Hi Arthur,

A very rich piece. In someways verging on overdone eg "an insanity of riven
meat" very Tolkein but overblown for the poem, which I like by the way. The
first line worries me a bit. Could it be a tautology if you said you grew up
one day in November? A powerful poem, it just needs a little objective
looking at.

bw
James


>From: Arthur <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub:November1952
>Date: Sat, 12 Jan 2002 13:14:53 -0000
>
>
>
>
>                                              November 1952.
>
>
>
>         I grew up one wet afternoon in November
>
>         when a Canberra fell out of the sky.
>
>
>
>         A huge pock in the quag,
>
>         a morass strewn with the debris of my youth.
>
>
>
>Word was they had enough for three,
>
>boot and spade were to give decent burial
>
>         to whatever else was found.
>
>
>
>Circle of dumbfounded boys,
>
>senses bludgeoned dull,
>
>somnambulated through slough towards the pit;
>
>blade of broken wing a ragged cenotaph.
>
>
>
>We buried jewels of fillet
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>         that glittered in the muddy shambles;
>
>moved through an insanity of riven meat;
>
>wondered at the skin from a flayed arm,
>
>         lissome pale snake, hung from a spar,
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>         each hair adorned with its pendant of kerosene,
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>         loosed, it slithered, slick as an eel, into deep pool, gone.
>
>
>
>         The flesh-plugged radio was interred beside a bush.
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>         The helmeted head rushed away
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>         just to make sure they had enough for three.
>
>
>
>         Carrion favoured the field for days afterwards.
>
>
>
>Fifty years have swilled my wellingtons clean
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>         and still there are bits
>
>
>
>
>
>
>




bw
James


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