Tuesday March 28th 2000
Sue R told me that Alan S met a Bulgarian lady and has gone to live in Bulgaria. That’s strangely – what’s the word – apt, I said, thinking that most of his poetry – excellent as it was - sounded as though it had been translated from Bulgarian, and Alan always had the look of a political dissident under threat from a harsh regime.
Monday March 28th 2005
You belong to a poetry group you agree to send each other images, or things, to inspire. They arrive when you’re busy and seethe on your desk. You resent the pressure. The first is a black and white photo. A man on a railway track. It reminds you of Belsen The second a monotone shot of the Mona Lisa saying ok and a news item, a mountain death. The third another photograph - a man sits in a shelter weaving wicker from willow withies. You decide to alliterate as soon as you read the text that comes with it, loaded with loss. Poetry full of loss, you’ve decided, isn’t poetry, but poetry lost. Next a bus ticket, purple ink a journey you’ve taken yourself. Then a postcard with an image…
Choose one of the poetry prompts, we’re asked, as members of Footwork, a poetry collective. But my response became a meta-poem, based on all the prompts…
Messages sent in early spring after a long winter
On a starlit night In the night sky above Porthcurno, we watch a comet, its tail of breath. The sky is ebony. Stars pierce our eyes, the wind scything the wires. The old brick fireplace; in its hearth red hot coals radiate their warmth around our family group: mother, father, sons, daughters… dog. A photograph of the neatest man in Somerset The withies are bound like trolls in stooks. Within their sheltering arbour he grinds the blade, the whetstone held daintily, little pinky crooked with reason – a blade this sharp will cut a finger neatly to a stump. His was the neatest blade. It lies unsharpened on the mantelpiece; next to the bottle. To friends arriving from a distance No. We’ve not gone to any great trouble. Is it really that long? It’s hard to believe it’s over ten years since the birthday party in Letchworth and that unfortunate situation. We’ve tried to get to the bottom of things, many times, without success. You’ll find us easily. The road is full of petals, cherry blossom blown like snow drifts; our world of pink. A son’s first trip by plane He sat in his seat as if glued in, little legs almost straight, looking straight ahead, lips pressed together in a determined reverie. He accepted every gift of headphones, magazine, young flyers fun bag and listened intently to Channel 3 as he flew, but never moved; much like the plane which remained firmly at its Gatwick stand. To a man walking a railway Counting the sleepers helps the time pass more quickly, except at night when it’s best to sleep in the tunnels. The trains here are irregular, if they ever arrive at all, so you need have no fear of sudden expresses. Do you spit on the rail shine? Do you suffer a mirage of destinations? That the line ends somewhere? Out in the country you can enjoy the horizons, the wind’s generosity with petals. Believe me. A visit to the walled city Lilac and jasmine surround the citadel its pavements of gravel flecked by gold lichen the only gateway black in the noon shade huge flags unfurled on its towers. The woman is brushing her hand on the turret, stroking the stone as if its alive. She flinches the moment the crust of the gargoyle splits, revealing her mother’s dangerous eyes. A man turned to stone The sky is charcoal, stabbed by stars. On the high cliff of cloud he rests his chin upon his knee, clutches his head in despair, weighed down by the vacancy beneath him. His hands frame his eyes that stare into nothingness, full of pain. He sees nothing, except imprisonment, freefall. Petrified, no parachute, he dare not move. Ignominious: on the comic and the tragic Auden never mentioned the shepherd looking up: I could have sworn… he could be saying, oblivious of the pale legs about to disappear into the sea. Guffaw, says Pieter Breughal the Elder, circa 1558. On Thursday, a young mountaineer fell and swung in space calling for help. The calls got fainter and fainter until they finally ceased on Friday morning. There’s something about that movement, like a pendulum. Funny, sad, funny…
Saturday March 28th 2020
Sunday March 28th 2021 Hurstpierpoint
Friday March 28th 2025
