The Eternal Anthology

Volume I

featuring work by
Steven Taylor, Tim Allen, John Gimblett, Rupert M. Loydell & John Mingay




Five Poems by
Steven Taylor
Jazz Dancing with Methuselah's Feet
 
The Lord God Almighty
 
Grown weary of teasing him
About his empty feet
Finally provides him
With something more exotic
Than the women who clean
And shop for him, or the warm armchair
By the radiator at the luncheon club
On a Wednesday afternoon
Where he sleeps undreaming
His many dreams. Methuselah still covets
 
The chiropodist with her hands
Rubbing his memory to life, but
 
When it is time
God beckons and happily electrocuted
 
Methuselah will leap, his tired feet
Filled up with jazz - Jazz dancing
Behold
 
The face of Jesus
In the lumpy porridge sky
Peppered with sunlight
Easter Monday
 
The crazy man who
 
mimes furiously to me
against the hard glass
of the window opposite
this window in His vest
or nude has returned. I
 
had foolishly concluded
that He might be dead
as well as crazy nude
and furious, but I was
mistaken. He is risen -
 
and now He mimes
more furiously than ever
 
ever and ever
Adam & Eve
 
The red raw and singular eye
Of his penis glares at her
Across the crowded room...
 
It makes her vagina breathless
 
 
Paris, Lancs.
 
But let's give Jehovah his due
That cardigan from the Spastics Shop
At least sustains a flight of geese
And his teeth were his own
Until a year ago
And that dreadful accident
With the dovetail and the cart
I remember it well
The sun was the colour of a ponsietta
And you could see Blackpool Tower
Through binoculars
Hurrah





Three Poems by
Tim Allen
 
Over Time
 
One lamp in the kingdom
It is the kingdom of one lamp
 
One flower in the kingdom
It is the kingdom of one flower
 
One spring in the landscape
It is the kingdom of one bearing
 
One lip in the kingdom
It is the kingdom of feminine whiteout
 
One description of the traitor
It is the kingdom of images
 
One palm in the edgy bet
It is the kingdom of topiaries
 
One place in the presentiment
It is the palace of pit kings
 
One tatter on the flag
It is the airport of masculine delibles
 
One leaf in the foliage
It is the kingdom of what is left
 
One watch in the kingdom
It is the present for always
 
One match in the music-moment
It is the blush-blue kingdom
 
One shepherd on the gallows
It is the kingdom of nursery disguises
 
One loud character on the ocean
It is the Queen's free-floating thought
 
One dole queue outside the theatre
We are in gently unfolding city
 
One sudsy feeling too many
In the kingdom of new dust
 
Once is never enough
It is the furthest of kingdoms
 
No disquieting silences
All have their silent knowledge
 
No intrusive absences
In the land of flooded orchards
 
No frill chemistry sets
In the kingdom of parenthesis
 
The kingdom of the living ones
Once inside the transparent shadow
 
Speaking the language of powder
Shaking like a leaf
 
Shaking like a lamp
In the one-myth kingdom
 
In the one-legend kingdom
The one legged man is regent
 
One cinema in the kingdom
It is the kingdom of one sin
 
One unrealised substance
Imprisoned in a toothpaste tube
 
One film in the tub
It is the kingdom of ice-cream
 
The minister of prisons
Is now the minister of monopolies
 
An ageless smell finally gone off
A desire
 
Stacked horizons in the revolution
It is the kingdom of revolutions
 
A desire for a skirt of compost
In a side room as cold as winter
 
One slope in the kingdom
It is the kingdom of one slope
 
And abandoned nuts
Astonishing little secrets
 
Stalker
 
A broken wind
Fills the shop
 
The shop sells
Spare fingers
 
At any moment
A morning
 
The broken wind
Takes care
 
A few thoughts
Form a strong triangle
 
*
 
The traveller
Lifts
 
A fridge and
Washing machine
 
With his
Fingers
 
Mind
Mind broken open
 
For the asking
Family man
 
*
 
Moss blooms
Guessing its way
 
A few minutes
Left
 
The domestic
Dollar
 
Blows through
The birth canal
 
Kerb dancer
Ghost muscle
 
Intangible Mule
 
*
 
Shape under
Pressure
 
The gamble
Of a charm
 
An arm-eye
Sweeping away
 
Facts
And choice fiction
 
*
 
The little papa -
The little popa
 
The attention
Of breeze
 
The freedom
Of business
 
All nature
Is is clocks
 
*
 
Incessant
Slow
 
Forming fast
Moves
 
Trees sway -
TVs in tremor
 
Another leaking
Colour
 
Points obscenely
To a natural scene
 
Insect waltz
Mobile boil
 
 
No Special Place
 
Through flimsy adults
Through flimsy intersections
Through flimsy initialled knots
 
Comedy made the way glass is made
Yet a comedy is nothing like glass
A comedy is nothing to that cool completion
 
Speak - tough fruits for a tough explorer
Buried birds
Spaghettied moon
 
*
 
Aristo through and thru
Aristo through a loan
A loan across continents of time
 
Slices of momentum
Sleeping on the edge of a cliff
A carefully repeated silence
 
*
 
The roof has fallen in and children have grown
All has been touched
The inferno has been touched


 



Two Poems by
John Gimblett
from A Wasted Life
 
Pompeii
 
The man sat, as if thinking, yet
he was stone, through and through.
But a core, a pith of bone burned,
like lava in an attempt at escape.
His face, contorted, a mis-shapen
spring fought to right the originality;
the flesh of suitability to his species.
 
And I thought of lizards: plastered
with a second skin of stone, burned
as if sprung, fire from the street.
Running, slow against the flow, 60
m.p.h. Perhaps
 
to be undiscovered, the seed in
a kernel of rock, feet splayed, spreading
the mud. The ash dropping, grey specks
dotting the reptile, who'd become
subject to volcanic pointalism. I saw
a body, lying, like it was caught in
sleep by a sublime dream. The
man stretched his limbs, took on the
wherewithal of an astute, scared gecko.
 
Monkey (Gujarat)
 
Perhaps it ends here, in
Rajkot, with a gentle, loose
step into tree tops. Facing
the temple, perhaps it
 
ends with the loving tug
of Tirthankars, pulling me
to earth. The warm air,
whistling with the green
 
shrieks of parakeets, bloody
with a dusk sun, would
support me if I fell.
If I fall, will I fly?
 
The white temple, and the
black cloud, hold me still.
 
Perhaps it ends
with the spiralling twist
of falling into the canopy
of tamarinds, perhaps it ends
with the leaves like green
feathers holding me,
folding me up into earth?


 



Five Poems by
Rupert M. Loydell
 
 
It's an Abstract World
for, and from, Peter Dent
 
Want to know?
Relax the muscle,
spin notes in air.
 
Speech excites,
breathes within
bright horizons:
 
a strung-up sun,
filament flickering;
fire of the moment.
 
A Conference of Voices
 
A good week, going well;
what I've seen, I like.
I remember Monday
warmer than imagined.
 
I am training to join
a conference of voices,
will send and report
any declared policy.
 
I shall not wear blue,
I shall not wear beige;
will try to trick myself
into believing I care.
 
How I would prefer
large scale treason,
the least distraction
consigned to the page.
 
Obviously a vase
is not just pottery.
Why presume simplicity
is an ongoing process?
 
Even in Darkness
 
Drawing slow lines
(a dark river's silt)
 
Inherent uncertainty
(echo sound nightmare)
 
Softly breathe
(safe ground)
 
My Version of It
 
It is always going to be like this now,
with no time to sit and type
or listen to something new.
 
I dream about keeping a journal.
The moonlight turns red
and tiptoes from the room.
 
I feel outside any discussion,
recognise only forms of absence,
the fundamentally unpredictable.
 
I look for the pulse in language
and try to wrap something around you:
cause your soul to arc, your spirit to spark.
 
There may come a day when
it is not enough to touch words;
my life will become a true story.
 
Learning to Live with Train Crashes
 
If all things are allowed to speak
why can't we hear parts of that speech?
Give us some passionate detail!
Found phrases suggest something
but don't deliver much around the edges;
watching painting videos is not painting.
 
Art today should be spiritual,
without the paraphernalia of culture
or evidence of human intervention.
I want things for mind, eye and moment,
my own transient boundaries of thinking;
want the moon, not the finger pointing at it.
 
Interviews confirm all I know about
my own habits and modes of work.
I am quizzing myself about composition,
no longer fear any cognitive models.
Process is a kind of luxurious indulgence;
there are no anomalies in using systems.
 
Methods of extraordinary sophistication
are adopted to procure the right words.
The basis for most writing is music:
step back and imagine melody anew,
let life flash by, dancing in it's own way.
Horizons open as the postman arrives.
 
Thank you for your three letters today,
the mail is absolutely fizzing!
I was feeling more and more
cut off from the rest of my life
but am travelling back first class
to my own painting this afternoon.


 



A Poem in the New Millennium by
John Mingay

History

I taste the weight of a century gone
upon my tongue when I speak, not
of yesterday, but of a time assigned
to musty pages - a life unfinished, but
for the most part lived in, and now
inevitably to be alluded to as, history.

Every mention of the familiar now
reverberates along the same passages
previously haunted only by the ghosts
of industry in its infancy - my own
ghosts taking up the tenancy as if
to cast all I have come to know adrift.

And at every stage in putting these
words down on blank paper I am
asked whether I want to replace the
existing history, as though the option
really existed, as though the choice
was there to start afresh, slate-clean.

Yet, the reality, patently, is that
what has been has been and what
is to come is to come, the flow between
uninterrupted by anything as delicate
as date or diction, anything as brief
as a taste upon a weighted tongue.


 

If you have any comments to make on these poems, please e-mail us at raunchland@hotmail.com

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