M58

FINAL DESTINATION Without the incentive of finding time I do not have it in myself to be myself. Only the rhythm of stuttering remains, interrupted cadences and note to self, reminders of what I should be doing, could be doing. Attempts to motivate myself, to stir my stumps, all fail; sequences of events simply happen, none in the way they were planned. It is living secondhand, giving in to compulsion and the branch lines of living, where all tracks lead to being dead. I used to tell Brian he didn't have to turn everything into poems but now I find myself doing the same. Unless the words from all the books I read and images from exhibitions and TV turn up somewhere, processed and rearranged, it is though they are at arm's length, only seen at a distance, half-understood. I'm sorry to be so long-winded, it gets harder to make myself clearer, difficult to ignore the empty seats beside me.

IMPOSSIBLE HORIZONS for Paul Hawkins, after his Music For The Last Couple The face is not quite right and the bicycle wheels have disappeared. Visible glitch and impossible horizons, motorways across the desert and the sky. If if if if if it wasn't self service we would starve or be helicoptered to another page. Here is apocalyptic, police and politicians apoplectic, our future not so bright. If if if if if I bury myself in the road do you promise not to run me over? Not mess with the shadows or light, what we have become? If if if if if this was science fiction the aliens would arrive but we are too busy rearranging our faces and seeing if our eyes still work. If if if if if we can manage to stay alive we will have to live together, out of focus and half-blind.

COMMUNITY MEADOW ALCOHOL RATTLE If you need help then you're entitled to flowers, trees and the quiet beauty of nature in the same way as anyone else who has a problem. Gun crime may be a good place to start: people will ask about the weapons you own, your other recreational activities, and express disbelief that violence could occur within such a vibrant and diverse community who are busy tackling pollution and burying supplies under the ground. People will also come together to connect with shock and sorrow, enjoy golf and fine dining, and create a safe haven for raising questions about enthusiasms and the implications for those affected. This can lead to a cycle of fear, with residents becoming more isolated and distrustful if they have been asked to provide a sample of urine or saliva to check what drugs they have been taking. A problem shared is a problem that can be bought in bulk, often with a profit to be made. Just sign here.

ARTIFICIAL EXPERIENCE for and from Lawrence Frieisleben 'My brain is like an attic where there's room for everything.'    – Enrique Vila-Matas, Bomb interview From the slums to sky-high figures who prefer art to makeshift balconies, ramshackle gentrification and class, sloping bridges over gridlocked life. Half-dead, fascinated with chaos and wishing it always to remain so, art in its most vivid form multiplies risk and challenge on so many levels. History is mind's attempt to conquer meaning and the winding hill, guide the battle between good and evil to weed-covered zones of tentative peace. At the intersection of alchemy and soundscape, a whispering haze cancels out the essence of certain key words and chaotic visual floods of thought. Optimism itself carries ghosts of black ravens and invented books, nothing written down, it would be too cruel. Stone cassettes record each moment, disturbing the dead as indulgence spreads: no self-control, negative reality banished as culture becomes clouds and colours, dust.

particles lxxii particles lxxii could it be that words collaborate as the wood of the tree with the carpenter ripped from its earth robbed of roots its seasons done its flowering over its towering to the sky succumbed to the axe its life drained and dried to lie inert its trembling in the wind all stillness its growing all rings and grains and severed limbs its past all that’s left to it as piece of this or plank of that its origin the only reason brought to it its beauty in the world the waste it was stripped of to be nothing but its bareness as words themselves to be brought to life again

particles lxxiii whether to walk straight ahead regardless of the traffic or the signs to the right or left or while away your time in the stillness of indecision the dog’s faith by the front door in the master’s return though long dead there’s no more of that the site of a dream or a memory a forgotten hope deep as the dog’s lost bone in the earth we barely own the dog too gone and the print of its going blown away by the wind the place it was a blank in the mind trying to decide which way to hold to which turn of the head to find its horizon particles lxxiv

to be gathered as the going goes on from first light sight of a flower from the distance first dip in the water of words strangely other that is no day the same no drop to satisfy the eye’s thirst till weariness draws nothing but dryness sleep falls dream after dream runs free all night time unleashed from its clock the locks slipped and the tides awry till morning abandoned again to go on again a further burst of light to set off for the sea the semblance of it to gather the flower it may turn out to be

Four from Stephen Sunderland. Clockwise - 'Cubomania 1', 'Cubomania 2', 'Destination Limbo' and 'Cubomania 3'.

'The Basic Body' by J.I. Kleinberg

2 from Kenneth M. Cole. 'Penultimate Sunset (L) and 'Angel' (R).

(L) 'Angel' (R) 'Penultimate Sunset'

Except for Love

‘You’ll have to stand up as well,’  Morgan says. We’re side by side  on the train to Paddington after our Upanishads course, and he’s  struggling to take off his coat.  I grab hold of one of the shoulders.  ‘No, pull the SLEEVE,’ he says. 

A little later: ‘What’s up, Morgan?’    ‘I’m trying to get this fleece off,  I’m too hot.’ I pull the sleeve,  then both sleeves. His fleece  pulled down as far as his wrists,  his arms are trapped behind his back. 

Fleece off, he sits down, it goes quiet.  Then: ‘Are you OK, Morgan?’  ‘I’m cold,  I’m trying to put this fleece back on.’ I’m beginning to get the hang of this but it’s making me hot.

‘What are you looking for, Morgan?’   ‘A pencil,’ he says, rummaging  in his bag. He takes everything out  and piles the contents on my lap  including four pink table napkins from Rendlesham, he was always  walking off with them.

‘Would you like to borrow a pen?’    ‘Yes please.’  He can’t get it to work. ‘That’s funny, it is working.’  ‘I think we have different definitions  of working,’ he says. I take the pen  and scribble in the corner. Success. Morgan writes: close to trees of gold… 

*

close to trees of gold blue gathers in departure among pass away leaves   sky wires  rein acceleration above bark trunk slip along

smile out divine clouds  scurry white in revel above 

i would like to cry with happiness on expedition from rest pen journey different levels multi story rush towards home pass through embankment vacancy like poets  juggling air path relief

their enclosure  a ghost of unknown terminal except for love         

Cliff Yates has been writing and publishing poems since the 1980s. His New & Selected Poems is published by Smith/Doorstop. Previous work includes Henry's Clock (Fenton Aldeburgh prize), Frank Freeman's Dancing School (ACE Writers Award) and Jam. 

DEPARTURE LOUNGE Women look at the door. Men look at the door. Men are afraid to go through the door. Women are afraid to go through the door. No one knows what’s on the other side of the door.                                           - Doug Lang The idea of the countryside, quiet, the countryside beckons, although one’s starting point often determines the nature of where one ends up. An open mind is also a factor, don’t you know? The time is fast approaching and I’m about to leave through one of them there doors,           the sliding, the aluminium, the bifold,           the barn, the storm, the stable— No doubt I shall be expected to follow some signs. But I see that some of the audience have questions: Kate asks, What are you up to? Jasmine would like to know, Are you taking a packed lunch? Penny has a query concerning the winter sunlight lighting upon the river:           Why is it so fragile? Daisy, sweet Daisy, asks, Is Crime and Punishment any good? Aunt Agatha has a lot to say, but it boils down to questioning           my judgement. Doreen asks, What are you interested in? Charlie, by way of written note, enquires as to whether or not           the pleasures of peace are illusory. Chloe asks, Are you coming back ever? Jessica says, If you don’t want them, may I have the books           from your library? Blossom asks, Can you see how the distant hills are capped           with what remains of yesterday’s snow? Miranda wants to know what I’m wearing. I’m attired fashionably,           and attracting one or two admiring glances           from other sightless wanderers. I’m just going to check my bag, make sure I have everything I need for the trip: tiara; slap; mouthwash; inhaler; exhaler; heart; rosehip syrup; notebook, pencils and sharpener; packet of guiding principles; phial of wonder; two recipes for rapture (1 carnivorous, 1 vegetarian); photo of Ma & Pa; The Seven Sermons of the Bishop of Shantung; homing pigeon; betting slips (bets hedged); contemplation mat; tickets to the travelling carnival; lucky penny; star map; hour of bliss; Stories for Boys (Chosen by Anthony Buckeridge), (Faber & Faber, 1957).

from POEMS DERIVATIVE, PLAGIARIZED, AND OUTRIGHT STOLEN

Movies that bite back against convention. Paintings that turn the tables. Music that crosses tribal boundaries. “It’s the arts that have heralded dramatic changes in our lives,” says Simon Schama, examining the realities of what the queen’s coronation, the Commonwealth and mass immigration meant for Britain – using Ian Fleming’s James Bond, Hanif Kureishi’s radical writing, and 2 Tone band The Specials. So it continued, a day of excitement, blooming winter flowers, an old hat cocked i.e. an elephant living in back of one’s mind, the thrill of thinking one thing and doing its exact opposite, flip of the coin, if you try hard enough you too can be surprisingly happy at the same time as failing woefully to keep up with the latest fashions and taking instead snapshots for your Instagram of the local wildlife wandering around foraging for food, any food, they’re starving, approaching desperate, because photography’s a hobby, and everyone should have a hobby, keep the mind active, maybe something seasonal, indoors and out, there are many from which to choose and more are waiting to be invented, and they can be shared, generosity being, if not always desirable or possible, laudable, for as our holy man always says, it won’t do for us to be selfish, though pretty much nobody bothers to read his newsletter, putting it instead under their kindling to light their fires, one of the ways to keep warm in this cold snap that has set us all on edge while time spent deciding which hat to wear to prayer meeting is ever apt to put everyone in our little social group, gentlemen and ladies alike, in something of a dither, and frankly it’d be more honest if we were to admit that we don’t really have a clue as to what we’re doing with so many ideas whizzing around and about our ears which if they could only be tamed, with words of calm and reason, serenity returning, take a breath, that’d be good, that’s the way the argument goes, the spirit extinguished, the fire doused, the candles snuffed, then coma would come, followed by morning, another day. There’s also Live Sport: Premier League football, Arsenal v Tottenham 6.30pm, TNT Sports 1. Three other matches, including Everton v Aston Villa, are also on TNT Sports channels tonight.

from POEMS OF MIRTH AND MELANCHOLY

. . . every disposition of the mind takes hold on those by which it may be gratified.                           - Samuel Johnson

Extremely sensible of cold, Alexander Pope wore a kind of fur doublet under a shirt of very coarse warm linen with fine sleeves. Icicles are depending from the eaves as I write this, conjure this, as the year dawns and our son yawns in my arms. The sun rises in its glory; boys and the girls set out on their day; women and men set out on theirs. I remember looking up at a window where slumbered one whom one might love to love. O, those days. Lark and song. Where once was the strut of an exultant male of late I have been insensitive to the charms of the members of the chorus line, youth and beauty, and have adopted an austere countenance: I wear black to signify lack of compassion, grey to allay the overtures of humour and its irritating companion, wit. When I’m alone

I wrap myself in a heated throw. When I’m with you it’s more likely we have a heated row.           Rising from his bed, Alexander Pope was invested in a bodice made of stiff canvas, being scarce able to hold himself erect till they were laced, and he then put on a flannel waistcoat. The wind is whipping in from the North as I write this, worrying the senses, seeking out the holes in our defences, stirring the curtains and whistling tunelessly about the corners of the house. Of late I have slept long into the morning, deaf to the song of the maid, immune to the demands of the telephone; sundry labourers labour as they dismantle and reassemble a neighbour’s home, but they do so only in theory. Getting up I’m prone to stumble over what remains of the previous night: I don’t remember her name.           His legs were so slender that Alexander Pope enlarged their bulk with three pair of stockings. Apropos legs, I consider, as I write this, abandoning talking, and walking off into the woods instead, while at the same time I’m inclined to give the chorus line another shot although I can no longer see them. My mind’s eye is weakening as the days pass, and the ways in which joy and ecstasy might be called forth are far too much of a faff, if I’m honest, which I may or may not be. Mornings come, glory of the rising sun or gloomy with wind and rain; in the evening the nightingale and curfew in a room lighted only with sullen embers. There is so much to remember, but the face presented to an indifferent audience has of late itself been indifferent: like, I’ve been wearing the same clothes all of the Winter, black and grey, lost in the crowd, walking the cloister, frequenting the quietest corners.

Aten prayer wanders Off-tOpic

I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness – Bjork

Aten disk, my palms are Opened upwards

empty fOr your rays accOrding tO the instructions

in the ancient graffiti carvings

at least i hope sO

my alphabet dOes nOt share the ancient lOgOsyllables

by my alphabet yOu Open the sOund Of OM

suppOse yOur rays are the humming vibrations

alan watts wrOte about

that wOuld wOrk if Aten is the Ur-Frisbee

and rays the cOnnectiOns between peOple On the beach

thrOwing the cOsmic Om dOwn the shoreline between them

what a party

with ismael reed’s RAdiO Of MOses’ bush, waves carrying the bOat of RA

Aten high Overhead

Aten disk, my alphabet

lOgOsyllablizes dusk as the wOrd “sunset”   ([sun/set], [Sun Set] see?)

and that way my language perpetuates eternal struggle between

Aten and Set

sO sOrry that i inherited yOur conflict

apparently we find SunSet RAther rOmantic

we can be Obsessed with duality even find struggle sexy

nO halOs On us i guess just reflexive cOntradictiOns

mmm AtenOm i guess OmAten AtenOmAten

O O O O O O O mmm thrOw mm thrOw

rays palm up rays palm up rays palm up rays palm up

rays

            palm

                        up

            palm

rays

            up

bright wasp one I mentioned raisins — is it outlaw egg it is without dimes —

ne’er saith ammoniac o! —

3% corvid tax dracula’s brain to bear —

doorknob juice the blinking dryness —

sandwich frosting headlight particles —

orange robotic that soft island —

the movement of air especially grim(m) —

grand piano amalgamation stain —

toast a jam is hungry elephant facts —

old salt I was laughing because

—

'Degrading Conversation at 11.13pm' by Stephen Sunderland.

PSALM 6

Though I am weak give me wellness

Though arrhythmic give me the pulse of a younger man

Under the streetlight, hunched, hooded, I saw him

Who in life was never there, afibrillated, rumoured to fail

Unfriend me now, or else suffer my trolling and discourtesy

And was he a stray, shivering on the path, eyes almost human?

A tree's last leaf the final pulse of a quasar

A snail on the kitchen floor leaving a trail in Deep Time

Late spoiler alerts, forgotten punchlines hide

In toadstool rings and the eyes of hollow trees

I used to know the night, I said, but it's ghosted me

PSALM 7

Steady my irregular heartbeat, song, my ventricular rhythm

My heart rebels as if it didn’t want to be a servant any more

The sunflower, the lily, the daisy and all other symbols

Of fragility and impermanence are under the rain's protection

It’s the Sun that ages everything, “preserver and destroyer”

I made me gardens and orchards and I planted trees

Of all kind of fruits, the world continues in spite of the Sun

And the servant heart and that which is wanting cannot be numbered

And only the rain speaks in its incessant whisper

PSALM 8

The re-wilding of woods and waters, and the common weal

The smell of a wet day, alarm calls and a scattering

Look to the patient life of the hive, top-soil and leaf layer

Sing as if the colour were turquoise and the air full of pollen

Sing as if there were a fully functional and diverse ecosystem

Not that evil is banal, but that banality leads to evil

I looked at the bullet-holed walls of a City stranded in time

I read all the sacred texts then emptied the memory cache

I asked my fingers what they think of other hands

Why nails scratch at the sky's lid, and why the Sun

In the figure of a woman, offers up the morning for our delight

PSALM 43

If it should ever come, and I suppose it must, let it be

On a bright morning when all the possibilities settle as one

Like a flock of sparrows who don't know whether they're coming or going

Or whether the air seems cooler, their numbers fewer

Who don’t know that they're symbols of lust and vulgarity

Who deserve a constellation to be their aid and shelter

And to notice their fall, to hover over late-night pharmacies

To dart between the eaves of Amazon warehouses, to alight at last

In a dream I had of a red-brick terrace in some northern Celestial City

PSALM 54

Poets celebrate the cicada's song, the cricket's orchestra

But all I hear is a blue-bottle's drone, a mosquito's whine

The bar is closing, the waitress sweeps the floor

A single room waits for me under endless skies

And I ask, where are the insectivores, the swift and martin

On their long haul from savannah and tropical forest

Inhabiting a zone of magnetism and short-lived molecular fragments

Their consciousness tuned to quantum-mechanical properties

Of spin angular momentum? Maybe they'll echo in a child's ear

Or make an old man in an lonely bar look quizzical

As if the world had shifted on its axis

three from Jerome Berglund.

PSALM 1

A smoky bar in blurred light, men playing cards

A crowded bus, a stray dog sniffing at litter bins

A mood of turbulent change throughout the nation

I sat outside the cafe, falling in love with every passer-by

Living on the margins of the world in the twilight, the crunch

Of a wasp in casual snow emptied into a summer room

Windows that let the breeze fondle my hair

Translate a smile into something absolved

A piece of music like a layer of time

So that my eyes construct the street from spores and pollen

Fungus and leaf-mould and listen to the song birds

Who offer music and new life to the months to come then turn

To forage nonchalantly as if such a gift were easily in their power 

PSALM 2

I can survive mundane miracles and accept

A scene from the oldest book in the world

Dreaming of endless journeys and favourable winds

Tuber and taproot, the grimace of winter under

A place of stillness, tendrils and plasma membranes

Leaf-mould, moss, spores and a handprint

On the cave wall, someone already there

A fox-run opened onto a clearing

Was this wildwood or domesticated menace?

Next year's bulbs stir in my optic nerve

Fungal strands take hold in the chambers of my ear

A life of multiple forms and sloughed skins

Everyday acts of kindness remembered

PSALM 3

I write from the safety of the neutral zone

Though I know that all around

The fires smoulder and men in clown masks

Are armed and dangerous but at least

There are mothers walking their kids to school

A man scraping ice from his car window

The exhaust smoke white, floating, toxic, beautiful

Two figures in orange overalls

Emptying litter bins in the park

And now a lorry with shouting men tips

Tarmac onto the road, steam

Melted tar, flames and smell of burning

And tomorrow the road will be new

PSALM 4

As I walked through the wilderness of this world

Sea-birds raised their instinctual broods, long-distance travellers

Down by the docks among cranes and warehouses

Where a solitary walker feels as though a door had been opened

Into a wholly unexpected dimension where words fail

A place to sleep: and as I slept, to dream a dream

I saw a man anchoring weights on something that should fill like a sail

Flit like a swift from town to town bringing good news

Too unbelievable to be put into words

PSALM 5

I peered into the windows of the public library

Leaking radiators, polished floors, books on everyday wellness

The sky was night-tinged over the pound shop and advice centre

When I am lost, be my GPS, when I am weary be my single bed

Trees absorb the petrol fumes which they later turn into leaves

Leaf-vein atlas suddenly awake to sun on wings, flit and hover

In a sudden march snow-shower jab at dead leaves, switch

To litter-laden playground like a local deity of the edgelands

Concrete and buddleia, damp and cloudy skies

To the roadside at night to regally regard the passing cars