I saw quite an interesting article on Ruben Mednikoff
http://www.wsws.org/arts/1998/may1998/sur-m12.shtml
and mention of Hugh Sykes Davies --it reminded me of his beautiful reading
of the poem below. I wonder what happened to him? Any list members have
info on him-- I'd be most grateful.
yours,
Stephen Pain
Poem
Hugh Sykes Davies
In the stump of the old tree, where the heart has rotted out, there is a
hole the length of a man's arm, and a dank pool at the bottom of it where
the rain gathers, and the old leaves turn into lacy skeletons. But do not
put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees, where the hearts have rotted out, there are
holes the length of a man's arm, and dank pools at the bottom where the rain
gathers and old leaves turn to lace, and the beak of a dead bird gapes like
a trap. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees with rotten hearts, where the rain gathers and
the laced leaves and the dead bird like a trap, there are holes the length
of a man's arm, and in every crevice of the rotten wood grow weasel's eyes
like molluscs, their lids open and shut with the tide. But do not put your
hand down to see, because ...
... in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are
holes the length of a man's arm where the weasels are trapped and the
letters of the rook language are laced on the sodden leaves, and at the
bottom there is a man's arm. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are deep
holes and dank pools where the rain gathers, and if you ever put your hand
down to see, you can wipe it in the sharp grass till it bleeds, but you'll
never want to eat with it again.
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