untitled poem
This is a poem inspired by the Bury Text Festival, the idea for which occurred to me during The Bury Poems reading. It may still need a little work.
In terms of text poems there is still more of north to come, as well as some editing of the piece. I'm also currently working on an idea based around my tweets, but I'm not quite sure about how to arrange the material or how much editing to do. Finally I recently launched on a sonnet sequence - although they're barely recognisable as sonnets. This last one is intended for submission to magazines. It's also possible an edited north, and whatever comes from my tweets will be submitted.
And lastly before the poem there are plans solidifying for an essay here about the last eighteen months - the poetry I've encountered, my reactions and doubts, and what I've found most exciting.
untitled Bury poem
Compacted from black
pigment.
Powder. Solid.
A whole interior. Kitchen
floor, bed linen, tv,
bread.
Walk blindfold. Slow and
stop when a
wall gets close.
Hear yourself in the corru
gated fence.
Pools.
A map. Light
opens reflections but poorly
defined. Things
written in chalk.
Butter was normally
too hard
for the bread, pulling it away.
The lawn never recovered from
the kids playing
each summer. Every
part of the
house was known.
The stage and the table and
the drapes behind are black.
And by
extension the tiers of seating,
we the audience, they the readers are
black. Fingers and
clothes and teeth from the same
black powder.
Every scratch allows
the light to catch and
hold on.
Inside are
interiors and post-
industrial valley sides.
Spotlit, readers
made white. Not
quite unhealthy.
The bread was
made at home, four
loaves at a
time. Butter was bought every
Friday. Grass seed on the
lawn attracted birds and
got trodd
en and
scattered.
Sound reflected
back from the
fence. Shuttering wher
ever there's a
gap or here where
it's corrugated. Your
own breath, traffic
sounds. Room-tone. Pressure.
Chairs, cam
era, floorboards,
mobile phone. Pools
of light. Pools of
shadow. Pools of water on
hillsides. Pools
of quiet. Children
write on pavements, walls
in chalk. Pub signs.
Menus. Black
boards.
The reflections are a
wavering of
light off the scratches and
blemishes. A lessening of
light off the
scratches and blemishes.
The acoustics are
clear enough. Day
light. The buildings
have black
sooting on the stone. The town
feels enclosed.
Sunlight made white.
In terms of text poems there is still more of north to come, as well as some editing of the piece. I'm also currently working on an idea based around my tweets, but I'm not quite sure about how to arrange the material or how much editing to do. Finally I recently launched on a sonnet sequence - although they're barely recognisable as sonnets. This last one is intended for submission to magazines. It's also possible an edited north, and whatever comes from my tweets will be submitted.
And lastly before the poem there are plans solidifying for an essay here about the last eighteen months - the poetry I've encountered, my reactions and doubts, and what I've found most exciting.
untitled Bury poem
Compacted from black
pigment.
Powder. Solid.
A whole interior. Kitchen
floor, bed linen, tv,
bread.
Walk blindfold. Slow and
stop when a
wall gets close.
Hear yourself in the corru
gated fence.
Pools.
A map. Light
opens reflections but poorly
defined. Things
written in chalk.
Butter was normally
too hard
for the bread, pulling it away.
The lawn never recovered from
the kids playing
each summer. Every
part of the
house was known.
The stage and the table and
the drapes behind are black.
And by
extension the tiers of seating,
we the audience, they the readers are
black. Fingers and
clothes and teeth from the same
black powder.
Every scratch allows
the light to catch and
hold on.
Inside are
interiors and post-
industrial valley sides.
Spotlit, readers
made white. Not
quite unhealthy.
The bread was
made at home, four
loaves at a
time. Butter was bought every
Friday. Grass seed on the
lawn attracted birds and
got trodd
en and
scattered.
Sound reflected
back from the
fence. Shuttering wher
ever there's a
gap or here where
it's corrugated. Your
own breath, traffic
sounds. Room-tone. Pressure.
Chairs, cam
era, floorboards,
mobile phone. Pools
of light. Pools of
shadow. Pools of water on
hillsides. Pools
of quiet. Children
write on pavements, walls
in chalk. Pub signs.
Menus. Black
boards.
The reflections are a
wavering of
light off the scratches and
blemishes. A lessening of
light off the
scratches and blemishes.
The acoustics are
clear enough. Day
light. The buildings
have black
sooting on the stone. The town
feels enclosed.
Sunlight made white.
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