[memo to self]
>> Subject: reason
This is what you will rhyme with “person”.
You will also cut out Rob. Friday and make an emptier poem, more expanse of shore, a more lonely outbreak.
Another poem about rising out of the midst of wedding froth (as e.g. a train, or cake) to go and hurriedly nip a curried bean or some such Freudian visual. Diaphanous satin rising towards the horizon in all directions, the party and you (lady) and the curried bean are all riding along in a dimple, like a button in plush.
“Excuse me just for one moment”. You would sound sexy. Or it would be one of those nobbly things in the centre of a flat-faced Impatiens (Busy Lizzie), the 'New Guinea' type. On the reverse of the flower, directly behind this nobble, there is a long curving spur, and, as hawk-moths well know, this is penetrated from the front by a tiny pinhole that is located just above the nobble.
Permalink posted by Michael Peverett @ 3:10 pm
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1 Comments:
X3 meets FOTO in a daybook
1. (January 2005)
A field lies beside the road.
Before dawn, deer are feeding.
Voices are awake. It was the Brits.
Black trees, grey clouds, black ivy.
2. (Winter day-time)
Clouds are heavy, transient; cypress forever
makes a light step southwards, a skeleton
marching in a tarmac, blighted theatre;
enduring with it the north wind’s filleting.
3. (Downcast in the wood)
Gingerbread, tamarisk, brocade and goldeneye:
the mosses clothing Black Dog Wood.
The many principles, the many lonely flights
from them, that weep & never come to good.
4. (disillusioned autobiography)
When I first went in the wood with a Field Guide
it felt like stealing treasure, to know all this from the day
with no-one in it. It only went so far. I tried
for a “well-stocked mind”, but still had nothing to say.
5. (February 2005)
We thumped past more empty cardboard boxes, my hands
felt dry and hurt from tiny wounds. The pool car bathed
in the rain; we both went for the driver’s side and slammed round
the drive with Radio 1 torsioned the way that the air behaved.
5. (photo from April 2004, developed in March 2005 – Pineda de Mar)
The wind dropped, the rain scoured away to the south;
reed-stems lay on the tideline and in the space of the relaxed sands
I made my cabin, knotting them 2.5m in the air.
Technically you could wriggle in, like a tomb-canopy or a bird-table.
6. (bedding in the poles 11/4/2004 written 7/3/2005)
I grasped them at the throat and jumping sagging lodged them deeper.
His puffy tracksuit ignores me, bands above the elbows; his eyes
take the family out on the inconstant French lake. Alicia’s bedside,
cluttered with pills; a sculpture and a democrat, even his dog.
7. (parascending behind the top-knot, same dates)
Open the sky as when you look up and your eyes open
from a book you nodded over. Pampas on the littoral goes
high, not very high. Nor that man, babyseat above the surf. Whiter,
ulterior, the camera is drunk in the square of cloud-fashion-detail.
8. (the same – 8/3/2005)
By the sea it was left, these clubbed ascenders
and rude ligature hung on in the way of persons
who came along the shore, searching casually in the advent
before the next squall for the glister of our reasons.
9. (Another – 9/3/2005)
Let go the latticework that I brokered as an angle
to the shore. You see it is a ghost-house thick with
snaking ghosts; here you can say as at the jutting of a post,
“Let’s walk back again,” and also “Let’s go somewhere else.”
10. (Writing once in each day – 9/3/2005)
You were great in the dances and concentrated the identities
of that crowd of sisters who reflected in your brow as you
exacerbated the harmony by fluttering for a curried bean
in a dimple of the satin horizons, saying “Excuse me just for a moment”.
11. (Lying not exactly inside 11/4/2004 - 9/3/2005)
My trunk within the compass but my knee causing havoc
with canes that my eyes sighted up, one shoulder in the sterile
sand I rested the big weight of my body half in this
gathering one foot towards me. Why are you laughing!
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