information. This is part related to the drive for fitness and the fact of competing morphologies. In poetry, readers and poets are off balance, and/but driven toward another another imbalance in the attempt to re-establish an unrealizable homeostasis. Complete balance is essentially, biologically speaking, the end, the final catastrophe, of a life … death. Cosmologically speaking, it is complete entropy, the balanced and uniform distribution of energy and matter that ends all events, anything that recognizes the, and the recognizable, universe. Art to be art, to have life, needs an element of of imbalance, and a degree of unacceptability. Humpf. Grant.
Oh Grant, and everyone whose ideas i’ve posted so far, I do hope you keep this going, now and then or always, and it would be great to have others join in. It’s not something I’m good at, but I love seeing it happen. Comments, it’s all about these intelligent comments. How else will I know what I’m trying to do???