It is winter now and I’m passing a lot of time looking through glass. Sometimes seems like everything only exists on the other side of the glass. These poems are about what I’ve seen, and this is what I’ve wondered.
O simple bird, in summer, squabbling, wretched
Are you the ones who fly across my skies
at dawn, murmuring above the pier at dusk
in winter teaching me the signs
of the weather, and of time
I come to live my life, look out for you
Desperate, at such times for the vitality I need
In you – is this the meaning, reason for your summertime greed?
Are you one, the same?
ocean / sky / man
Ocean silver light and peach
Sky blue reflecting ocean
Shining is a mirror of the
Sky alive and moving deep
Ocean living mirror and the
Sky a plate of life upon it
Starlings like sails in the
Sky above the crying gulls upon the
Ocean watching on the beach
Man wonders by the railings
Staring at living seas is only
Man watching living sky.
Ocean silver light reflecting
Sky upon the surface life
Moving deep below where
Man alone is watching life.
the seas were fake and made of plastic
Over the hill see the stars of the city red green yellow and a faraway peach coloured crescent of light glowing roman colonnade
the comets bus window reflected lights
Coast past handsome Georgian town houses like we’re entering the Mediterranean only not quite like they’re braced: against the weather, grey waves no gentle blue.
huge halo dandelions of streetlights rain-blurred
Sudden bus smell something who knew you’d missed or would/could miss: musty, sweaty smell of someone once’s bed– gone.
misty on a runway in space.
the rattling road
the crumbling pen
A palace of light, signs where cassette lord reigns and fat man crossing road flaps his arms left right like an oversize duck attempting to take flight and stars approach and fade, a memorial, a memorial, a hall of strangers:
it is the City!
It is the city.
(peacehaven to brighon, last bus)
to N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver
It’s gonna be a short one I’m afraid on account of being unplanned and I’ve been away for a while so let’s consider this a warm-up of sorts.
The day before yesterday, February 8th, was the birthday of one Neal Cassady, whose biography, by some kind of serendipity, I happened to be reading – else I would never have known.
Neal Cassady more a myth than anything. His star’s a kind of literary penumbra. In a previous post I mentioned how he was a figure who haunted. in the book, Aquarius Revisited, which I reviewed, he did not feature as one of the Seven who Created the Sixties Counter-Culture that Changed America but he haunts its pages as its muse and hero, one whose energy was so great he was the star of the show even when given a cameo role.
E.M. Forster, A Room With A View
Anaïs Nin, The Diary of AnaïsNin Vol. III
Jerry Hopkins & Danny Sugerman, No One Here Gets Out Alive
Per Petterson, Out Stealing Horses
D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
Peter O. Whitmer, Aquarius Revisited: Seven Who Created The Sixties Counter-Culture That Changed America
D.H. Lawrence, Women In Love
S.E. Hinton, Rumble Fish
Natasha Soobramanien, Genie and Paul
Max Ernst, Une Semaine de Bonté
(photograph © Rachel Louise Silverlight)
In the country, the country was to me, a series of images. You come here to not be you. You come for the silence of the world; all the silence of blustering humanity and your own dreadful ego. You come here just to watch.
Sometimes the middle of winter can seem more like summer than the summer ever did. In a moment or fragment of a moment when a smell or a sound or when the certain way that light is falling releases a disconnected memory which floats to the surface like a bubble, and then it would feel like the summer.
And you pause a while, caught wondering, but the memory isn’t even a memory but only the sense that there was a memory, and that you have known this once before. And by the time you’re realising or rememering this, the moment has already departed, and it no long feels like the summer, and the sun is setting.
But the moment seemed realer and bigger than all the summers passed, and you’d remember it, and you’d spend your life trying to remember it again.