Archive for July, 2013

31/07/2013

High Summer at the Roman Fort (Mastile’s Lane) – video poem

 

a video poem by set around the site of a Roman fort on Mastile’s Lane, above Malham in the Yorkshire Dales.

 

the written version of this video poem can be found at:

http://www.thecheesewolf.wordpress.com

 

this video poem is copyright Gavin Jones 2013

31/07/2013

Suburban Sylph of Crying Owls (video poem)

 

Suburban Sylph of Crying Owls is a video poem for thecheesewolf (aka Gavin Jones)’s poem of the same name. This video poem features the artwork of Carine Brosse.

 
video poem copyright Gavin Jones 2013

30/07/2013

Preprosta Pesem Tišine (A Simple Song of Silence)

 

To praznino zapolnjujeva s pesmijo, in cvetovi, pticami in

ljubečimi besedami. Vendar v najini noči se vrzel vrne, in celo

solze se preprosto porabijo.

 

Dnevi in tedni vsak dodajo svoje vrstice, ki hladno zahtevajo

svoj davek, in tišina preganja nasmehe, ki jih tvoriva najine

solze ne bodo upočasnile potek časa.

 

Ne morem prenašati radosti, ki si jo zamudila. Tako tukaj sediva

in gledava sijaj žerjavice, ki drsi v pepel. Glasba potihne in

prepuščena sva

 

ničemur, samo spokojnosti, in solzam, ki se rojevajo, vendar

nikoli ne padejo.

 

 

Slovene version of the poem A Simple Song of Silence, translation by:

http://natasek.blogspot.co.uk/

 

trans. © Copyright 2013, Nataša Dolenc

original by Gavin Jones

30/07/2013

High Summer at the Roman Fort (Mastile’s Lane)

 

I heard the ravens calling south,

And crows and jackdaws called as loud.

They tumbled off towards the scar,

And hung on uplifts by the cliff.

 

I heard the promise of the clouds,

The tick of wheatear, buzz of wire,

The ceaseless flowing of the grass,

The voice of bees, the songs of breeze.

 

The sounds were here, were always here,

Were here when Romans piled their stones,

And here to carry off the screams

Of sacrifice to temple gods.

 

I heard the ravens call the rain,

I heard them call through time again.

 

 

28/07/2013

Ariadne’s Ritual (video)

 

 

 

 

a short film for the poem Ariadne’s Ritual, which can be found in this collection.

27/07/2013

Minotaur on the Moortops

 

He tries to sink back through the earth,

Through iridescent slips of schist,

To where the rock can douse his eyes,

Quench fire of sight, dull iris light.

 

The space – which counts the stars as months,

And judges time by shadow falls –

where lives can howl and show their age.

Each tick of sun and moon: a death

 

Up here, where echoes never start,

He lays down low and feels through peat

The rocks beneath, the subtle heat,

The walls where blood is merged with night.

 

Unfreed, unbound, and lost beyond:

The air is thin and spiked with sound.

 

 

27/07/2013

The Minotaur’s Freedom (video)

 

 

 

A short video for my poem “The Minotaur’s Freedom” (which can be read further down this collection).

26/07/2013

The Apple Trees (Video)

 

 

 

 

video of my poem The Apple Trees. The text version is earlier in this collection.

 

 

25/07/2013

For the Crossing (video)

 

 

a micro-film of my poem “for the crossing”

21/07/2013

The Apple Trees

 

We sit beneath the apple trees,

Which bloomed all through the long decline,

And raised their blossom to the skies:

A world of struggles, famine, war.

 

Those complicated patterns form

Across the grass like veins of time,

And radiate out from the trunk:

They chart another year of growth.

 

Another era for their leaves,

Which we will live, then leave behind,

As bees and beetles, moths and flies.

The shade is cool, our days are short.

 

We plant the seeds and tend the shoots:

Above us spread the apple trees.

 

 

19/07/2013

Gwen John

 

Of all the moments, there you were:

Alone in thoughts, and thoughts alone,

With lessons learned in fields of corn,

With pasts to run from, pasts which form.

 

Alone in knowing reverie.

An open book of worlds to touch.

Alone and deeper still, within:

Those worlds of darkness, warmth and words.

 

From Bordeaux, running field to field,

Remember all those tainted hopes?

From Britain, homeless, drifting, cold,

Whilst all around was burning light

 

That strength once learned has found its poise:

A stillness brought from years of pain.

 

 

inspired by the work of painter Gwen John, especially “The Student” in Manchester Art Gallery

http://www.wikipaintings.org/en/gwen-john/the-student-1903

 

 

 

18/07/2013

Rauschenberg Summer (Street Finds)

 

A figure walking through a screen:

Manhattan ice with canyoned bikes.

A disused notion, painted flat.

A sound is sound, discarded, drowned.

 

So he – or she (whichever suits) –

Will leaf the city streets and find

A blanket ministry of cool,

Of heads in shades and open tops.

 

The poster slips from wall to wall,

Its message drips, she waits for change.

He waits, and walks, and there unbreaks

The cast off wheel of summer’s drag.

 

A summer in another’s mind.

What’s lost is lost: the seeker finds.

 

 

Inspired by the “combines” of Robert Rauschenberg (with a title written whilst listening to Radiohead)

 

15/07/2013

Le Mort

 

The scratch of ink, the wash of blood,

The breath of lust and love and dust,

A wrap of linen (bed or shroud),

The tomb unlocked, a broken frame.

 

And past this list: a life in flow.

The fluid stains, forbidden pains,

The cold, external brush of god,

Who whispers to the pen: “breed death”.

 

And death will come, and you will flood

Your skeletal, yet swollen, grave.

The story of your eye encrusts

Itself, accursed, around your core.

 

The tale, the book, the heart, the brush.

The dead man, draped across the cloth.

 

 

After the artwork by Marina Kanavaki – viewable at:

http://marinakanavaki.com/2012/02/07/le-mort/

which was itself inspired by the short story by Georges Bataille.

many thanks to Marina

14/07/2013

The Faerie Fears of Next Door’s Dogs

 

The dogs next door are watching bats.

Their pirouetting eyes are fazed,

By moon-dark nightlights glowing sparks,

By flickering wings and siren songs.

 

Beyond their reach the myths are spun,

From bats, to moths, to lunar casts.

Entrancing echoes bounce around.

The violet shades dragged from their dreams.

 

The tendrils of that other world,

Come curling from the undergrowth.

And by the nightlights dogs are turned:

They’re lantern eyed and garish hounds.

 

The faerie demons bite the howls:

And off they run, and how they run.

 

14/07/2013

Weight

 

There is a weight to being alive,

A density of songs and claws,

A flock of beaks and broken barbs:

It clings to flight, it grips it tight.

 

The earth will take the sycamore.

The sky will take the sycamore.

Its bark and leaves will feed and fall,

And life will take the sycamore.

 

This gravity of slowing blood;

The pressure buzz within the ears;

The dissipating breath and twitch:

It gives its all, it takes its toll.

 

The weight will keep the moon in tow.

The weight will hold us in its flow.

 

 

14/07/2013

6am, Sunday

 

A flickering of morning wings;

A wire buzz of starling flocks;

A distant dog which echoes hills:

Vibrations of another day.

 

A tyre drone and clunking gears;

A martin pulling songs from mist;

Allotment cockerels blaring dust:

My eyes are shut, I feel the sounds.

 

The Sunday papers brought by van;

The jackdaws of a hundred eaves;

The voices raised some streets away:

Each sound has found its space in me.

 

The air is shimmering with life:

Despairing, yearning, joyous life.

 

 

14/07/2013

From Northern Ports the Empire…

 

They call this place the Last of Hope,

The quayside packed with wailing folk,

Where Stoics stand and watch the boats,

And some will fight whilst others choke.

 

Behind the docks, the red brick spreads

And fills with cotton, coal and lead.

The brick turns black on chimney stacks,

Turns black on houses, back to back.

 

It wrenched its future from the fields,

From cottage mills and common lands,

And now it faces out to sea:

Enslaved, dependent, hanging on.

 

From lands which spill their ocean blood,

Come those who walk the one way street.

 

 

14/07/2013

Stone Curlew

 

The scrape, like hare, of pebble bird:

As fawn and cream as flint in church.

The jaundiced, yellow eye will blink

As mirage dews pour through the fen.

 

The field was first, the bird was first,

The sky reflected breck was first:

The yellow eye had snapped them shut.

The clouds of dawn turned iris bright.

 

The lines of earth, of dyke, of hedge,

Formed islands, merged and took the sea.

It watched it all, the yellow eye:

It watched it from its field of stone.

 

Beneath the dust which birthed its calls,

A wary bird ducks low to earth.

 

 

09/07/2013

Three Hares Linked

 

Across the steppe and mountain plain,

The hare came tumbling, carved on rock.

They spoke no language, gave no sign:

They simply were the three as one.

 

Along the silk route, scratched on wheels,

The traders pondered what they meant,

And made up tales and sang them songs:

The hare were lovers, mystics, gods

 

And on a distant, ice-cliffed, shore

The hare at last could make their peace.

They found a place of fragile walls,

Which faced the sea and all its storms.

 

The three were one, their journey long,

Together: water, stone and sun.

 

 

07/07/2013

Melencholia I (Dürer’s Angel)

 

The comet tail has sliced the sky,

And rainbows with it sink the sun

Beneath a springing autumn tide:

A will which never will become.

 

The dust of spirits coat the walls

And count from numbered square to square.

Their flightless wings, which trick the skies,

Dissolve her memories into time.

 

And all around there lays the wreck

Of love and art, which break apart,

And carve their sorry tales away,

Into the pointlessness of life.

 

With watered crown and weighted wings,

She leans her heavy bones on bone.