18/02/2016

#poem #poetry #amwriting #sketchbook notes 18 feb

in parody of what he strived to be
he drains the gin, puffs himself
and idle hangs about her neck: laughing.
Yes laughing. Who would believe that of him
that mirth might ripple

....

perhaps we should collapse
lie in bed and dream of what we should do
were we not drawn by black candles

...

it was always exotic
it was here I met doctor who
on a trip to see my mother's aunt
who lived upon the selby road
in a house inside like a wedding cake
piped plaster on the ceiling
yellow paper on the walls
coal fire in the downstairs
and bottles in the bed

...

and everywhere was concrete built
or red brick tumble down
and everywhere was cut with roads
to the bypass or the town
and the civil building frock coated
and austere beneath the sooty coal
they wore to prouden their veneer

...

refracted from refraction by refraction

...

be circumspect
facts are an inferior form of fiction
anastrophe
like a face in a tea spoon
the part of the book that is not about you
profound

....

significant measures of the parts whole
the reductive and textual invention

....

JH Prynne

....

she confuses me
when she says
that a flaming sword

...

I admit much confusion
at the notion that somehow
if I apply the rules of grammar
that the history, or sound, of a word
may be fixed in neutral context

I should probably go along with it
take the money
feed the distration of television
with words like coal of a fire

but I would rather burn the mind - or ear -
or cut off my own ear than deny the joy of life
inherent in the possibilities of language

or go on x factor

....

be circumspect in love letters to a cousin
and think of the sunny garden, the hedge
through which concrete spied. In remembrance
of the slag heaps on the selby road, the oddness
of the journey to a landscape unfamiliar.
Where the past picks in a changing present
and yet still at the traffic lights by the station
you hold your mother's hand, finger looped,
in the taught manner which you now protect
your child: int he time worn trek to BHS.
The frock coated grandeur of the civic building
cleaned now of their sternity: keep time.
The tobacconist of the Headrow retains brown fingers
in the window, scented and spiced.

...

speak memory of a time without stars
of a graden in sunshine
through which concrete whispered
be circumspect in lover's letters
lest the chisled moouse on the library stair
squeaks the flattery/eats the flattery whole

speak two-sided memory of time with stars
of a pplace more exotic in mind appraoched
and seen again unfinished

two faced memory speak

...

speak memory, of a muddy field
you boyhood hero and god called Tinkler

...

as a child I came past the slag heaps
on the selby road
but now I come bucolic way
of laced kirkstal and canals

....

memory of time speak without stars
bathed in the sunlight of gardens
hear lush concrete whisper

...

born in a pub, raised in doss of temperance hotel
to the long journey from bullet maker to semi-detatched

...

Leeds was always another world
a place without stars
forever flooding the country with concrete

...

be circumspect in love letters
for memories speak without stars
and where to begin
when my view is seen through a hedge
to green fields
/
where to begin
when my view is through the prism
of a hedge on the selby road
looking out to bleak fields

....

passing the black lace of kirkstal abbey
one begins to see the cranes
rbbing out or building - who can say
everywhere is space, open space
perhaps there is a plan
or perhaps small ideas assumed build big

....

ambivalent - is that a word
let me check - but it's not the right word

...

david gedge

...

how do you describe ambivalence
I'm not being personal
just there is a certain ditiness
addressing/afflicting my afffection
as if betraying a dark confidence

....

rita fairclough