Four poems by

Brian Louis Pearce

The Breeze at Murano

 

Taste, feel, smell of the sun

and the breeze at Murano.

Touch of Browning on the arm,

owning you his Muse-son.

 

You in verse know how to lap

at the conduit or fountain;

to paddle, dip head and sip,

put our lips to the tap.

 

The caress of the breeze;

associations of Florence,

Asolo, Venice, with Robert,

provide the impulse you tease

 

into the passion-blown glass

of your verse, modelled on that

of the gondola Ruth

brought back from Murano. The pass

 

down into Italy takes you -

like all who've travelled before you

from granite and chill - through the

scent-door to the South, to a new

 

stratum of inspiration, one

it's never too late to quarry.

Palate of soul, you can savour

the Latin of olive and sun;

 

blind, toss grass like an aria,

sense it float down into thistles:

plait each blade into kisses

and crowns, in the Campagna.

 

Now, wherever you are,

or we are, Jack, thanks to you;

in Weymouth or London, over

Fowey or Po, in a far

 

city, we smell the Lagoon,

taste the moist breeze on our lips,

lap, sip and paddle, touching

the arm of one over the moon.

At Rodwell

(to Ruth and Jack)

The welcoming home, the steps,

firm handclasps, tea, talk, walk

toward Portland; book and type-

writer, Jack at his desk,

locus of creation

The wind blows from the west

Aider and abettor

of the imagination,

midwife to artefact,

your prayed life given to

him and, through him, the world

The wind blows tongues of zest

 

He felt your impulse in him,

mirroring his in you,

flood insight with sight, hearing

embodied in his letters

and poem after poem

The wind blows where prayer wills

 

In goonamarris, you'd

blight, buffet, turbulence

of circumstance, that drew

on all that love and patience

which alters environments

The wind informs the clay

 

He went on climbing the

peaks of clay to glory,

you crouching by him there

writing upon his palm and

feeling his vision's touch

The wind bodies the Word

 

Vowed not to cease from this,

his daily service, you

tread here and now the Fleet

fantastic, vault the drink

with him, come kingdom come

The wind shakes roofs, shakes down

Clemo at Came

I felt the Gospel flame

tongue the cross at Barnes' head,

stun me with heat, as I came

to Came at noon, my head

ready to burst with the leaven

and harnessed fervour of Barnes'

harvest faith, as we stood

by him in this quiet place.

 

The Son at his zenith struck

like the sun our dithering,

dallying selves, melting

the natural man, and lifting

us up in his burdened arms

here at Came, where we came

to honour Barnes' God and Barnes.

 

I rubbed my hands on the rough

stone of the porch and hewn cross

in the yard. I felt the Son move

on the cross in his love

and send cawing breeze, tonguing

through heart and trees: 'Christ's son,

welcome to Came, from those

here before you', as all

the daughters of Dorset,

heaven-bound from their tumuli,

leapt Conygar hill to applaud.


Maiden Tumble

for Philippa Lausen (nee Atkinson) & JC Powys

He sat by the well

at Upwey and wished

for a book of Maiden pith.

 

Took a pinch of twin-hills,

temple, rampart and ditch,

and wrote it himself.

 

He saw a pippa tumble

down the skull of chalk, scarp

lip and grass cheek

 

and roll from rampart to

ditch in one shudder

of laughter as she fell.

 

He twisted all the way

down the hill on her heels

to rest at Upwey

 

by the well, through his

willed skill and her whimmed

woman's wit clutching his book.

A sequence poem in twelve parts by
Rupert M. Loydell

Ballads of the Alone

after W. Eugene Smith


Is the man walking into the dark or the light?


1

towers shift down to abstract image
flames and sparks engulf a man
umbrella   vase   web   x-ray   zebra
a fragile child held still and poised
your wife will get old but not mine

time-warped doubt coherently mapped
carnival logic of urban dreams
jelly   king   lion   mouse   necklace
reading deeply into the texts of others
there is no way to the surface

hope will be merely a straw man
exposure is just the starting point
elephant   fish   goat   hedgehog
shrewd self-preservation (legend pales)
stark contrast between dark and light



2

hunt through deserted corridors
slammed glass doors alway shatter
goluptious   gondola   goitre   gone
frustrated circulation and movement
reverse the orientation of matter

instant packaged exhibitions
and immediate comprehension
gorgeous   gorget   goodness   goon
each monument an encounter
one more useless scrap of metal

prepared to enter is no trap at all
forms of resistance can end
gonfalon   gopher   godetia   gong
gallery wall and cool white fluorescence
stark contrast between dark and light



3

lampshade hanging from a wire
pictures in musical order
untitled   interior   installation
desperate utopian compensation
ex-wife's new home in the suburbs

the rhythms of the city change
change by being repeated
untitled   untitled   hot-roll steel
filamented lines and textures
arranged in a receding space

a drink and something to eat
a triangle between two roads
plywood   untitled   exterior
no mention of photography
stark contrast between dark and light



4

long moments of sheer beauty
no chance of us returning
gas stations   funeral parlours   motels
a misguided group of electrons
criss-crossing both sidewalk and street

pools of light and streams of silk
almost medical intimacies
shoulders   buttocks   arms   scuffed elbows
huge scale, glossy close-ups
accompanied by extended captions

the toolshed of childhood
secrets kept as long as could be
friendship   madness   passion   death
stolen and borrowed voices
stark contrast between dark and light



5

past the gift shop and reception
ready to abandon time
casual silence   early nights
thinking about warm water
breathing into airless lungs

ripping up carpets and settling in
a series of private meetings
marriages   friends   past lovers   children
the world out back transfigured
no less than a second honeymoon

hand clamped over mouth
memory frosting over
glacier   rockfall   frozen sea
white noise of repression
stark contrast between dark and light



6

radio stations as instruments
how we eat our young
telephone   scissors   perimeter fence
find me some new sounds
re-shape, re-order everything

simmering becomes boiling
from gas to solid to liquid
correction   collapse   reversal
we all rolled down our windows
as the past rode up to talk

the king of the island
became what had been dream
ladder   ocean   orchard
the man who brings assertion
stark contrast between dark and light



7

god of the wind and rain
whirling rush of spinning earth
damask   morocco   sandgrain   plain
floods scooping hollows in the rock
distant ridges still on fire

sharp-eyed curiosity
journeying across the map
ridged   ripple   stipple   cord
contemplate lost specimens
despair lined up along the road

only imagine what will follow
self-cancelling perception
brocade   coltskin   linen   lined
strategies restoring power
stark contrast between dark and light



8

dislocations such as this
explain intricacies of belief
bokhara   vermillion   forest   birch
memories of familiar objects
dust spinning out behind

intimacy and confused love
I tend to go a little misty
emerald   medina   tabriz   tan
no respect for nothing
all our lives are now in doubt

premonitions of disaster
travelling high vibrating lines
pristine   oatmeal   vellum   mist
tiny flowers and fragile timbers
stark contrast between dark and light



9

a breeding-place of wind and drift
difficulty turned into song
kestrel   fulmar   sparrow   dove
all the foghorns in the world
kilowatt hour by kilowatt hour

weaving through the debris
history apparently consumed
skylark   tern   flamingo   thrush
high winds and pressure drop
dwellings on a hillside

I stand in need of explanation
images taken for granted
bullfinch   plover   lapwing   kite
a passionate exercise in faith
stark contrast between dark and light



10

swept along by wind and tide
welcome guests to the evening
smoke   scarlet   kraft   pearl
no time at the end of the world
how did you track me down?

a crowd of about two hundred
complained in thunderous voice
pink   damascus   citrine   stone
a series of stylized tableau
the glove signifies the hand

contradict the new disorder
tortured and distorted flesh
sapphire   violet   maize   fern
I am taking apart the genius machine
stark contrast between dark and light



11

walking upright from the forest
corridors between makeshift rooms
trout   sturgeon   cisco   pike
portraits stare down from the walls
threatened with extinction

park the car off the public highway
is this the way to paradise park?
squawfish   pupfish   minnow   chub
moving along the invisible road
not with prayers but slogans

dramatic close-ups and bleaching techniques
interference between stations
darter   gambusia     wetjaw   toad
scratching and digging for a living
stark contrast between dark and light



12

proverbial swing of the pendulum
flashbulbs popping in the night
waffle   warble   wanton   ward
a man without hands pounding glass
fed up with lying in state

back to the moment of explosion
we need no explanation
whether   weather   weasel    warm
opposition seems to be shifting
the phone lines always adrift

negotiations breaking down
extolling the virtues of war
warrior   warrant   wheedle   weep
diagonal movement out of the frame
stark contrast between dark and light




Sources

Bookforum, Fall 2001
A Friend of the Earth, T.C. Boyle
Performance Art, RoseLee Goldberg
'Through the Crash Barrier', L.J. Hurst
Minimalism, ed. James Meyer
Beyond the Frozen Sea, Edwin Mickleburgh
Another Roadside Attraction, Tom Robbins
W Eugene Smith [Phaidon 55 monograph]
Joel-Peter Witkin [Phaidon 55 monograph]
Arcana, ed. John Zorn

Nine poems by

Mike Jaynes

butterfly

Fly you copious stream of color
crowding my head with these mud
streams running down my eyes.

Life fell in a heap at the floor
at my feet lay the keys to the
kingdom.

Look, they've forgotten your name.


broken cynic

Time is a long river of nowhere.
Is that true? Violins filter in
from my balcony as I
lay face down on the floor.


swords

The dance has not yet begun.
We are strange gods with eyes
of tin foil and swords of varnished
pride seeking our ridiculous fortunes
here on this side of somewhere
waiting on the rain.


bacchanal

Sylvan streams of satirical moonlight
filter on my unshaven countenance
of blight.
Is this the end of the tallow?
Is this the casting of wan light I
was warned about?


find

Find where there seems
to be a slaughter just around the
corner.

I even sometimes dare to smile
and show my slightly yellow teeth
to strangers.

Walk this beach of undeniable
ecstasy with a few miles to
go before collapsing in

his dark, ironic arms.


question

Ironically, there is no answer.
Then why do we seek?
It is the path, not the end result.
Why do we starve while we
rave and heave our ill-thought
insults at the stars?
Because we must.


tombsetters

The house next door has
green shutters and a very
lonely man.

Existence groans on these
shutters of desert prophets
and their wild eyes.

There's not much to this
poisoned tomb that we
awkwardly go to and from.


cosmos mariner

Central nowhere, here I
come down your power
outage frontier of flames.

Burn these words on
my lens of life.
The sea tells no secrets.

These rocks to my left,
they look like tomorrow and
I felt the call of Kerouac deep

in some forgotten primordial
area of reference within my
call to arms.

mariners find shackles where
they once sought
horizons.


mar

The spanish dancer twirled slowly
around the smoke free bar.
Quite a change from back east where you
can't breathe.

This might be the place I seek
my solace, and my wanderlust cabin
deep in the space of woods.
Wind flows from vines of wrath.

Wind charming alarm clock
fell at my feet and
writhed.
I laugh.

 

Two poems by

David Angel

 

Hotel Maritime

What a beautiful hotel it once was, James. Trays of

Exotic fruits – hairy kiwis vanilla pods

Gleaming like patent leather shoes chirimoyas

Like green velvet grenades float by on pink

Extended palms: banks of lyrical white trumpets

Swayed to sentimental sighs and the conservative

Viennese musicians attempt to keep time as the

Green marble dance floor of sinuous stone tilts

To the tune of a waltz the horn like a marine

Fire-hose and the polished pianoforte with its

Huge mouth wide open showing its huge row of teeth

And the pianist like a drunken dentist poking about

Inside and sliding around on his slithering stool

As the musicians ran faster and faster up

The slippery floor in order to stay where they are.

Everything spoke of grandfather’s sideburns: the

Ormolu clocks encrusted with shells the broken

Chandeliers the coy Venuses turned into objets

Trouves. A stethoscope dreaming of doctors nestled

In the rubber plant by the window: it waved its

Rubber tube at you languidly as you passed: a

Surgeon’s white glove pulses by dripping with sauce

Bechamel, an almost invisible fish-net

Stocking floats up the stairwell dragging for

Plankton, and stirred by an earthly memory, the lipstick

Forgotten long since on the bar slid from its golden

Sheath like a little red dick. Oh memory! A barber’s

Cut-throat floats by, pinching gently with its blade

A pair of dripping pink lips and in the gardens

Beyond a herd of belly-buttons is grazing on a

Most beautiful clump of waving safran threads. Oh

What a beautiful hotel it once was, James: the sailors

Lying on the white sands of the private beach, now

As always, the upturned baskets of their ribs making

Perfect nests for the spider crabs which we ate later

For luncheon. And the evenings! The evenings – when

Those violet-coloured condoms glow and swell

With desire amongst the white nasturtiums. Ah

Memory! What a beautiful hotel it was once, James!

Three Lives

 

“In my first life,” he said,

“Wild garlic sprouted in a wood

The smell of woodsmoke drifted

On the air and leafmould. A tuck-box

Was a pirate’s strong-box, rivers

Swung their big hips to an absent sea

And letters were rarely answered.”

 

“In my second life,” he said,

“The blue sky lay down with the

Blue horizon, a line of rusting

Palms between them, the moon

Protruded from the back pocket

Of the dark’s skin-tight trousers,

And love was almost unattainable.”

 

“My third life,” he said, “was barely

Known to me. It muddled past me

On a river of blood. I could make out

A woodcutter, a desolate plain,

The huge broken wheel of a cart.

There Cain was swigging beer from

A can, and Abel’s son felt guilty.”