All 3 entries tagged Dartmoor
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November 26, 2007
I wrote this for my first year mini poetry portfolio for Michael Hulse (back in the day) and found it today. I reworked it a heap as it was shockingly incoherent etc.
Biro lines, whose brains have had the
memory of who left them,
by lecturing voices.
A gooey diatribe dragging
its permanent noise
over grey coughing tiers.
Bars. Squares. Insipid light.
Bad thespians in the art of the leaves.
Autumn leaves that
You and I
smuggled into folders
full of notes -amputated- and various poems.
They are underneath our rested heads.
Tangible colour and reality
Our arms have been
by synthesis, by torpor, and we stare
and we long
for the crisp damp death of the leaf.
They shall probably dissolve, fantastical,
on contact with your amorous cheek.
Have our faces become plastic
moulded into blankness?
Is there a biro that could sketch them?
They are speaking to us
in this cocoon of phlegm, and brains.
The trees are shielded by electric hum.
The trees are curling and gone.
The journey here and skirts
Dance, eclectic, in the licking hackles
of the gorgeous air.
The wind wants its browning
It wants our books.
It asks them back to its bosom,
to blaze and to die.
Thesis. Antithesis. Synthesis:
Season of mists, they say, and today,
out on a yet inviolate heath
a man and his girl stuff soil
into each others throats and clothes.
Their hands are digested by the villi of wild thorns.
Thrusting and breaking and renegotiating
into skins and the graffiti of skins.
Briefcases abandoned on the grass.
We canter up their scree slopes
with our backs to the wind.
Here is fierce, bold, a
woken snake sliding out over a man’s bare thigh.
Cold air ready to bite us off of the stoneway.
And the gorse breathes,
rising out over and under the hands.
The day printing us into the underbelly.
Crisping, here comes the night.
To the west it can be seen, slow,
closing the heads of the valleys
and the faces of the flowers.
Burn-cloud tatters of the awe setting, the orb death:
The sun sets
and over the moor we
are not watching
for a pebble that clicks.
from spoor treads
into the sharp stream
November 19, 2007
though the summer was not much.
There is a squirrel in the shaded garden.
At the top edge of the land
crunch in the copse arms.
The white tan dog bounds
over the disordered grass
that is swallowing up the rabbits
and the gates.
Here she stamps,
following behind with a novel in her hand
and the slow steps of a town bred farmer
with stock to check.
Clobby droppings of the brock,
those illadvised blackberries
seeding his latrines.
The smell of bog and bracken,
foxes and ferns.
In the scrub quiet it beats fast
of a low hart
and her terrified blood.
Pigeons shiver into a warm sky.
Streamflies fat in the estate pats.
Grass like rivers,
too thick to solve,
pours over everything.
I am but what I am none cares nor knows
the trees sigh and repeat those woes
all those rows of roots
and disintegrating leaves.
The terrier finds out the
in their shaded bunker of dust.
In the skinny bushes
they blink at insects:
boulders of folded knees and
She picks the thorns out of her legs
while she is stooped
to look in every sleepy brown eye
for the white harbingers of blindness.
The novel swells through touch;
The brambles surge.