Hi Arthur, nicely concieved work. Quickie first: I'd be tempted to
construct IV in the third person plural.
Difficult one: register. The physics/metaphysics obliges a certain word
choice but it seems occassionally to trigger an almost baroque phrasing and
syntax. To me this is crucial as the poem works best when it presents
simplicity as the hidden core of the apparently complex.
Best wishes, John
----- Original Message -----
From: "Arthur" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: 18 October 2001 19:54
Subject: New Sub: Fractals
(i)
Below the scabbed and arid hills
the blue sea strolls over
white sand spinning black sand
in its long fingers,
compelled, by the insistence of gravity,
the convolutions of hydrodynamics
and chaotic fluid flows of air and water,
to explain the complexity of its equations
in intricasies of feathers, curlicues and scrolls
laid, displayed and tidied in a moment
then explored again
at the next soft pulse of sea.
What strange attraction this.
(ii)
Two hundred moons
have scattered bright petals on this pool
and now he comes
in the silky stillness of the night
held in the cradling shades of gloom
the reek of the souk is cleansed
the clamour of the pressing crowd
silenced by the mutters of the fountain
and the perfumes of frangipanni
reel through the shadows of the mosque.
He bends and listens as the night explains
this is not all, this is not all, my son,
for you there shall be more than this
more than the scant shared crumbs of bread,
more than the insisent shoutings of the souk,
more than the stench of open drain and smoky fire,
more than the blared call to prayer
more than the smeared mouths of hunger turning,
there is always something better than this.
The alphabet of the moonlight
on the stirred surface of the pool,
the pale syllables of light shimmer
as love is written in water.
(iii)
Nights in the hills, his hands,
eloquent as birds in flight,
entwined his pain with mine,
his voice, soft as rain on grass,
explained the causes and the cure.
His eyes have enlisted my love,
his words have taught my heart to mourn,
my soul to fly.
(iv)
Only the whine of engines.
The controls are dry in his hands
the building looms, bulks, dominates.
Faces turn towards his coming,
their curiosity.........
the fables of the fountain,
O my brothers, the petals of moonlight on the pool.....
(v)
Through the bright clean air of Fall
this contemptuous thrust of hatred.
Garden of flame!
Fell fist.
A tantrum deconstructs all.
Wreathing mane of pallid dust
rides the descending canyons.
These blossoming florets pursuing,
these fractals billowing
they are only particles
explaining their equations in the air,
bidden as we all are bidden
to be what we are when we are.
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