|
|
|
|
Index
|
Back to top
|
|
Part 1i.Tallyho 2007. A nation’s milk skates on thin ice. Gun at hedgerow He knows every square inch of the land, over forty years Born in the mould, redcoat, horse, dog blood & hunt. ii. I just got back from Bilbao. The hill to enter winds downwards: Fragments of scenes intervene, As if return, again the same but not. A peacock screels a wild meow: Its mating call awry in the park’s White haze of spring pollen. Along the White Hall of Peace A bronze goddess begins, The size of my thumb, blue, green. Footsteps crackle on glass floors. Feet burn over Guernica’s rubble. A saint in Picasso’s beret, His uniform containing still A faded blood stain inside The glass frame, stands beside me, 93, old man on the hill with a tale To tell, loss, betrayal…Our Lady? The husk of the nine hundred year oak That survived the bombing, preserved In an iron pen, in a small column temple, Seems to glare a stare for yet defiance: A baleful ghost this sunny afternoon Amidst the flowers of Plaza de Arbol. I visit Guernica & Museo Gurgenheim: Our Lady in her labyrinth of plastic shrouds. I just got back from Bilbao. iii. The Mirror Frosts The crowd does not touch No more screams Occasions are clouds Days between as Unremembered sex Unborn hosts That stay to haunt That stay to fade As we pass into the parade Worlds when they collide leave a trace when they divide A flaw in the pattern amidst A few remains Your tomb in body and name At the end of the world iv. Eco Village Red Iberian slug Crushed into gravel & rain Pest to tree leaf Red bird shit From a red tree On a bare sandal toe In a Danish Beer Garden Christiana in a world of its own A blue police troop bursts Five a time in parallel line At rapid pace through the rain The same question frame & then the flooding of the Don* A century’s pollution now roars As she spews out on the land her poor. *June 23/28 floods in South Yorkshire the River Don rises up to 10ft in Sheffield, land prices fall. v. Roses Once again In late summer’s twilight Rose petals fall I remember repetition The sound of their pain The same dust In a different time Once again The end begins in return In summer’s old gold vi. Pretty Bird Pretty bird, pretty bird on the wing On the blowing leaves flowing Rhythm on the king is born Rhythm on the king is come Rhythm on the king is dying Pretty bird, pretty bird on the wing On the blowing leaves flowing Black & white striped sheeting Through the wide rush fleeting Rhythm on the heart beating Rhythm on the spear flying Rhythm on the Zebra dying Pretty bird, pretty bird on the wing On the blowing leaves flowing. vii. Slender Slender the curve That moulds the world, She holds. A transition in creation’s tension that curves her form rolls heaven & earth in one & opens the breach. Asympotic, all fractals Nuance Values In her name. Slender & sublime Is the Curve Divine. viii. The Beautiful Game. Lancelot & Mordred duel a joust of valour & honour knowing not they will later die through madness & treachery. In armoured plates shining black they clash shield & blade fast & furious, as if two ants in frenzied attack or a fuzz of gnashing gnats, as seen through Morgan’s eyes in amaze at their miniscule might. The stadium roars in applause or deplores as the mega speak goes on with its battle worn tune, how a goal is won, how a goal is lost & the money it cost, as all wars must, as well as the father, as well as the son, in the name of the game, the beautiful game. ix. Orc.* He woke to find the world accursed & alone his solitude blessed, Away far from that cruel world He feared most from fetus curled. & thus he would leave for a crowd, Until mad by its shouts aloud He knew no place personal haven, Cowered to a creature craven. This theme of time, where he was sprung, On what tapestry was it spun, In what landscape wild raved he Fallen Immortals let him free A world of bondage, framed & hung, Paradise gone to lost freedom. *
Orc. Rebelious Child.
The (First) Book of Urizen. William Blake |
Back to top
|
|
Part 2x.The Isle of Soto.* That fall from ecstatic union, An eon on a far horizon. Until now, when only echoes remain, Which will also vanish again On this skyline that draws the pain As though a veiling curtain. What was the air that stole On that river isle day sojourn, Like voices whirled round a maypole From my heart the living poem & mocked my madness in my passing. That eon on a far horizon, Where every one was one. *Isla de Soto. Rio Tormes Santa Marta de Tormes. (Salamanca) xi. Forever Doodle A zig zag traces a jingle jangle strawberry fair day doodles forever chained race across the fences… xii. The Madness of the Bhodisatva Flash backs from there to here Have become this theatre – Every thing as always was being Closed down after arrival As if Merlin’s lips were fading The last sights of my survival: Frozen in time, they return, I remain. xiii. Translation A megalithic inscription An astronomical permutation A language of proportion & so its enigma remains Language prone to translation In another configuration. xiv. Suibhne Unbound. Man you are not creation’s inspiration Nor its reason, which in all your teaching Seems to be the implicit assumption. Something went wrong in your theme, Some devious other intervene scheme. You invented reason as well as Satan, Your arch rival ego, but the image made in, You the centre & the reason of creation. This I say this to you all in our passing Whilst amidst tears I go on laughing. Poor deceived man in the great evolution, The infinite worlds of transmigration. Who’s to say I’m out of tune, rhythm, Musical discord begins in explosion! xv. Suibhne’s Exile. You see the world to fragments fall Or rather furl as if about to whirl A jig saw with a crack in its wall You bound to mirror, door & hall Outside there’s nothing left but war Pieces of you splattered on the shore Where the straight line is drawn to Redefine by comparison the horizon Or by any metaphor of comparison This world as but a fragment of information A fricative fractured fractional fiction Or nothing at all but the writing on the wall. xvi. ‘And then is heard no more…* It’s a new moon tonight, so exciting, Nov 17. No, I didn’t pen on this year’s Samhain. Now it’s the beautiful game, permutation, The grand slam & I want Russia to win,* Do or die tonight & there’s the irretrievable Irreversible, irrevocable consequences on Climate change & phased in & out it’s all Come about to this happy hippie appellation Who struts and frets his hour upon ,* A crowd roars with but one whine On the blood of nothingness at a whim. Mono man at the end of the line, In the dead spit image of alternation, Face the music, where you began, Fin *i.
Completes the line, *iii. * ii. Russia v Israel qualifiers for the European Cup tournament The possibility that UK is still a contender as a qualifier Depends on Israel defeating Russia, when this poem was written, It is a joke, actually Israel won, so UK is still in with a chance & of course a great deal of expense. *iii. A line from WS’s, “ Macbeth’s death speech” in floating comma. xvii. Quarantine. Bird flue mutates To the human In our island prison The world looks on We are too late What’s left of reason You who gape at us As we run amok No flock this havoc Despair our chaos How did we go wrong Gods & Goddesses Come with the Titans Wars of Cronus Who turned away from us Failed creatures of their sport To an earth now split apart To a hand that pens Separation framed in nothingness Now writes in dust. xviii. Whales. A molten vortex turns sliding scales To deep space ice comet snails A fossilised bug in zodiacal dust phases To die on the floes the blue whale sails On the waves, on the waves, on the waves xix. Orc Underground. Façade, farce, mask, force, Everywhere human sickness, Thought police patrol space, Disseminate the limits suspicious. Driven underground you face Exile, an outlaw in every place. In this sad genre, world of lies, False cares, cheats & deceits. Yet I have passed your guards Concealed minions behind clouds Even beyond the coastline to rise. I have bust your policed skies, Why should I now watch them run? Only curse what you have done. Back to top |
|
|
Part 3xx. Winter’s Garden Sculptures. Legless & headless, Lady butterfly undressed, A summer breeze rapes. xxi. Orc’s Fall. There they go in, darkly insane, Done on the deeds of other days. But believe in the grin inane, As the play within the play plays. This is the time of other lives, Lost in intent, to seek surmise, To seek the dream behind the eyes, Always to remain in disguise. Too fearful or to long ago? Only impossible, to know, But the dreadful shudder of dread, When the dead return, as undead. xxii. Cemetery Views. Beside the faceless grave stone The waiting wind voices alone A hollow silence that stills to chill A surprised world that overspills To blood on the ground & parades A battle field of tombs that fade. xxiii. Winter Moon Write words not about thought, emotion, idea, self, consciousness, but nature, words are ghosts but the written line sublime death to Monotheism & Monism. I am your duel creation Multiverse Goddess, Who am this man then woman but the moon was full tonight & it being the end of the year & I not a mole but a fated creature made ware its infirmity, staggered blind mindful of wine & this lone heart’s terror, the munificent beatific vision lost words in the archives of emptiness., where even their dust is consumed at last thus. The moon smiles piteously on us, Compare time with eternity, Compare emptiness reborn to doom. Yet tonight I remember ghosts & on the threshold of their hosts pass through the glam gloam gleaming worlds between night & day that lay between seeming seen & unseen what words can mean. xxiv. Winter’s Night. The spiral of the womb winged serpent in an ovum spawned on her flight growing on the light embryo & skeleton as the moon dives down on bodies spun between mortal earth & mortal heaven. xxv. The Ancient Misanthrope Cont: Sole Fruit* He who laughs first laughs last. Woe is me to have fallen thus. Now soles must press grape but to dust, Where once in white cymar* she’d my lust. *Submitted to poem of the week
www.guardian.co.uk The poem had to have the title Sole Fruit Or Soul Fruit be of 4 to 14 lines, in any form, & contain the word last in the first line, An archaic word & a word either beginning In Cy or ending in Ade, a proverb & A rhetorical figure. *Cymar. A loose light garment for women, Esp, a chemise. Disrobed of all clothing Saving white silk. Scott. xxvi. Deprived. Stabilito’s eyes yelp as his blade’s slice cuts his side to shade, so thin this young, the place, where you belong, gone again & you left to settle the scars, because you should know, what you haven’t got. Born again & again, as the options get less, Silk Cut* facade fades from another age, whilst the knife tangos in the allies, it’s thrusts, tolls on misty knells’ knotted city smells, pandemonium cells in closed shells, run, children, run. Your knife will not carve out your dawn from the hells your born to & so soon, sooner than you know, only it dances on, when your own disown you & you disown your own where you will have also forgotten, you once believed you were the forgotten. *Silk Cut a brand of cigarette whose packet
cover depicts a slashed purple velvet curtain. xxvii. Put on the Light. Put out the cat, Give teeth to the multitude. It’s an important parade For a tortured world, That hapless throng Joined in yet another anthem, “Arisen again homo sapient” Alas in the breach but yet That thunder clap that sent You mad & of course the moon, Put out the cat.  |
ROBIN OUZMAN HISLOP:
About the author:::: His travels have led him to live in Scotland, Scandinavia, Spain & The East. At present he resides in South Yorkshire, UK. He started as Resident Poet with Poetry life and Times in 2005 & took over editorship together with Spanish poetess Amparo Arrospide from Sara Russell in May 2006. He began After the Cave, the Comet in 2003 travelling mid winter to Denmark, it is not completely chronological, but fills the year, season wise being written in Denmark, UK & Spain 2004.
