Poems
Untitled Poem (from 1966)
what would she
in all the world
to touch closely
she seems leaning
too close too soon
to touch or least
to glance in eyes
the strangeness
of our ways
for in turn
we move our wills
away from birth
and from our bodies
the other wanders
seeking freedom
why lost, contained
when we only
find it here
Untitled (c.1967)
I am bombarded
by white umbrellas
adrift in late afternoon air
feathery lace-ribbed
they clutch at my hair
& slide over my neck
it is the seed of green things
I think slowly being warm
just sitting & tired
I cannot smell the flowers
of our garden they are too far
away from me
on the other side
of the short-cropped lawn
behind me an excavator’s neck
peers with its one wheel of eye
at the hairs
standing up straight
on my head
needless to say
I am alone
September (c.1967)
along the trickle
of brown earth
a slow amble to the brow
& I watch the valley
resting
then urging on for the hurry
& inbreaths of descent
the outbreaths
building short soft houses
of mist
I slip into the lowerscape
turf & twigs screwed in my hand
feet splaying
tightening
mad ballet
of out &
in
two feet
playing pizzicato
leap along a whispy dark thread
of sheep path
into a slow flatness
I turn
toward the hills
who shrug a few trees
at me
I turn
again
& make a clown’s counterpoint
in
&
out
of
the
dot
ted
white
lines
all
along
the
road
Untitled (14 October 1967)
street forever
down to the docks
& widening
out into the still grey
autumnal sea
leaves of grey boats
veins of red & blue
girding a funnel
a thin & thick stripe
waistband necklace
upon a nest of frigate’s branches
stuck on top of a sheaf
of aluminium wireless spikes
woodyards
timber piles
stacks of
two by fours
a coast thick droopy
fog quiet shawl
around the shoulders
of the bay
no view
of the inland
mountains
points of fir
knifing out the sea-green
hillsides
Last two poems of October 1967
I.
the years rotate….
lopped-off stumps
naked round ends of fir branches
radiating out
at the horizontal
tall fir body
with crinkly bark
furrowed old skin
magpie
on the eaves
looks under
runs
bounces
the rippled roof thrust down
lurches into the greenery
thick needles close around him
hidden
he clacks away
cluclac
klalak
low cloud gropes along
small whisp fire-smoke
drifts & rolls
fades into grey tree-tops
II.
Robert
drags a branch of birch
still silver in parts
scrapes the gravel makes
tracks in the driveway
turns it over
& over
until it pivots
on the bramble bushes
curves of spruce
hang down
comb the air just
above his head
bundles of brown leaves
drift
around the wheels
of the Vauxhall
ivy in the distance
darkens the first six feet
of a dead but standing
straight unbranched
birch again
Fogface (8 November 1967)
fog came down
crept over us
all of us in the streets
against lights
billowing
flat sheets in the dark
paced in it
face & breath
blended
no great
distinction
fog & face
cold flesh thrust
into
parting
it
head
the space
between sheets
of fog
Dogwalk (8 November 1967)
a dog
tailpole erect
pats four feet
across the frosted
bridge
makes curious shade
of the fuzzy sun
shows he is no statue
but animal walking
grabs the cold by its
stiff morning coat &
shakes, for himself,
a day’s warmth out of it
no man’s dog
a loner
knows the road
& the space between
each vehicle
too well
to be suddenly
a red splash
brushed with tyres
Gorse-gandering (November 1967)
wetrock
& the fern tangle
knees gouged
spears of seeded grass
hang handles down
from my sweater
& jeans
up the gorse ridge
clay stuck to shoes
peep between spikes
at cows & the far
outcrop
shale slides
flat decks of granite
quartz blocks jut out
& glint
high sun
peers into bottom quarry
shade
rock doves
hurl themselves
or fall
feet drawn up
beaks & necks
extended
Fire in the Rain (5 January 1968)
almost midnight again.
& it rained today
wind with it & thin mist
three children died
on the radio
their house on fire
in all that rain
I heard a fire siren
in the late afternoon
but it wasn’t for them
they were
two hundred miles away
& for half-a-minute
national news
Two Untitled (probably 1968)
even if
you had taken
the trouble
to look
back
I would
certainly
still have
walked on
& the discomfort
would be no less:
my head swivelling
a thousand miles
*
there’s a crow
in a tree
a linnet on
the tip of
that rock
jay-bird
rattles his throat
out of sight
it’s cold & still
eight inches of tree-stump
jarring out the flat green
lawn
Untitled (2 June 1968)
black
bird
in bushes
scrambles
cracks
twigs
just like
a man
would
Untitled (c.1968)
shifting my leg
I uncover an inch
or two
of bare armchair
Pea-stick Rondo (c.1968)
chopping birch branches
for pea-sticks you have
to get them about three
feet long the smaller
twigs forming something
like a fan
you point the thick end
& clean the lower six
inches of side-twigs
so that you can push
it into the soil you
make a vaulting of
sticks an extended
tent the fine tips &
small buds crossing
hands at the top
when your peas
are planted & you’ve
waited they’ll twine
& creep up both sides
of the tent until they
tangle together at the
top & drop fat pods
into sheltered air
between them &
the ground
Two Poems from Iconolatre, Issue 22/23, 1968
(retaining the punctuation and typographical tics as published)
kids hand,
rubbed flat along the length
of the iron bridge,
leaves a mark.
a bit of him
rubbed off
on it.
some of it
(dust & rust)
rubbed off
on him.
mutual gift
of bridge & boy.
even this cold evening.
unintended.
*
walked home
during a lull
in the rain
when the sun
(an extended flash)
smacked the concrete
& I’m almost sure
steam rose
christmas
I’d seen
hung up
from lamp to lamp
across the street
but that was in town
above slick shops
& bus queues
here a gull
traverses the street
at fifty feet
twists its head
yawps
& climbs higher
And another poem from an Iconolatre Anthology, 1969
(a few pages after poems by Douglas Blazek, George Bowering and Charles Bukowski – illustrious company, at the time)
chewed & chopped
into tea-leaf stature
fibres strung-out
pulled along the length
of a certain white papet
comes the hand
fire on the match
the death:
charring red
then feathered white
falls some of it
& the transfiguration:
some of it
rolling
curling
snakes its goodbye
into the corners
& transparency
one tight room
left gasping
the smoking.
R. Strauss to the ears.
Oct. 67
Goat Story (c.1969)
in the yellow field
I found a wild goat
with a tattered ear he’d
caught somehow in a thicket
on a thorn bitch-of-a-bush
bellowed & threshed dark
under black-pine came out
red-eared & wet of sweat
& blood lay down by the mill
licked it dry & slept
I met him perhaps two hours
later freshly wounded grey
beard
one
snow-ear
Summer Sequence: Cityscape (c.1969)
‘Nothing is little to him who feels it
with great sensibility.’ Samuel Johnson
all afternoon
children play games
as if their lives
depended on it
*
hot tyres branding
the road’s black
face
*
a flash of white
lifts my eye:
a seagull in all
that blue of sky
*
I sweep the dust
along the floor
but the patch of
sunlight will not
be hurried
*
a sea moves overhead:
waves of thin cloud
lapping against the sun
*
myself I see
in the urgent wanderings
of the fly
*
a seagull rides
on a puff of cloud
*
sunbeams press
upon the typewriter keys
& this poem gets
written
*
shadows on my flesh:
sparrows cross the sun
*
I sit here enthralled:
sky like a great
map unfolding
*
slowly the shadows
revolve: the trees,
the earth, turning
*
I slept for an
afternoon while all around
the sound of children
playing
Four ways to the old woman (from 1968-69)
I
From a letter about her childhood:
…..
we made fires of birch branches,
dead old fungi rotted into crisp
summer pulp, bracken, hay, fibres
pulled from dead stumps white
& easy to split. Smoke hung
over forty acres of wild daffodils
…..
II
A man:
I met old woman
along the thin road.
She had on a haggard face.
Her bony old legs
Were like walking sticks.
We didn’t speak.
Silence climbed ten miles.
Her gown was of fine
dried
skin.
I felt she hadn’t lied to me.
III
She:
I was more alone with him
than without. He never spoke.
We were both on the same road.
IV
Sing up old woman
tell us about the men.
Men do not figure in it at all.
They laid me down and I was easy.
Why do you wear such a gown?
It is to hide a scar. My only
breast is still firm. Feel.
Was it cancer?
It was restlessness. I was not
content. Wanted more.
Love?
Enough.
Railway observations from the early 1970s
Ducks on a pond
cows in a field
a few hundred people
on a train
*
A sheep on its back
in the middle of a field
dying?
or giving birth?
*
Cows with their ears tagged
me & my dreams
we’re all on our way to market
*
In the evening light
even short trees make long shadows
*
I sit on the train reading Chinese philosophy
out the window there’s an ancient White Horse
on my lap, a dead fly
*
Wind ripples water
& bends the grass
but a business man’s face
stays the same
*
Clouds & sheep
sheep & clouds
what’s the difference?
*
A man does a crossword
I read a book
a girl falls asleep
we may get off at different stations
but we’re all on the same train
*
Somewhere in Somerset
eight cows meet on a bridge